Drops of Gold (19 page)

“Can anything be done for this man? This friend of yours?” Layton tried to sound casual. Had he missed something? Some treatment along the way that might have helped Bridget? “Cupping or some medicinal concoction?”

“It’s nothing like that, Layton.” Philip shook his head. “It’s a condition of the brain, a form of madness, it seems.”

“Madness?” The thought hadn’t occurred to Layton during the time he’d watched Bridget deteriorate, nor over the years that had passed since. “Bedlam, then?”

Philip shook his head again. “It isn’t a violent madness. He’s hardly a danger to others.”

“Only himself,” Layton muttered, but Philip apparently heard him.

“That, of course, is the problem.” Philip leaned back in his chair. “Everything possible is being done to ensure the man is watched and cared for, but there is no guarantee he won’t do himself a harm. He has apparently hinted at such.”

Layton nodded numbly, knowing all too well what this anonymous friend of Philip’s was enduring.

“And should this gentleman follow through on his apparent intentions, his wife would be left in an unenviable state, to say the least.”

Indeed
, thought Layton.

“Aside from the emotional ramifications, which I am not in a position to address, I am seeking out her legal options,” Philip said. “Which, as you know, is Jason’s forte.”

Layton looked at Jason, hoping his curiosity didn’t strike either man as overabundant.

“
Felo de se
,” Jason said in what Layton and Philip had always labeled his “barrister’s voice”: remarkably authoritative, considering he’d first affected it at the ripe old age of seven. “Suicide is a felony. And as such, any person guilty of said crime is punished,
post mortem
, with the forfeiture of all properties to the crown. This lady, being young and female, both of which are a liability, legally speaking, would be left penniless, without even her widow’s jointure, on top of the burden of losing her husband.”

“She could lie about his death,” Layton suggested in what he hoped was a casual tone of voice.

“Depending on the circumstances of his death,” Jason interjected. “Which I feel we must state is purely theoretical.”

“This isn’t a deposition, Jason.” Philip rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stuffy.”

Jason’s lips pursed, the look he assumed with alarming frequency when around Philip. Layton had never really understood the animosity. “As to lying,” Jason went on as if there’d been no interruption, “that wouldn’t be at all necessary.”

“But you just said—”

“There are extenuating circumstances.” Jason spoke with that tone of indulgence he used whenever someone showed what he considered to be a significant lack of understanding.

“Such as?” Philip looked over at Layton for a fraction of a moment, just long enough to roll his eyes, and Layton found himself smiling despite the topic. They had enjoyed baiting their younger brothers as boys.

“Suicide is only a crime if committed by someone capable of understanding their actions,” Jason said, still using his barrister’s voice. “Thus, a suicide committed by a child or by one who is mentally incompetent would not be considered a crime. There are no ramifications, legally speaking.”

“And this ‘chronic melancholia’ is considered a form of madness?” Layton asked, his head spinning.

Jason nodded. “There is apparently sufficient evidence to establish that the man is, indeed, mad and, therefore, mentally incompetent. The difficulty will be in balancing the need to declare him such should an unfortunate event take place with the necessity of keeping that diagnosis secret for the interim. She could lose control of all of her affairs should her husband be declared mad during life, her being—”

“—young and female,” Philip finished for him. “Therein lies the issue.”

Layton nodded absently.
Mentally incompetent. No legal ramifications.
The words swirled and collided in his mind. He’d never considered that Bridget might be excused, at least on a legal level, for what she’d done. She really hadn’t been herself those last few months, especially at the very end. “Mentally incompetent” seemed the perfect phrase.

Chronic melancholia.

Madness.

Hundreds of tiny memories, seemingly insignificant moments, flashed through Layton’s mind. The time Bridget had asked him if he was home from Cambridge for a visit and seemed genuinely confused when he explained that he’d been out of Cambridge for several years. Or when he’d come into her sitting room to find her having tea with someone who wasn’t there at all, deep in conversation. She’d become absolutely infuriated when he’d asked to whom she was speaking.

So many things like that.

Philip and Jason continued discussing the case. Layton rose slowly, thinking.

“Layton?” Philip asked.

Layton waved him off and wandered to the door. He debated with himself all the way down the corridor, out the front doors, and onto the front lawn of the Park.

Had Bridget really been mad? No one in her family had ever suffered with madness. Not that Layton knew of, at least. If she had truly lost her faculties, what had brought it on? Certainly not old age or poor health.

He couldn’t entirely convince himself. It seemed so drastic a diagnosis. And yet, it fit almost perfectly.

“Papa!”

The sound snapped Layton from his thoughts, and he realized, with a great deal of surprise, that he’d wandered all the way to the edge of the Meadows property. Caroline was running toward him, braids bouncing behind her, cheeks pink from the chill.

How would he explain any of this to Caroline? When would he? He didn’t completely understand it himself.

Layton bent down mechanically to pick Caroline up, a movement he’d made so many times it didn’t require thought. The debate continued in his mind without reaching any real conclusion.

“Are you sad today too, Papa?” Caroline asked as she ran her fingers up and down across his cheek the way she did when checking for stubble.

“‘Too,’ poppet?” he asked, finally managing to concentrate on his daughter.

“Mary is sad,” Caroline said, a little pout on her lips.

“How do you know she’s sad, dear?” Layton thought uncomfortably of the unintentional encounter of a few mornings earlier when Marion’s unhappiness had been readily apparent. She’d borne it off well but hadn’t been able to entirely disguise the telltale quivering of her chin. The pain in her eyes was so raw Layton had nearly thrown away Caroline’s entire future and begged Marion to forget everything he’d said and stay with him, to accept social ostracism and be his wife, to trust him enough to put
her
fate in the hands of a man who was such a dismal husband that his first wife actually took her own life.

“She doesn’t smile as much,” Caroline answered. “And she isn’t as silly.”

Smile
as much.
Isn’t
as silly.
Marion, that wonder of optimism and eternal hope, still smiled and enjoyed Caroline despite her unhappiness. So different from Bridget.

“She isn’t going to leave me, is she?” A mountain of worry sat in Caroline’s words. “All the others did.”

The other nursemaids, she likely meant. They had gone through quite a few. If memory served, they’d all seemed remarkably unhappy before they’d left. He’d never kissed any of
them
, so that could hardly be
his
fault. Could it?

“Have you asked your Mary if she is planning to leave?” Layton’s heart constricted painfully at the thought of Marion leaving the Meadows—though, in all honesty, he’d given her very little reason to remain and quite a good reason to go.

Caroline shook her head. “I don’t want her to go, Papa.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and played with the top button of his waistcoat.

Approaching footsteps saved him from needing to answer, which would have been tricky. Caroline was apt to repeat the things she was told. Layton looked in the direction of the footsteps.

Marion.

The air caught painfully in his lungs at the sight of her. That red hair he’d come to love so well. The pert mouth so often turned up in a smile. A few steps closer, and he’d be able to smell cinnamon. But she stopped, her eyes averted like a proper servant.

She was paler than she had been, and her eyes seemed a little puffy and red rimmed. She’d been crying, though she held herself perfectly calm and still at the moment.

“Miss Wood,” he managed to get out while thinking,
Oh, Marion
, quite hopelessly in his mind.

“Mr. Jonquil.” She curtsied.

“Your daily exercise?” Layton asked her.

Still, no color returned to her cheeks. “Yes, sir. We were nearly ready to turn back when Caroline spotted you.”

“I am glad she did.” He felt Caroline wrap her arms more tightly around his neck. “I will walk back with you two.”

“No,” Marion answered a little too quickly and far too forcefully. She quickly corrected herself and continued more demurely. “Caroline, I am certain, would appreciate your escort back. I will return more quickly. There is a lot to do before the wedding, sir.”

“Miss—”

But she had already gone.
Fled
would be a good description.

“Come back,” Layton silently pleaded, though he knew he had no right to. “Don’t you leave me too.”

* * *

Philip was a wreck! Layton watched him pace in front of the dark library windows, watching the barely discernible front drive. Miss Sorrel Kendrick, his intended, was supposed to have arrived that morning.

“Staring out the window is not going to bring her here any faster.” Layton tried to hold back his amusement.

Philip looked over his shoulder and offered a self-mocking smile. “I know.” He laughed at himself, his dandified mannerisms once again entirely absent. Philip’s head snapped back in an instant as the sound of carriage wheels broke the silence outside.

“Has she arrived, then?” Layton asked.

Philip’s grin was all the answer he needed.

Layton followed his elder brother to the front steps, where the Kendrick women were alighting from their carriage. The youngest member of the family, Mr. Fennel Kendrick, would be arriving in two weeks’ time, accompanied by the youngest Jonquil, Charlie, as both boys were currently at Eton. The patriarch of the family was dead these several years, thus the widow Kendrick and her two daughters arrived on their own.

Philip offered the appropriate greetings to Mrs. Kendrick, whom Layton recognized easily from his short stay in Suffolk over Christmas. The girlish ribbons and bows and flounces gave her away rather quickly, so out of place they looked on a matron of indeterminate years. The younger sister, Miss Marjoram, was the next up the steps, all dainty, feminine beauty. But Philip, Layton noticed with a smile, was anxiously watching the carriage.

Miss Sorrel Kendrick finally emerged, awkward on a stiff, uncooperative limb and leaning heavily against her walking stick. Layton never had learned the reason for her near-crippled state.

“You are late, my love.” Philip swung his quizzing glass in one hand as he offered her the other.

“I assumed you would need the extra hours for your valet to complete his ministrations,” Sorrel replied, eying him with amused mockery.

“He has done admirably, hasn’t he?” Philip swaggered a little more as he walked her up the stairs.

“Yes, he’s made you almost presentable,” came the dry reply.

Those two were well suited, Layton thought to himself. He’d felt it from the moment he’d met his future sister-in-law, though there had been no understanding between the two of them at the time.

Philip was obviously about to make some glib reply when Sorrel’s leg seemed to give out beneath her and his smirking expression immediately melted into one of concern. “Are you hurt?” He had quickly wrapped a supporting arm around her waist.

She shrugged, though Layton thought she looked embarrassed. He stepped a little farther from the doorway and, hopefully, out of sight. “I don’t travel well,” Sorrel explained as though it were a shameful admission.

“I know.” Philip’s hand gently caressed Sorrel’s cheek, a gesture almost poignantly loving.

Layton felt a pang of something—jealousy, regret—watching them. To love so much and be so obviously loved in return. It seemed entirely out of his reach.

“Fortunately for you, your betrothed is quite unbelievably strong.” Philip moved to apparently lift Sorrel into his arms.

“Philip,” she protested. “I am not an invalid. I am perfectly capable of—”

“Pax, Sorrel!” Philip held his hands up in surrender. “I am not attempting to demean your abilities or capabilities or anything of the sort.”

She didn’t look entirely mollified.

“I am simply being shamefully selfish.”

“Selfish?”

“Seeing the woman he loves in pain without being able to alleviate her suffering is the worst possible experience for any man.” Philip grew quite serious and unaffected. “I’d like to avoid that rather acute torture. With your permission, of course.”

Sorrel pressed a quick, affectionate kiss on her fiancé’s lips and whispered, “I love you, Philip.”

“It’s the jacket, isn’t it? Weston, you know.” Philip smiled haughtily. How did Sorrel put up with his constant transformations?

“If you are done extolling the virtues of your tailor, I would appreciate your getting back to the business of alleviating your apparent torture,” Sorrel answered in a voice of command.

Philip laughed and lifted her easily into his arms. “What do you say we pass by the drawing room and scandalize my enormous family.”

“I seriously doubt they would be scandalized by anything you do, Philip.”

His laughter faded as the couple happily disappeared down the corridor.

Scandalized?
Hardly. Mostly, Layton felt lonely. He longed to have someone to talk to the way they did, easily, with the familiarity that comes from a deep-seated understanding of one another. Conversations had often been that way with Bridget before Caroline was born. Theirs might not have been a love match, per se, but they’d had a friendship of long standing that easily bred contented companionship.