“So you lied,” Mary said.
Layton felt the accusation that was entirely absent from her tone. “I lied,” he said flatly, defying her to condemn him for it. “I lied to the government. I lied to her family. I lied to the church. I even lied to God. I cannot get her into heaven. But she is in that churchyard. And if I have to lie for the rest of my life to keep her there, so be it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Marion hadn’t talked to or seen Mr. Jonquil in a full week, and the weight of what he’d told her in that copse of trees sat heavily on her heart. His unhappiness, the oppressive feeling of the house, finally made sense. He had endured so much suffering and unhappiness in only a few short months. The events of years ago seemed still to drain the very life from the house and its occupants. The late Mrs. Jonquil’s sobs may not have echoed through the halls any longer, but joyful voices and laughter had never returned to claim those echoes either.
She stepped inside his library, entirely uncertain of how he would treat her in light of his confessions. Did he resent sharing his past? Would he look on her as a confidant or an unpleasant reminder of the pain he carried?
“Sir?”
“Yes, Miss Wood.” Mr. Jonquil didn’t look up from the papers he was reading.
His return to formality told Marion volumes about his state of mind. She was no longer “Mary.” It was, therefore, a very good thing she’d chided herself for thinking of him once or twice as “Layton.” She regretted the change. While “Mary” wasn’t precisely her name, it came so close that she could almost imagine he’d added the final syllable. Those few times Mr. Jonquil had slipped into familiarity, she’d felt more at ease than she had since leaving home.
“I would like to speak to you, sir.”
He looked up then, wariness in his eyes. Mr. Jonquil quite obviously thought she meant to speak of his late wife and everything he’d revealed about her.
“About Caroline’s birthday,” Marion quickly explained. He relaxed noticeably. “I know it is short notice, sir, but earlier today, she mentioned something she would particularly like to have. I would so like for her to have it. I know it would mean a great deal to her.”
“What is it she wishes for?”
“Well, sir, we have been working on her table etiquette. I told her this morning what a pleasure it was to have my breakfast with her because she has such pleasing manners. She said rather wistfully that she wished she could have a real grown-up dinner in the formal dining room.” Marion took a deep breath and plunged on; somehow, she felt more like a servant than ever asking for this favor. “Caroline spoke on and on about wearing her fanciest dress and wearing her locket and curtsying to the guests. Oh, Mr. Jonquil, I wish you could have heard her. I have never heard her say so much at one time. I think she has imagined just such an evening many times. She is very well behaved. Her manners are flawless.
“I know it isn’t the done thing for a child so young to dine with adults, but it seems to mean so much to her.” Marion hoped she hadn’t given him a chance to disagree. Yet. “I heard Mrs. Sanders say that at least one of your brothers and your mother, the countess, have returned to Lampton Park. If they were to make up the party, there wouldn’t really be any impropriety. And I trust they would be lenient if Caroline were a little overawed, though I don’t believe she would give you a moment’s concern.”
“So, a dinner with Caroline as hostess, the guests, adults selected from among her circle of acquaintances,” Mr. Jonquil summed up, but Marion couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t say if he approved of her idea or thought her completely out of line. He rose and walked to the windows of his library.
Marion felt almost desperate. It so obviously was a dream of Caroline’s, one of many she’d unknowingly shared with Marion. The child wanted so many simple things that no one could possibly give her—she wished to know her deceased mother, wished for a mother of her own, wished for her father to laugh and tease and play with her when he was so often pensive and quiet and sad. This dinner party was at least possible.
“Oh, please, Mr. Jonquil!” Marion followed him with her eyes as he moved around the room. “I so want to give her this. I will write the invitations myself so Mrs. Sanders won’t be bothered. Better yet!” She clapped her hands together. “I will help Caroline write them. Her letters are entirely legible, and I can assist her with her spelling and anything else. She would be delighted.”
“That is a great deal of work for an almost-five-year-old to accomplish in a few hours. The invitations would need to be sent today, you realize.” He looked ready to deny her.