Drops of Gold(4)

He didn’t live long enough to see a single one. He never saw his sons grow into men or his beloved wife enjoy being a grandmother.

“It has been good . . . having you here . . .” Philip stumbled over his words. The two of them never used to be awkward. “I wish you could stay longer.”

“I can’t.” He only wanted to get back home, where he could be alone.

“You know you can talk to me.” Philip laid his hand on Layton’s shoulder. “About anything.”

Layton shrugged free, keeping his eyes firmly fixed ahead. “There’s nothing to talk about.” The time for talking had long passed.

Philip didn’t press the issue. The next moment, he left the room, followed shortly thereafter by a lady for whom Layton suspected his elder brother had developed a partiality. If he didn’t miss his mark, that connection would grow into something permanent. Layton was happy for his brother, even though watching the budding romance left a decided weight in his stomach.

The Jonquil brothers had dispersed throughout the west sitting room and were chatting with the Kinnley guests. Layton watched each of his brothers in turn. The family resemblance was ridiculously strong. They all had the same golden hair and blue eyes. Each of the brothers was tall and slim, except for him. He alone was built like a prizefighter.

Layton sighed. That minor physical difference had never bothered him before. But lately . . . It was just one more reason he didn’t fit into his own family.

He made an undoubtedly unnoticed exit but stopped only a few feet from the door. Layton could hear Philip’s voice from the back corridor, his words made indiscernible by echoes. It was just as well.

Layton made his way to the front staircase and up to his bedchamber. Jones, his valet, would be celebrating Christmas below stairs with the rest of the servants. Layton draped his coat over the back of a chair then sat on the edge of his bed.

Spending time with his family wore on him. Spending time with anyone had worn on him the past few years. Layton untied his cravat and unwound it, letting his breath slowly escape. The square of linen dropped into a crumpled heap on the bed beside him. He closed his eyes and deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat.

“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentleman” echoed in his heavy mind, the feelings of loss and emptiness it inspired clinging to him like a wet shirt. Layton shook his head in an attempt to clear it. When had Christmas become such an unpleasant affair?

He dropped onto the bed, staring up at the heavy canopy. Why had he agreed to come to Suffolk? Surely Mater would have understood if he’d declined, if he’d insisted on staying with Caroline. Yes, she would have understood, but she would have been disappointed.

Layton closed his eyes and draped his arm across his forehead. Disappointed. Was there a person in all of England he hadn’t disappointed? If Mater wasn’t already on that list, he certainly didn’t want to see her added to it.

He would leave in the morning. In mere days, he’d be back home.

His breathing grew more even, his arm resting more heavily on his head. Sleep approached, and Layton dreaded it. He could postpone the inevitable if he rose, paced his bedchamber. Perhaps he could throw open the window and allow the cold winter air to awaken his dulling senses. In the end, it would do no good. Sleep would come eventually, whether he wished it to or not.

The uncomfortable sensation of sleep slid slowly over him. For a moment, nothing. Then came darkness and the fuzzy images of dreams.

He was frantically flying down the corridors of the house he’d lived in for six years. He was lost. Lost within the walls of his own home.

Layton threw open the first door he reached: an empty bedchamber with pale-blue bed curtains, plush cream carpeting, and sunlight filtering through thin draperies. His heart began to race. He ran on, jerking open the next door only to find the same empty bedchamber.

On and on he ran. Every door opened to a duplicate scene, but every door was wrong. Layton ran harder, his breath coming in gasps. Somewhere in the distance a sob pierced the air.

Layton tried unsuccessfully to push his legs faster. Each door led to the same serene scene as if mocking the desperation of his search. The echoing sobs grew more harrowing as fog drifted into the unending corridor. Layton opened countless doors, no longer stopping to look over the repeated scene.

The crying grew louder.

He was close. So close. If only he could find the right door.

The fog became suddenly thick, the air bitterly cold. Layton stood frozen before a doorway. The sobbing had stopped. Only the sound of his uneasy breathing rent the silence.

The door he faced opened on its own. It led to the same bedchamber, but this one was dim and cold. Layton closed his eyes as he stepped inside.