Drops of Gold (22 page)

“And it turns out she outranks
you
.” Philip laughed out loud, head flung back.

“It’s not that funny, Flip,” Layton grumbled.

“Look, Layton,” Philip said placatingly, “considering the circumstances and what she hadn’t told you about herself, your lectures were more than justified; they were necessary. She can’t hold that against you.”

“Yea, but it’s still—”

“Deucedly embarrassing,” Philip ended for him. “Sorry ’bout the language, Harry.”

Another nod of pardon.

“Except I get the feeling that’s not the only thing that is bothering you,” Philip said.

Layton dropped into an armchair near the fire and sank down in a posture of defeat. “I just don’t understand why she didn’t tell me.”

“The poor girl figured she’d lose her job,” Philip said.

“I wouldn’t have fired her.”

Philip raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Maybe at first,” Layton conceded. “But . . . later . . . I thought . . .” That kiss flashed through Layton’s mind, along with their conversations at the river’s edge and the day she’d spent listening to him spill all of his secrets. He had trusted
her
. Why hadn’t she trusted him? Philip watched him expectantly and a little too closely. “Never mind.” Layton shook his head. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you two. Get on with whatever you were talking about.”

He turned his attention to the fireplace.
Lady
Marion Linwood. Well, eligibility was no longer an issue. She was the daughter of a marquess, bosom friends with the Duke and Duchess of Hartley. If Philip was to be believed, the Linwoods were extremely close with at least two other leading families. What an idiot he must have seemed when he told her his misgivings.

He had told her his misgivings, hadn’t he? Now Layton couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered, really. She hadn’t told him anything about herself aside from her once-upon-a-time stories of her childhood. She hadn’t trusted him enough to let him help her, let him bear some of her burden.

Neither had Bridget. He really was a failure.

“Just to be clear, has this unfortunate gentleman actually taken his life?” Harry asked.

Layton listened more closely. Was Philip still looking into that situation?

“No, I am relieved to say,” Philip said. “But she is worried about the possibility.”

“Ah.”

Layton watched Harold steeple his fingers the way he did when about to relate some aspect of doctrine he found particularly intriguing.

“Well, in cases like this,” Harry said, “the law actually has taken its cues from the church. Just as the courts do not condemn a person who is mad for taking his life, neither does the church consider it a sin.”

“Meaning, that if a person is mad or suffering from madness, suicide would not, for that person, be a sin?”

“Exactly,” Harry answered.

“And this person could have a Christian burial?”

Harry offered a nod so knowing that the Archbishop of Canterbury would have been hard-pressed to re-create it.

“That is clear doctrine,” Philip pressed, “not just your opinion?”

“It is the position of the church,” Harry answered, unruffled by the skepticism.

“And God wouldn’t condemn this person either?”

“God
can
be merciful, Philip,” Harry replied.

“I know,” Philip answered.

For just a moment, it seemed like Philip’s eyes slid to Layton, but it was so fleeting that Layton couldn’t be sure. And he didn’t think about it much. Far too many thoughts were flying through his overworked brain to leave room for thoughts of Philip.

Was it possible God didn’t look on Bridget’s final act as a sin? That she wasn’t condemned for what she’d done? That
he
wasn’t condemned for obtaining a Christian burial for his late wife? He’d entertained for an extremely brief moment in the days after Bridget’s burial the thought of asking Mr. Throckmorten about the intricacies of doctrine surrounding suicide. He’d dismissed the idea immediately, however, knowing the vicar would have been quick to condemn, thorough in his public denunciation, and efficient in his effort to see that the neighborhood shunned Layton adequately.

Layton barely registered a comment from Philip as he all but staggered to the door. “I’m heading back to the Meadows,” Layton mumbled over his shoulder as he walked out of the library.

He walked almost blindly down the stairs. He’d accepted the fact that Bridget had been mad in her final months. He didn’t understand why or what had brought it on. The worry that he had contributed to her condition continued to nag him. But regardless of its source, her state of mind absolved her in the eyes of the law. That had only just begun to sink in.

But forgiveness from God? For himself and Bridget both? His heart raced and pounded at the possibility, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He had lied to the heavens, but perhaps it did not matter in the end.

Layton squinted against the unusually bright sunlight as he stepped outside and made his way to the stables. “Saddle Theron,” he instructed a groom who had appeared at his arrival.

Layton needed to make a much-overdue journey.

* * *

“I have met your cousin, Marion,” Roderick tried to reassure her. “You have nothing to fear at his hands.”

“But I don’t know him at all. I feel like a burden. He probably wishes I’d never been found.”

“Nonsense, Marion!” Adèle lightly scolded. “The new Lord Grenton was frantic when he contacted us trying to find you. I can only imagine he was relieved when he received Roderick’s letter yesterday.”

“He is really coming here?” What would this unknown cousin think of her? Would he be upset by the burden of her care?

“Posthaste, I would think,” Roderick said.

Tea was interrupted by a knock at the drawing room door.

“Maybe that is Layton,” Lady Lampton said, her brows furrowed with a hint of worry. “I thought for sure he would return for tea.”

“Where did he take himself off to?” Miss Sorrel Kendrick asked, the question seemingly directed at Lord Lampton, who just shrugged and watched the door.

The butler stepped inside and announced quite properly, “The Marquess of Grenton.”

Marion nearly dropped her teacup. She looked to Roderick, who had already risen. He offered her a reassuring smile. Marion rose as well and turned to face the door as the new arrival entered.

What she saw shocked her more than she could have predicted. This stranger could have been her own brother, not so much for his likeness to Robert but for his close resemblance to herself. He sported a head full of deep red hair, not fiery like hers but red just the same. His eyes were the same shade of dark brown. Something in his face reminded her instantly of her own reflection.

“Lord Grenton.” Roderick offered a bow.

“Your Grace.” Lord Grenton returned the gesture.

“May I introduce you to Lady Marion Linwood, your cousin.” Roderick brought the gentleman to Marion’s side. She curtsied as he stared. Perhaps he saw the resemblance himself.

“Lady Marion.” He bowed his head.

“Lord Grenton.” The name felt odd on her lips. Lord Grenton had always been her father.

As if reading her thoughts, he smiled and said, “I haven’t quite grown accustomed to the title, I am afraid. Especially coming from someone who looks strikingly like my sister, Beth.”

Marion smiled then. He had a sister.

“Perhaps you might be persuaded to call me Cousin Miles,” Grenton suggested. “It would be less awkward for both of us, I am sure.”

“Cousin Marion would do for myself as well.” She liked him already.

“Well, Hartley,” Cousin Miles addressed Roderick once more, “you seem to have worked a miracle. I was beginning to fear I would never locate my mysterious cousin.”

Roderick smiled. “I am certain Lady Lampton would excuse us to allow the two of you to become acquainted and satisfy one another’s curiosity.”

Lady Lampton expressed her desire that they do just that, and Roderick and Adèle accompanied Marion and her newfound cousin to a small sitting room not far from the more formal drawing room. As they all settled in, Marion took a moment to study Cousin Miles. Besides the startling resemblance, he was intriguing. His face was bronzed from obvious hours spent in the sun, and he carried himself more like a laborer than a gentleman.

“Cousin Marion.” He addressed her once the door was closed behind them all. “I cannot begin to offer my apologies for what you must have endured these past months. Had I realized the chaos you’d been thrown into, I assure you—”

“Best start at the beginning, Grenton,” Roderick suggested.

Cousin Miles nodded. “I have lived in the West Indies for four years, Cousin Marion. I inherited a sugar plantation there from my father and have been overseeing it. It came as something of a shock to hear that I had suddenly become the heir to a cousin I didn’t know, one who was a marquess, of all things. I knew nothing of the circumstances of my inheritance beyond the bare facts with which I had been provided.

“I took my time arranging my affairs before returning to England. I was not informed I had a dependent nor that two sets of solicitors were haggling over the management of the entire thing.” He took a deep breath, apparently still frustrated by the ordeal. “Everything was a mess by the time I arrived at Tafford. I’d been in residence several days before one of the retainers, a Mrs. Goodbower”—Marion grinned at the reference to her onetime nurse—“mentioned you. A few well-placed questions, and the situation began to lay itself out. My late cousin had a daughter who had been left penniless and helpless to address the disaster those imbeciles had made through their squabbling. I realized she had left, and no one seemed to know where she had gone.

“Afraid I might do damage to your reputation or situation, I began inquiring of what family I could learn of.”

“Which is probably when you contacted me,” Roderick jumped in.

Cousin Miles nodded. “I had heard in the neighborhood of the connection between your two families. All of my efforts were futile.” He looked at Marion again. “I couldn’t find you.”

“I came here. Well, not
here
exactly. Farland Meadows. They have been good to me.”

“I am grateful to hear that.” Cousin Miles sounded entirely sincere. “I intend to offer my thanks to Mr. Jonquil personally. You ought not to have been forced to seek out employment. I have every intention of providing you with an appropriate dowry and a roof over your head for as long as you would like. My sister and her husband are at Tafford now. You can return whenever you would like. All the proprieties have been seen to.”

“Thank you, Cousin Miles.”

“I only hope, in time, that you will see fit to forgive me for all the anguish you have unnecessarily endured.”

She shook her head. “It was hardly your doing.”

Cousin Miles nodded his gratitude, no doubt feeling she was being gracious. Why did men insist on blaming themselves for things that were not at all their fault?

“When did you leave Tafford?” Cousin Miles asked after a moment.

“The morning of Christmas Eve.”

Cousin Miles shook his head. “We missed one another by less than a week, Cousin Marion. Rather ironic, don’t you think?”

Ironic? Perhaps. And very, very fortunate. If she hadn’t left home and come to Farland Meadows, she’d have never met Caroline or Layton, never have fallen in love. His rejection still stung, but she couldn’t regret the past months. Not entirely.

If only she could know she’d made a difference.

He hadn’t been to the churchyard in nearly a year, but Layton knew the way. Searching out a headstone covered in snow felt strange—he only ever made this pilgrimage in the summer, on the anniversary of her passing.

He and Mr. Sarvol had come to something of a compromise regarding that yearly pilgrimage. Layton came in the morning, and Mr. Sarvol waited until afternoon. They did not dislike each other necessarily. Running into one another had simply become too uncomfortable. Mr. Sarvol always seemed as though he meant to say something. Layton would brace himself. Then his father-in-law would turn gruff and acerbic, and they inevitably parted more at odds with one another than they’d been before.

Layton saw no sign of Mr. Sarvol as he walked the snow-dusted grounds of the churchyard toward Bridget’s marker. He easily found the simple, polished stone.

“Bridget Hannah Jonquil. Wife and Mother. Oct 19, 1788 to Jun 27, 1810.” Layton ran his gloved fingers over the engraving like he had each of the five times he’d come, thinking how terribly young she’d been.

Layton stood there, tensed and waiting. The weight of his lies always sat heaviest on him in the churchyard. Those lies were the reason Bridget was there. That always made him feel like the worst of hypocrites: standing in the shadow of a place of worship, in a sanctified graveyard, visiting the burial place of a woman who, in the eyes of God, had no right to be there. And he, the reason she was.

So he’d come back to this place to roll around in his mind the possibility that his lies hadn’t been such grievous actions after all. If Philip were to be believed, and Harry, for that matter, Bridget’s condition those final weeks changed everything. Her madness had ensured her pardon. This final resting place that he’d fought so hard to give her might rightfully be hers.

He wanted to believe it. Wanted it badly. But he still felt uneasy, uncertain.

Wind whipped through the graveyard, rustling the bare branches of overhanging trees. Layton continued to stand there, chilled to the bone, waiting for some kind of answer.

“Wife and Mother.” He read the epitaph aloud. He supposed he ought to have included “beloved” or something of that sort. It was customary. But theirs hadn’t been that sort of marriage. He’d loved her like a friend, and he wondered, looking back, if it had been enough.

Footsteps crunched the snow nearby. If it was the vicar approaching, he was prepared to beat a hasty retreat. Mr. Throckmorten would no doubt subject him to a lecture on the importance of coming to services each week, along with yet another scathing assessment of the state of his soul. Those were the only things the aging vicar ever said to Layton since Bridget’s death.