Miss Wood finished her story and stood silently, looking out the window of the library, out across the back fields toward the River Trent. Layton found himself entirely unable to speak or reply. Though the story was a happy one, he felt himself unaccountably saddened by Miss Wood’s telling of it.
“Surely you can have no objections to such a tale,” Miss Wood eventually said. “I can see nothing harmful in it.” But she looked quite thoroughly unhappy.
“Who told you the story?”
“My mother,” she answered quietly.
“You said you’d seen the tree?”
Miss Wood nodded, still looking out the window.
“Did your mother ever tell you what happened to the loving family? I imagine they lived happily ever after; that always seems to be the case in fairy tales.”
“As opposed to real life?” Miss Wood looked at him once more.
“Happy endings are not terribly realistic.”
“Is that what you wish me to teach Miss Caroline, sir?” Miss Wood asked. “You wish me to tell her not to expect joy in her life or happy endings. If you wish to ply your daughter with such potent poison, you will need to find another governess. I will not do it.”
Their eyes met. For a moment, he held her gaze, daring her to convince him life was all sunshine and flowers. But the fight in him died. He felt too weary to argue further. “I do not want her to be disappointed when life doesn’t turn out the way she expects it to.”
“If she is taught to expect only sadness and drudgery, she certainly will not be disappointed,” Miss Wood said. “Those who look for sadness inevitably find it.”
“Even those who expect happiness find the opposite, Miss Wood.” He certainly knew that.
“But they find happiness as well,” Miss Wood said. “Those moments of joy make the times of sadness and disappointment bearable.”
“I believe you are attempting to tell me I ought to encourage Caroline to embrace these honeyed stories you tell her.” Layton tried to sound like the puffed-up master of the manor but managed to sound only wistful.
“I am attempting to tell you that you ought to allow her some hope.”
“How many of these stories do you have, Miss Wood?”
“An endless supply.” A hint of a smile returned to her face, and Layton found himself smiling back. When was the last time a smile had come so easily to his face? Or anyone else’s in the house, for that matter?
Unaccountably, he relented. “Try to avoid any that involve the heroine leaping from trees or into rivers or anything of that sort.” Layton looked back at the fire to conceal the growing grin on his face. He had no idea why he was smiling and didn’t care to try to explain it. “She might be inclined to give such adventures a try.”
“Of course, sir.”
Layton heard the sound of her footsteps retreating to the door. Some inexplicable impulse led him to stop her. “Miss Wood?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You didn’t tell me what happened to the family? In the story?”
She sighed. “That, sir, is another tale entirely.”
Miss Wood turned and walked through the door. Layton watched her go, wondering about her story, about the family. It seemed more than a simple bedtime fairy tale. He wanted, almost needed, to know how it ended.
Chapter Eight
“Papa does not go to church, Mary,” Caroline had whispered as Marion tucked the carriage blanket around her swinging legs that morning.
“Ever?” Marion had asked, doing her best to mask her surprise. Mr. Throckmorten, the vicar, was not the sort to inspire heavenly devotion in his parishioners, being gratingly top-lofty and a great deal too severe in his sermons. Just that morning he’d called a list of individuals, by name, to detailed repentance. As near as Marion had been able to tell, the majority of those in the area attended services despite him. Or, perhaps they attended to appease the man and reduce their chances of having their misdeeds, small or great, delineated for their neighbors.
“He told Flip that God doesn’t like hypnowits.” She’d spoken with an extremely decisive nod of her head, a gesture she’d obviously copied from some unsuspecting adult. Marion had nearly laughed out loud.
“Who is Flip, Caroline?”
“One of Papa’s boys.”
“He has others, I believe you said. But what is their connection to him? Are they friends of his? Or neighbors?”
“They’re his brovers.”
Brothers! Marion chuckled to herself, remembering the conversation. She’d been trying to identify the boys Mr. Jonquil was supposed to have tucked away in such strange places: with the horses, the blue, the books, all over, and she was certain Caroline had said something about pain and beatings.