Drops of Gold(70)

He took a single step inside before realizing Marion was crying. He quickly pressed down memories of Bridget’s ceaseless weeping. Marion was different. Tears were infrequent. And she’d never pushed him away when he’d offered his support.

“Marion?” he asked uncertainly.

She turned at his voice. A spot of tender red marred her face, low on her left cheek. Had someone hit her?

Layton rushed to her side. He carefully cupped her face in his hand, looking for any signs of significant injury. He felt some relief at not finding blood or a deepening bruise. Still, she’d clearly been hurt.

“What happened?”

“She says she hates me.” Marion’s voice broke with painful emotion.

“Who—” But then he knew. “Caroline.” He sighed. “Did she hit you?” He brushed his thumb lightly over the mark on Marion’s face.

She nodded, not pulling away from his touch. “With a book. Because I’m leaving. She said—” Marion drew in a shaky breath. “She said she never wants to see me again. And that . . . that she hates me!”

Her expression crumbled in misery. Layton pulled her into his arms. The aroma of cinnamon that always surrounded her filled his senses again. The feel of her in his embrace settled over him like a comforting blanket. He’d needed her there, needed her close again. He hated that only her injuries gave him that right and only for a fleeting moment.

“Oh, Layton, I don’t want her to hate me,” Marion whimpered. “I love her. How can I leave with her feeling this way?”

She’d called him “Layton.” Not “Mr. Jonquil” or “sir.” She even leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. He rubbed her back in slow circles, feeling her breathing even out as her sobs subsided. He knew some satisfaction in having comforted her but wished for so much more. She was leaving and taking his very heart with her.

“Perhaps you should stay awhile longer,” Layton suggested, trying to sound casual. “Caroline might come to understand the situation better if given more time.”

“That would only postpone the inevitable.” Marion pulled back the tiniest bit, enough to wipe at a tear but not so much that he didn’t still hold her. “My cousin is here only because I am, and I know he has a great deal to do back at Tafford. He means to leave in the morning, and I can’t ask him to wait longer than that.”

“No. I suppose not.”

She took a deep breath and stepped out of his arms. Layton only just kept himself from reaching for her again. If she was really leaving in the morning, if he was never going to see her again . . .

“Marion, I need to thank you.”

She turned to look at him. That made it harder.

He forced himself to continue, however awkwardly. “For all the times you listened when I . . . when I needed someone to talk to.”

Marion touched her hand lightly to his face. Anything else he might have said stuck in his throat. Layton closed his eyes, committing the moment to memory. If his past hadn’t been so riddled with failures, his own conscience so troubled with doubts, he might have been blessed to know the joy of her touch every day for the rest of their lives.

“I only hope you’ve found some degree of peace,” she whispered.

“I’m beginning to,” he whispered back. He was beginning to feel some peace regarding Bridget’s burial and the deception he’d enacted after her death. But he could not be certain he was blameless for her unhappiness. If he’d caused that pain, any part of it, he could never trust himself with Marion’s well-being.

Her fingers left his face. He nearly reached for her, nearly pulled her back and asked her to stay a moment longer. When he heard her steps move away from him and out the door, he wished he had.

But until he knew he hadn’t failed Bridget, knew he wouldn’t destroy Marion the same way, he couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t confess that he loved her more than he’d loved anyone before.

Perhaps, he thought with a twinge of fear, it was time he started praying again.





Chapter Twenty-Five



Marion had never felt less like going to church. Perhaps if the kind and loving Mr. Martin from back home were offering the sermon rather than the sharp-tongued Mr. Throckmorten, with his constant condemnation of his congregation and dire warnings of the hopeless state of the majority of their souls, she might be more enthusiastic. Although, if she were being entirely honest, Mr. Throckmorten had very little to do with her reluctance.

She was leaving Nottinghamshire immediately after services, leaving Farland Meadows and Caroline and Layton. She had imagined in all her naiveté that during her sojourn as Caroline’s governess she would make a difference and Caroline would blossom into a happy, contented young girl. She had hoped to see Layton shed some of the burdens he unnecessarily carried. Even if he never came to love her the way she’d hoped, she wanted him to find peace again.