Drops of Gold(26)

Marion’s smile remained as she continued her story. “While their children were always quite impressively well behaved at the table, one evening meal did not turn out to be a crowning example of their manners.” She sat in the chair directly across from the one Mr. Jonquil shared with Caroline, who appeared to be leaning more heavily against him as she listened. “The daughter was still quite young. And the son, you see, found everything about that meal remarkably funny. He laughed and laughed, almost unable to take a breath. Soon the daughter was pealing with laughter as well but only because her brother was in such an unmerciful state of amusement. Their mother began to laugh next. Soon their father’s chuckles erupted into full-bellied laughter.

“‘I would like to know why I am laughing so uproariously,’ the father informed his family between chortles.

“‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ their mother admitted.

“The daughter couldn’t stop laughing long enough to admit her own ignorance. The family turned to the son, who had started the entire difficulty. He only shrugged and continued to laugh as tears ran down his cheeks.

“‘I suppose there must be funny pepper in our meal tonight,’ the mother said.

“From that evening on, whenever the family found themselves lost in a hopeless case of giggles and guffaws, they were quick to declare that someone had slipped funny pepper into their food.”

“But why were they laughing?” Caroline asked without lifting her head from her father’s chest. “What was funny?”

“I think, dearest, they were happy,” Marion said. “Sometimes people laugh simply because they are so happy.”

“Is that true, Papa?” Caroline pulled herself into an even smaller ball.

“It certainly is.” Mr. Jonquil’s arms wrapped around her, nearly hiding her from view. “My papa always said it was tickle bugs, that they would crawl all over one’s skin and make one laugh from all of the tickling. In truth, the laughter came simply because one was happy.”

“Did your papa laugh because he was happy?” Caroline’s voice grew quieter.

“All the time, poppet.”

“Why don’t you, Papa?”

A look of discomfort crossed Mr. Jonquil’s face at her question. Marion watched him and thought back on the many times that evening that he had laughed, and she wondered as well. Why didn’t he ever laugh spontaneously, simply from joy in life? He was haunted, dragged down by something.

“I . . . er . . .” Mr. Jonquil couldn’t seem to answer Caroline’s innocent question.

“What are we to do next, my queen?” Marion jumped in, the raw pain she saw in Mr. Jonquil’s eyes too much for her. “You get to choose, Caroline.”

She didn’t look up or uncurl herself but remained snuggled up to her father. “Can I go to bed, Papa?” Caroline spoke so quietly Marion could hardly hear her.

“Bed, Caroline?”

Marion felt as surprised as Mr. Jonquil sounded. Caroline had spoken of nothing but the Twelfth Night festivities for a week or more.

“But it is Twelfth Night, dearest,” Mr. Jonquil said. “You are queen. You can instruct us to play snap-dragon or ninepins or jackstraws.”

“But I am tired, Papa!”

It was a wail if Marion had ever heard one.

Mr. Jonquil looked up, obviously confused.

“No doubt she slept fitfully from anticipation,” Marion guessed. “Perhaps we could allow her to be queen on a night when she is more rested.”

Mr. Jonquil nodded. “Come on, dear.” He stood with Caroline in his arms. “Off to bed.”





Chapter Eleven



Layton had fought sleep as long as he possibly could, but there he was again, standing beside a bed with light blue curtains pulled closed all around. He reached out even though he didn’t want to and felt the familiar dread building.

A loud rat-tat woke him with a start. Layton sat straight up in his bed, still in his shirt and pantaloons. The rat-tat repeated, and somewhere in the back of Layton’s mind, he realized someone was knocking on the door of his bedchamber. He dropped his bare feet onto the chilly floor and examined himself momentarily in the looking glass above his shaving stand as he passed.

Layton shrugged at his missing cravat and coat, not to mention his lack of footwear. Anyone seeking his company in the middle of the night couldn’t possibly expect him to be presentable.

He opened the door then froze from shock. Miss Wood stood in the doorway, a single candle in her hand, a thick blue dressing grown open over a serviceable white night rail, brilliant red hair tumbling around her shoulders. “Miss Wood,” he managed to say.