Drops of Gold(38)

By the afternoon of Caroline’s birthday, the nursery wing was overflowing with excitement. The dinner was to be at six o’clock, early enough to accommodate the schedule of a young child but late enough not to be ridiculous. Caroline hadn’t eaten a thing at tea. Indeed, she hadn’t even sat still. Marion had loved every minute.

“Will Papa think I am beautiful, Mary?” Caroline asked, smiling at herself in the tiny mirror on the wall in Marion’s room.

“He couldn’t possibly think otherwise, dearest.” Marion beamed back at her. They’d spent a full hour on her hair alone, not because such time had been necessary but because Marion knew that every girl—every woman, for that matter—needed to feel pretty at least once in her life. For Caroline, tonight would be just the first. Adorable was probably the best word for the birthday girl. Her blonde ringlets hung in absolute perfection, and an enormous blue bow in her hair perfectly matched the blue silk of her dress, edged in delicate, childlike lace.

“And what about me, Caroline?” Marion twirled around as if to ask Caroline’s opinion of her gray gown, the same one she’d worn to church every Sunday, and her usual coiffure: hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and strands falling loose despite all of her efforts to prevent their escape. She knew perfectly well that she appeared plain and dowdy, but Caroline would enjoy feeling herself the fashion critic.

“You need a ribbon too, Mary,” Caroline decreed, perfectly serious and ponderous. She took Marion by the hand and led her back into her own room, with its delicate white furniture and wispy lace curtains. From a box on her dressing table, Caroline pulled a length of ribbon very much the shade of salmon that one regularly saw in an autumn sunset. It would look absolutely dreadful against her red hair. She allowed Caroline to tie it around her bun, knowing it would be lopsided.

“Are we ready now?” she asked Caroline. “You are hostess tonight and must not be late.”

Caroline barely managed to walk down the stairs. Marion could tell just from watching her that she was sorely tempted to run. But the young girl took the steps at a sedate pace, posture perfectly upright, the very copy of a society debutante—at least until she saw her father.

A squeal of delight barely preceded Caroline’s flight across the floor of the drawing room and directly into the outstretched arms of Mr. Jonquil. Marion smiled as she watched them. These were the moments that gave her hope for those two.

“Who is this grown-up young lady, Miss Wood?” Mr. Jonquil held Caroline back far enough to look her over and pretend to wonder at her identity.

“I found her upstairs, Mr. Jonquil. Since you were in need of a proper hostess, I brought her down.”

“Excellent notion, Miss Wood.”

“Sillies!” Caroline giggled. “I’m Caroline!”

Mr. Jonquil uttered a perfectly astounded gasp. “This grown-up girl is my little Caroline? No! I cannot believe it!”

“I am, Papa! I am!” She laughed. “I just have a grown-up ribbon, see?”

“That must be it.” Mr. Jonquil’s smile broke through. “Ribbons have been known to add years to a lady’s appearance.”

“Do not let word of that get around, sir,” Marion said. “Not a soul in London would wear a ribbon again.”

Mr. Jonquil smiled at her, a breathtaking smile. For just a moment, Marion was quite unaccountably light-headed.

“I gave Mary a ribbon too, Papa!” Caroline ran to grasp Marion’s hand and pull her farther into the room. “Do you see it? It is my very prettiest pink ribbon.”

“And how old do I look with this prettiest of pink ribbons?” Marion raised an eyebrow jokingly.

The look of scrutiny Mr. Jonquil leveled at her was anything but playful, as if he were memorizing everything about her. Marion felt the color rising in her cheeks. To cover her suddenly fluttering heart and quivering knees, she tried to laugh. “I suppose that was a rather impolitic question.” She managed to shrug.

“Extremely impolitic.” Mr. Jonquil’s eyes locked with hers in a very discomforting way.

Marion’s heart fluttered faster. She pressed her hand to it in hopes of stopping the sensation.

“No matter how I reply, I fear my answer would be taken in offense,” Mr. Jonquil said. “My answer would unavoidably be either too young or too old.”

“Undoubtedly,” Marion answered, her voice sounding strangely breathy to her own ears. Why in heaven’s name would her heart not resume a more normal pace?

“Yes, dear?” Mr. Jonquil addressed Caroline, who had been tugging at his coattails for several moments.