Even Mr. Throckmorten, during his obligatory visit to Farland Meadows after Bridget’s death, had wondered aloud at the oddity of one so young passing so suddenly. Layton had already endured months of pointed scoldings over Bridget’s absence at church. If he were a capable husband and a decent Christian, the vicar had told Layton, his wife would have been present at services. Further, he would not have come to church himself looking burdened and depressed if he didn’t have reason to feel guilty. If Bridget did not wish to go about with her family or have visitors in her home, she clearly was unhappy in her marriage. Layton had endured lecture upon lecture from the vicar but had mostly dismissed the criticism.
Until Bridget had died. Until he had lied about it. Until he had sold his soul for the sake of his dead wife and the child he would have to raise without her.
A misalliance, no matter how deeply he cared for Marion, would be fodder for those who chose to wonder about Bridget’s passing and his own descent into near hermit-hood afterward. The harshest of gossips would cut Marion and likely him as well. Caroline’s future would be jeopardized despite her being the heir to the title Layton would inherit when Mater passed from this life.
No. He couldn’t do that to Caroline. She’d already been robbed of a loving mother, something for which Layton couldn’t hold himself entirely blameless. Certainly he could have done more to help his wife, latched onto some indication of the direness of Bridget’s situation that he ought to have seen.
And it wasn’t only Caroline he worried for. Marion would hardly escape unscathed. There were names society associated with governesses who married above their stations: adventuress, jade, no-better-than-she-should-be. She would be made to endure cuts, disapproving glances, general unkindness. He could not put her through that, could not be the reason she would face such things.
She would simply have to be Miss Wood again. He would be the stiff, apathetic employer once more and put a careful distance between them.
Perhaps he ought to think about looking elsewhere for a wife. The very thought made him groan and no doubt deepened his scowl.
“Good morning.” He knew that cheerful voice, but hearing it did little to lift his spirits.
“I thought you’d be at church this morning.” Layton looked out over the river rather than at her.
“I returned nearly an hour ago,” Marion said. “I have the remainder of the morning to myself so I came here.”
“As always.” Layton nodded. He knew she sat by the river every Sunday morning, no matter the weather. Though he would have denied it if asked, it was part of the reason he’d walked in circles around that part of the bank instead of his usual route toward Lampton Park. He wanted to see her again. To torture himself, he admitted inwardly.
Layton turned toward her, slowly, apprehensively. She wasn’t sitting on the ground on a blanket, probably due to the fresh dusting of snow they’d received overnight. Instead, Marion stood near a tree, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the wind blowing her amazingly red hair in all directions. And she smiled just as she always did, perhaps a little more brightly than usual—something he wouldn’t have thought possible. She looked so obviously happy. He liked that about her—even in moments of sadness, an underlying joy followed her.
“Caroline enjoyed sitting with your family at church today.” Marion’s eyes twinkled happily as she spoke. “Lord Lampton escorted her from the family pew with all the deference he would show a duchess. It was all she could do not to giggle out loud, though I am certain Mr. Throckmorten would have disapproved quite vocally.”
The vicar disapproved of most everyone and everything. Haughty superiority and blanket judgments were the man’s specialty. Layton pushed his opinion of the vicar to the back of his mind.
“Flip always could pull a smile from her,” he said. “The rest of us were happy if we managed to get her to speak.”
“You have made her giggle more times than I can recall of late.” Marion seemed almost to scold him for forgetting. “Hearing her speak of her ‘silly’ father, one would think you were a traveling performer.”
Layton nearly smiled. Caroline had laughed several times and smiled at him whenever they were together. Here were more of Marion’s miracles.
“You seem troubled.” Marion stepped away from the clump of trees she’d been standing among and moved toward him.
The crisp, cold air suddenly smelled of cinnamon. Layton turned his eyes back to the river, barely holding back a tense, frustrated groan. Coming where she was, stopping to talk, hadn’t been a good idea.