Drops of Gold (25 page)

“God
can
be merciful, Harry,” Lord Lampton replied with a shrug. He took his fiancée’s arm once more. “And not having to listen to Throckmorten extol his own virtues while throwing his harsh and poisonous barbs at everyone else in attendance will be merciful indeed. Just make it a short service,” he added.

“It will have to be” was the grumbled reply, but Marion thought Mr. Harry Jonquil looked at least a little excited at the possibility. His step picked up speed as he too made his way inside the church. No doubt, his mind was spinning at the task ahead of him.

“Come, Cousin Marion,” Cousin Miles whispered at her side. “We too should be finding our seats.”

She nodded and walked almost numbly into the impressive edifice of the church. Throckmorten was about to lose his position, Marion had a feeling, and not a day too soon—probably a few years too
late
, in fact. But Mr. Throckmorten’s situation completely fled from her thoughts as she walked up the aisle to the pew Roderick and Adèle already occupied. Ahead, in the Farland pew, sat Layton, Caroline at his side, apparently explaining her prayer book to him in astoundingly acute detail, considering she couldn’t read. Layton listened with a fond smile on his face, though his posture was anything but at ease.

It would take time, Marion reminded herself and hoped he understood that as well. For so long, he had considered himself beyond redemption, hated by a God she knew he revered. But this was a step closer to peace of mind. If forgiveness for what he saw as grievous sins had been less important to him, Layton would not have been as unhappy as he had been and this return to a way of life he’d always embraced would not have meant as much.

Lady Lampton pressed up the aisle just as Marion seated herself in the row behind Layton and Caroline. Rather than take her customary seat in the Lampton pew, the countess sat beside her son, laid a hand on his cheek for the slightest moment, and smiled a little tearily before shifting her attention ahead.

Marion felt tears trickle down her own cheeks as she watched the Jonquils enter. They couldn’t have all fit on the Farland pew but looked very much like they would have liked to make the attempt. Lord Lampton, Mr. Jason Jonquil, and Captain Stanley Jonquil sat with the Misses Kendrick, and Mrs. Kendrick sat on the Lampton pew across the aisle. Mr. Corbin Jonquil joined his mother and, Marion noted, held her hand as the congregation settled in.

“He came, Mary!” Caroline whispered over the back of her pew.

“Yes, dearest,” Marion whispered back.

“And he will sit by me every week.” All signs of her tantrum of minutes earlier had completely disappeared. “He said so!”

Two more tears escaped Marion’s eyes. She leaned farther forward in order to address the girl without her words being overheard. “Do you think your papa will be happy now?”

“Oh yes,” Caroline answered, her whisper a touch louder than it had been. She wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. She smiled lovingly at Layton then kissed his cheek. Layton turned to smile at his daughter after her unforeseen gesture. His gaze met Marion’s. She loved his beautiful blue eyes and the depth of feeling she always saw there.

His forehead creased with concern. “Tears, Marion?” he whispered.

She shook her head, waving off his worries. These were tears of joy as much as sorrow.

Layton pulled from his pocket a folded bit of linen and passed it back to her. Marion accepted it but not without a flip in her heart. She would never be able to look at a handkerchief again without thinking of the evening she’d spent with Layton and Caroline laughing over handkerchief etiquette.

She dabbed at the tears hovering on her lashes.

Caroline pressed her tiny hands to either side of her father’s face, turning his head until he looked fully at her once more. She didn’t speak, only smiled broadly.

“Services are beginning, Caroline,” he whispered kindly. “We’d best sit and listen.”

“That’s not Mr. Mockportant,” Caroline said full voice, noticing her uncle Harry in the vicar’s usual place. No doubt the entire congregation was thinking the exact same thing.

“No, it isn’t,” Layton answered so quietly Marion could hardly hear his words.

“I think we shall like church far better without him, don’t you?” Caroline looked to her father for confirmation. “He always looks mad—mad and sour.”

Layton smiled at her and nodded. Marion watched his arm slip around Caroline’s shoulders and pull her closer to him. “I love you, poppet,” he whispered to her.

Her tiny head rested against her father’s shoulder. Marion saw Lady Lampton wipe another tear from her eye.

They will be happy now
, Marion thought, bowing her head as the service began.
They will be happy
.

The church roof hadn’t caved in or been struck by lightning. Layton took that as a good sign. He had come to church in an attempt to find some of that peace he’d told Marion he was beginning to discover in his life. Bridget’s death had been a tragedy, one he wished he’d done more to prevent, but he felt her soul was at peace, and his ought to be as well.

“Farland.”

Layton spun around, knowing only one person who insisted on addressing him by the title that was not yet his own. Mr. Sarvol. Bridget’s father.

Layton had seen the man a handful of times over the past five years but not at all in the previous six months. Those months hadn’t been kind. Sarvol weighed several stones less than he had, his hair nearly as thin as his face. His complexion was a study in contrasts, pale but blotchy. His eyes were still as coldly assessing as ever.

“Mr. Sarvol,” Layton acknowledged, guiding Caroline a little behind him. Sarvol had never made any attempt to grow acquainted with his granddaughter, and Layton didn’t entirely trust him to be civil.

“I want to talk to you,” Mr. Sarvol barked, his usual mode of speaking. It was a miracle Bridget had been a kind, likable person with such a father.

“Mater,” Layton called softly as she passed. Her eyes flitted between Layton and his father-in-law, a tinge of alarm in her look. “Will you take Caroline back to the Park? I will join you there.”

“Of course, Layton.” Mater reached for Caroline’s hand.

“Papa?” Caroline asked uncertainly, watching Mr. Sarvol with wariness.

“Everything is fine, poppet. I’ll be along soon enough.”

She still seemed unconvinced.

“Maybe Flip will let you play with his fobs.”

Caroline’s face lit up, and she took Mater’s hand. Layton breathed a sigh of relief as Caroline walked farther down the path from the church.

“Who was that man?” he heard her ask Mater.

Layton didn’t hear the answer. He eyed Mr. Sarvol nervously. What did the man want after so many years?

“The child doesn’t know me?” Mr. Sarvol seemed genuinely pained by the realization.

Layton could not summon much sympathy for him, despite the uncharacteristic flash of regret in the man’s face. “That is your doing, sir. I brought her to Sarvol House any number of times that first year. You refused to see her. You will recall I informed you that should you wish to make the acquaintance, you knew where she was to be found.”

“I am a busy man,” Mr. Sarvol said gruffly.

“As am I.”

Mr. Sarvol seemed to redden at the reference to his ill-mannered behavior. Layton had never known Mr. Sarvol to be the least bit discomposed by anything said to him.

“You attended church today,” he said, bushy brows furrowed.

“As you can see.”

“Ain’t seen you here in years.” It sounded almost like an accusation.

“Perhaps I am turning over a new leaf.”

Mr. Sarvol nodded slowly. “Comes a time when a man has to reevaluate things.” He continued nodding. “Starts to rethink the way he’s lived his life.”

Layton watched silently, wondering what had come over the man who had accepted Layton’s request to marry his daughter but had never been remotely friendly.

“I’ve been rethinking some things,” Mr. Sarvol said, obviously uncomfortable with the admission, though he had said as much a moment before. “When I saw you were staying for services, I sent my man back to Sarvol House.”

Layton listened in wary silence. He had no idea what his father-in-law was getting at.

“I had him get this from my desk drawer.” Mr. Sarvol roughly pushed a folded piece of yellowed parchment into Layton’s hands. “Ought to have given it to you years ago. I knew you were weighed down by everything that happened, but I . . . I liked having it. It made me think of her. But I ought to have given it to you. I almost did a couple times the last few years, but . . . couldn’t . . .”

As his words trailed off, so did he. Mr. Sarvol wandered from the churchyard without a backward glance, climbed into his antiquated carriage, and rolled away.

Layton looked down at the paper in his hand, turning it around to try to make sense of it. He realized he held a letter. One addressed to Mr. Sarvol at a London address, written in handwriting he knew he’d seen before.

The seal had long since been broken, the wax completely gone, leaving behind only the slightest stain. Layton opened and unfolded the letter, letting his eyes drop to the signature. His heart thudded against his ribs.

Bridget Jonquil.

Layton hastily refolded the missive and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He wasn’t prepared for a letter from Bridget.

“The Meadows,” he instructed James Coachman as he climbed inside his rig. The door closed, the carriage began bowling down the lane toward home.

The letter seemed to burn in his pocket. What might she have written to her father all those years ago? They were obviously married at the time it was written. Had she mentioned him? What would she have said?

Though he couldn’t see the road well for the condensation on the windows, Layton knew the way by memory. He knew the very moment the carriage turned from the main road, could picture with little effort the canopy of barren trees the carriage would even then be passing under.

He needed someplace quiet, isolated, to read, for he
had
to read the letter. He had to know what she’d said to hopefully gain some idea of how she’d felt during their brief marriage. He tapped the roof of the vehicle, and it came to a skilled stop. Layton opened the door enough to lean out and address his driver.

“Let me off here,” he instructed. “Then continue on to the stables. I will no longer be needing the carriage.”

James pulled his forelock respectfully and did as instructed. Layton didn’t watch to see the vehicle disappear up the lane but made straight for the place he had in mind. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that it drowned out his footsteps.

He reached the riverbank sooner than he would have expected. He sat down on an overturned log, knowing his pantaloons would be hopelessly stained. He took a few deep breaths and listened to the sound of water lapping against the bank. Slowly, some of the tension drained from his shoulders. He’d known, somehow, that this place would work its magic.

Here it was that he’d listened to Marion’s stories. He’d told her about Bridget, about himself. She’d charmed Caroline into smiles and giggles, and they’d fished sodden leaves from the river with all the enthusiasm of treasure hunters.

Layton sighed. He pulled off his gloves and reached into his jacket. The parchment felt almost soft beneath his fingers. It opened silently, the creases worn nearly all the way through in places. Mr. Sarvol had apparently read the letter several times over the years. What could have been so important to warrant saving a letter for half a decade?

He closed his eyes for a second before forcing himself to read.

Sept 23 1809

“Five and a half years ago,” Layton whispered. Before Caroline was born.

Dearest Father,

My condolences on your poor luck at Tattersall’s. Layton’s brother Corbin is considered something of a hand at choosing horseflesh, and he too has recently lamented the lack of options at Tatt’s. Perhaps the coming weeks will prove more profitable for you both.

How pleasant you make the Little Season sound, and how pleased I am that you are enjoying yourself. Alas, my condition does not permit me to join you as you have requested. Do not, dear Papa, think for a moment that I resent missing the delights you write of. I could not possibly be happier anywhere than I am at Farland Meadows.

My Layton is everything attentive, seeming every bit as eager for our coming arrival as I am. He quite adamantly declares that this child will be a girl. And though I am of the same opinion, I find I am enjoying asserting otherwise if only to give myself the pleasure of watching him debate his point. In the end, he shall be proven right, of course.

Oh, Father! Was ever a woman so lucky in her husband as I? And for that I need thank you for agreeing to my Layton’s suit. When I think I might very easily have been shackled to a boorish or unkind man, I can scarce countenance the thought. I could never do without my Layton!

He shall be a most attentive and loving father, of that I am certain. Is it possible for a man to possess a talent for being a father and husband? I am convinced there must be, for my Layton, having no prior experience, seems remarkably well suited to the roles.

Any woman would count herself excessively fortunate to have such a husband!

I send you my love as always. And I am sure Layton would too if he knew I was writing this letter. Do not worry yourself over me, Father. I could not possibly be better cared for!

Your happily contented daughter,

Bridget Jonquil

Layton read the letter again and again. There was no doubt as to its author. Layton fancied he could almost hear her speak the words written there, so much did they sound like his late wife. Yet these were thoughts she’d never expressed to him.

I could not possibly be happier.

Was ever a woman so lucky in her husband as I?

Any woman would count herself excessively fortunate to have such a husband!

Was it possible she actually felt that way? That she was not only content but, from the excessiveness of her praise, quite happy? And that he had, at least to a degree, been a good husband to her?