“I am certain I have pried quite enough for one morning.” Marion studied her hands as they twisted the corner of the blanket wrapped around her.
“Come now, Miss Wood. Do not suddenly turn missish on me.”
“You would probably find it an impertinence,” Marion warned.
“Then I will have no one but myself to blame, will I?”
There went her heart again, even as her brain registered how unbelievably handsome this man seated beside her was.
“Caroline has mentioned . . . that is, she told me that . . .” The question proved harder to pose than she’d anticipated. “Three or four times since I have arrived, Caroline has spoken of her mother.”
She saw Mr. Jonquil flinch. She’d been afraid it would not be an easy subject. Still, she pressed on. It had weighed on her thoughts for weeks. “All she will say is that her mother is gone. She either doesn’t wish to tell me or doesn’t know where her mother has gone. I have narrowed down the possibilities to two. Either she has physically left, that the two of you are separated. Or she is no longer alive.”
Mr. Jonquil sat silently, his eyes focused far out over the river, his jaw noticeably tense. Had she made a terrible mistake? Or finally stumbled on the reason for the unhappiness so prevalent at Farland Meadows?
“Bridget,” Mr. Jonquil said, his voice tense and steel edged, “my late wife, died four months after Caroline was born. I assure you, Miss Wood, Caroline knows as much. I am not such a lamentable father that I would not tell her about her own mother.”
He picked up his hat, stood, and walked away without a backward glance or a word of good-bye.
“Oh, Mr. Jonquil,” Marion whispered, “I believe I have found the problem.”
Chapter Thirteen
Layton didn’t go far, a hundred feet perhaps, before leaning against the trunk of an obliging tree, arm up, head resting on his forearm. What had possessed Miss Wood to ask about Bridget? He’d been quite thoroughly enjoying himself up to that moment. He hadn’t spoken so easily with another person since before Bridget had left him.
“Left him.” That was how he always referred to her death, finding it easier somehow. But Caroline knew what he meant. Didn’t she? Layton felt nearly certain he’d told her quite clearly that her mother was dead, not simply off visiting. But as he reflected on her versions of his various brothers’ occupations and places of residence, his confidence began to slip.
Caroline was only four years old. Which, he told himself, was part of the problem. How much had he told her? How much ought he to tell her? Should he be blunt or careful? Detailed or vague?
“Stupid fool,” he muttered. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Mr. Jonquil?” Miss Wood’s voice was quiet, uncertain, and only a few feet behind him.
“What is it, Miss Wood?” he asked rather curtly.
“I am sorry, sir. I would never have . . . If I’d known . . .” Layton heard her take a deep breath. “You said I could ask you anything, that you wouldn’t mind the impertinence.”
“Perhaps I underestimated your presumptuousness.” Layton moved away from the tree and closer to the riverbank, slapping the brim of his hat against his thigh.
“Caroline has asked me about her.” Miss Wood stood near the tree he’d just abandoned.
“Miss Wood—”
“And I do not know what to say,” she continued on. “She wants to know if her mother was beautiful. What color her hair was. If she told Caroline stories or sang to her. She wants to know if her mother loved her. And I don’t know what to say.”
Layton spun around to face the intrusive woman, more frustrated than he’d been with her yet. “She was lovely. Her hair was light brown. She told Caroline not a single story, nor sang her a single note. And I seriously doubt she loved the child.”
He saw her flinch at his angry tone and felt suddenly sorry. “I cannot tell her that, sir.” Miss Wood’s eyes lowered, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Blast it, don’t start acting the well-behaved servant now,” he snapped.
Tears started down her face, and he felt like a churl. He sighed and crossed back to her. With that ridiculous blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she almost looked like a child snuggled up in bed. No. Not like a child at all, he corrected himself as he looked into her face. And he’d made her cry.
“My apologies, Miss Wood. I have been unforgivably short with you.”
“I hope I haven’t offended you, sir.” A crease marred her porcelain forehead, and he longed to wipe it away, knowing full well he’d put it there. “I only wish to understand, to know how I can help Caroline.” Her cheeks colored slightly. “And you, sir.”