Drops of Gold(2)

With a broad smile, Marion had said the name that had been at the forefront of her mind the past two days. “Farland Meadows.”

Even before she’d finished the idyllic words, her companions’ faces had fallen.

“You’ve been ’ired up to the Meadows?” the woman had asked, her voice a tense whisper.

Marion had nodded. She’d felt her smile slip.

“’Ave you nowhere else to go, child?”

Marion had shaken her head.

“Won’t last,” the older man had grumbled loudly.

The woman had sighed almost mournfully. Neither she nor her father had spoken again.

Nightfall had been imminent, and if Marion hadn’t missed her mark, so was a snowstorm, when the coach had come to an abrupt and unexpected halt. The door had opened, and the coachman had motioned Marion to step out.

“The Meadows ain’t no place for ye, child,” the woman had whispered fervently as Marion had climbed down.

Wind whipped furiously around her skirts and had threatened to pluck her well-worn bonnet from her head. The coachman had handed Marion her handleless valise.

“Good luck to ye,” he’d muttered and climbed back onto the coach.

“This can’t be Collingham,” she’d called out, looking around at the uninhabited copses of trees and empty, open fields around her. A low wall separated the road from the land surrounding it, but there was no other indication of civilization nearby. Collingham, she understood, was a small but relatively busy town.

“Less of a walk for ye,” the coachman had answered, settling himself onto the driver’s bench.

When she had called out for direction to her new place of employment, the strength of the wind had made his reply impossible to hear. But he’d pointed.

And now the coach was but a little silhouette against the increasingly dark horizon.

“Typical,” she muttered again, shaking her head. If she weren’t so cold, the situation might have been amusing. She could easily have been the heroine in some ridiculous gothic novel. All she lacked was a handsome rescuer to come riding up on his noble horse to sweep her off the ground.

Marion looked up and down the road. Empty. “Typical.” She laughed at herself.

What am I waiting for? Marion demanded of herself. She spun around to face the direction the coachman had pointed and began walking, holding her small valise to her to block the wind, which bit and gnawed at her face.

The stinging cold rid her of any weariness her long days of travel had created. Thoughts of Farland Meadows warmed her. Such a peaceful name. It would be a wonderful place, she felt certain. Beautiful grounds. Warm, loving family with an angelic child.

The Meadows ain’t no place for ye. The woman’s words wouldn’t leave Marion’s mind. She was wrong, Marion insisted. Absolutely wrong. The Meadows would be perfect. How could a position that was so obviously a direct answer to her most fervent prayers be anything but heaven-sent?

With her customary smile determinedly on her face once more, Marion began walking again. Now that she thought back on it, the driver had been uneasy when she’d told him her destination. Three people in one day concerned for her at the very mention of Farland Meadows? Curious, to be sure.

Marion shook her head and dismissed the incidents as an odd coincidence. In a matter of minutes, she reached a set of open iron gates leading into a thick stand of trees cut through by a carriage path. Farland Meadows? she wondered. The gatehouse not far distant was visible despite the setting sun, but no lights glimmered inside. Four knocks went unheeded.

Cold seeped through her skirts and threadbare coat. Marion glanced down the carriage path that cut through the bare-branched trees then glanced back up at the road. There was no way of knowing if this was, indeed, Farland Meadows.

“I could at least ask for directions.” Marion was an old hand at talking to herself, something that had always made her mother laugh and her father shake his head.

With a shrug, she followed the carriage path. The grounds of the still-unnamed estate felt undeniably peaceful. Marion rounded a corner on the path and, mouth hanging open, stopped in her tracks. The red light of sunset reflected off the facade of a perfectly wonderful home, well-kept and obviously cared for, with just enough wear to give it character. She couldn’t have been more pleased with the house if she’d designed it herself.

Marion smiled. This had to be Farland Meadows. It absolutely had to be. She took a deep breath of pine-scented air, the cold nibbling at her features. She hugged her handleless valise to her and smiled up at the home straight out of one of her dreams.

Perfect.

Too happy to merely walk, Marion ran and even twirled once or twice as she circled around to the back of the house. The life of a governess wouldn’t have been her first choice, but taking a look at the picturesque setting, Marion knew she couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome.