Drops of Gold (26 page)

The tone of this letter differed so drastically from the encounters they had after Caroline’s birth. The ceaseless sobs and constant sadness.

“Perhaps it was only the madness that made Bridget feel that way,” Layton muttered softly. “And if not for that, she would have been happy.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Layton’s head snapped up. Philip stood not far off, watching him.

Layton hastily refolded the letter and slipped it inside his jacket. “I was just . . . thinking . . .”

“Something I never bother with.” Philip shrugged. “Far more effort than it’s worth.”

Layton smiled, even chuckled a little, in response. Philip picked a rock out of the snow and flung it expertly out at the cold Trent. They both watched it skip, one, two, three, four times.

“You knew about Bridget?” Layton asked. Philip hadn’t seemed surprised or upset at overhearing Layton refer to Bridget’s madness.

His brother looked back at him over his shoulder. “I didn’t, until recently,” Philip admitted, shrugging and looking back across the river. “You didn’t bother telling any of us.”

There was no response to that.

“But a remarkable young lady told me a story,” Philip continued, still not looking back.

A lady telling stories? Philip had to mean Marion. No one told as many stories as she did.

“She gave me no names, but I began to recognize something in the gentleman the story was about,” Philip said, “something that reminded me of you.”

Frustration rose in him. He’d told her his history in confidence. “She wasn’t supposed to say anything to anyone.”

“She did the right thing, Layton. She told me just enough for five years of seeing you in pain to finally make sense. I could see in her eyes the argument she’d had within herself at sharing a secret, even disguised as it was. But she couldn’t bear to see you in pain. She wanted to help but didn’t know how else to do so. She told me what
you
should have told me years ago.”

His tone held a hint of accusation. Layton felt himself tense. “I know I shouldn’t have lied,” he admitted, rising to defend himself. “But—”

“Layton.” Philip turned back to face him fully. He was Philip again, no dandified mannerisms, no brainless posturing. Layton was face-to-face with his brother, the real man behind the mask he’d worn for so many years. “Do you know something? I would have lied too. If it had been my Sorrel, I’d have done exactly the same thing. Except it wouldn’t have bothered me so much. Not that I care to incur the wrath of God or anything, but . . .” Philip took a deep breath. “You didn’t have to go through this alone, Layton. Don’t you think I would have stood by you?”

“I couldn’t ask you to be part of it.” Layton shook his head. “Knowing that I’d . . .” Suddenly, Layton just felt tired. The tension drained more every minute. And he was weary.

“I know now.” Philip dropped his hands onto Layton’s shoulders. “And I am proud of you, brother. You were good to Bridget. In life and in death.”

“But—”

“And you know something else?” Philip’s look became almost fierce. “I think it isn’t God’s forgiveness you are struggling with most. I think it is
your own
.”

“Mine?”

“You are a Jonquil.” Philip stepped back but kept his eyes firmly locked with Layton’s. “We have this inborn need to save people.”

Layton leaned back against the trunk of an obliging tree and thought about that. He had to admit there was truth in it. Even after accepting that God might not have condemned him, he’d continued to condemn himself, berating himself as a failure. “I couldn’t save Bridget.”

“I think, Layton, the one you were meant to save was Caroline.”

“Caroline,” he whispered.

“She could have suffered enormously at losing her mother.” Philip flung another stone across the river’s surface. “Instead, she is happy and loving and
loved
. You saved
her
, Layton. You saved
her
.”

Saved Caroline. He hadn’t entirely failed his daughter. In fact, she seemed quite happy, especially since Marion had come to them.

“I hope we will see you in church every Sunday.” Philip wandered toward the water’s edge. “Throckmorten has decided to retire to some other county. I am thinking of offering the living to Harold after he takes Orders.”

“I think you had planned to all along,” Layton said.

“I should have replaced Throckmorten long ago.” He shook his head in obvious frustration with himself. “I knew he was cold and uncaring, but I told myself things weren’t bad enough to warrant letting him go. If I’d been here more often, I might have realized how vicious he had become, how unpleasant and hateful a place he had made the church. Father would not have allowed things to go on this long.” Philip’s shoulders dropped. He rubbed at the back of his neck, his posture one of disappointment. “I should have dismissed Throckmorten years ago instead of waiting for Holy Harry to grow up.”

“Harry will do very well.”

“Yes, he will,” Philip answered with a hint of pride in his voice. “Does that mean I won’t have Caroline climbing all over me during the sermon from now on?” A certain urgency in his tone belied his casual choice of words.

“I always did like attending services,” Layton remembered wistfully.

“You were the only one of us brothers who actually read your prayer book outside of church.”

“Harry did,” Layton reminded him.

“Harry preached from it,” Philip corrected, flashing a grin over his shoulder. “Entirely different matter.”

“Holy Harry.” Layton laughed as he shook his head. “I suppose I should show up for a sermon or two. Support the family, you know.”

“I would appreciate that,” Philip said. “Without the benefit of Lady Marion’s calming influence, Caroline would wreak havoc on the masterpiece my valet makes of me every morning.”

Layton knew he was supposed to laugh, but his brain was caught on the first part of that sentence. Marion was leaving. He’d almost forgotten. She would be gone soon.

“Caroline was quite beside herself when she said good-bye in the churchyard,” Philip said.

“Good-bye?”

“Lord Grenton and Lady Marion left for Derbyshire immediately after services. You weren’t there. It’s one of the reasons I came looking for you. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but I thought you would have wanted to at least say good-bye.”

“She’s gone?” Panic swelled in him.

“She’ll be miles from here by now. They’ve been on the road at least two hours.”

Two hours! How long had he been sitting on the banks of the river?

“Have you ever seen anything quite like that before?” Philip asked, pointing toward the river. Layton barely registered the rhetorical question. Would Marion come back? Write, at least? “End of February, and we have a whole assemblage of autumn leaves holding court right there in the river.”

“Leaves?” Layton came to stand beside Philip.

At least a dozen leaves, the golden brown of late fall, swirled amongst the roots of a tree growing close to the water’s edge.

“Drops of Gold.”

“Drops of Gold?” Philip replied incredulously.

“Marion.” Layton half sighed the name as he fished out a handful of damp leaves. “What have I done, Flip?” There was no answer. He didn’t need one. “I have to stop her.”

“Take Devil’s Advocate,” Philip immediately offered. “He’s tied to a tree back a few yards.”

“You rode here?” Layton asked, hardly believing he’d missed the sound of a horse’s approach.

“I led him. I figured you couldn’t chase down your lady fair without a daring steed.”

“But how did you know . . . ?”

“Sorrel told me.” Philip shrugged. “And I always listen to my Sorrel. She is by far the more intelligent of the two of us.”

“Thank you, Flip,” Layton said, clasping his brother’s shoulders. “Thank you!”

And then he ran.

Marion had cried only for the first half hour and only a few stubborn tears at that. She continually told herself that Layton and Caroline would be fine. She’d watched them interact all through the sermon that morning: smiling and affectionate. Layton had his family now; he had them to share his burdens and support him. She wasn’t needed any longer, so it was fitting that she was leaving.

“And I have missed Tafford,” she told herself for probably the hundredth time since she’d left the neighborhood of Collingham some three hours earlier. “It will be good to be home.”

But somehow she felt more like she was
leaving
home than
returning
. In all fairness, Cousin Miles had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome. He was kind and generous and already treated her like a close member of the family. But it would be different. Perhaps if she hadn’t grown so attached to Caroline, she wouldn’t be feeling so ridiculously lonely.

“Who are you trying to fool?” she demanded of herself. “Caroline isn’t the sole reason for these dismals. You are pining for
him
!”

Marion closed her eyes and tried to picture herself a tragic heroine in some gothic novel, wasting away for the love of some dashing gentleman. The image came far too easily. There she sat in a lumbering traveling coach, the windows so fogged she couldn’t see out, on her way to a life of loneliness without the man she loved. Tragic did not begin to describe the situation.

Adèle had quite broadly hinted that she would enjoy sponsoring Marion for a London Season, what with her dowry established and their friendship further firmed. The very idea made Marion want to weep. How could she consider throwing herself on the “Marriage Mart,” as it was termed, when her heart already belonged to another? To a gentleman who hadn’t even bid her farewell?

She wiped furiously at a tear with Layton’s handkerchief, which she had no intention of sending back to him, and told herself to be sensible. Layton had probably appreciated her efforts as a governess, perhaps even felt some gratitude for the ear she’d lent to his troubles. He simply hadn’t loved her the way she had loved him. And why should he?

Marion knew her worth quite well. She was rather plain, with hair far too red, and a tendency to make a blundering wreck of any attempts at social niceties. She was too inclined toward the fanciful and not nearly accomplished enough to gain a gentleman’s attention.

Layton was improving a little every day. Soon he’d be in a position to consider marrying again. He would be happier, Caroline would be cared for, and she, Marion, would be . . . devastated.

She moaned and dropped back against the leather upholstery of the Grenton traveling carriage. She was grateful not to be afforded a view of the passing scenery through the fogged windows. She couldn’t bear to see Nottinghamshire slip away. Marion closed her eyes, reliving that glorious moment so many weeks ago when Layton had opened up to her, shared his heaviest burden, and trusted her with his secrets. The memory was followed quickly by the recollection of a bone-melting kiss, the moment she’d been so certain he’d loved her.

Marion forced her mind to stop there, to not float to the next memory: one that still hurt and ached in her chest. She felt as though she’d lost every ounce of happiness she’d possessed in that one morning when he’d so completely and painfully rejected her.

She became conscious of the carriage coming to an abrupt stop. Marion sat up straight and pressed her face to the glass window at her side. She could make out nothing but the hind half of Cousin Miles’s horse dancing around at the unexpected stop. Muffled voices raised in a hurried conversation made their way inside the carriage, but she could make nothing out.

Highwaymen? she wondered briefly. As a child, she’d often imagined herself beset by a desperate highwayman, only to be saved by a dashing hero. Sitting in the cold, lonely carriage, the idea wasn’t so enjoyable.

Someone outside moved toward the carriage. She couldn’t see through the window to make out much more than a broad silhouette. Suddenly panicking, Marion pressed herself against the opposite side of the carriage and watched the door with alarm.

The door rattled. Marion held her breath. Slowly, it opened. Where was Cousin Miles? She could scream if she needed to. But who would hear? The stranger stepped inside, and Marion nearly fainted.

“Layton!” she managed to whisper as he pulled the door shut behind him. She’d never seen him look more determined. Something in his eyes made her heart turn over in her chest.

“Don’t leave me, Marion.” He took her face in his hands, his eyes boring into hers. “Promise you won’t leave me.”

She had no chance to reply. In the very next moment, his lips brushed over hers. His hand slipped behind her neck, holding her fast to him. She clasped the front of his coat, desperate to keep him there, willing herself to believe she wasn’t imagining him there.

“Marion,” he whispered against her mouth before kissing her more deeply.

The moment absolutely had to be real. Even in her most fanciful moments she’d never conjured a kiss as heavenly as this. The feel of him there, his masculine scent that she’d memorized but couldn’t quite describe, the warmth of him so near, all made the moment as close to perfect as she could imagine it being.

Layton pulled away enough to rest his cheek against hers. “My darling Marion,” he whispered. “Tell me I haven’t lost you completely.”

She couldn’t even force a reply. He must have cared for her to have come after her. She turned her face up toward his, studying his expression, every nuance of his look.
Please
, she silently begged.
Please love me.

“I have found every excuse imaginable to convince myself to give up the idea of—” He brushed his fingers gently along her cheek. “I was so afraid I would make you unhappy, would fail you, that you would be miserable with me.”

Like his first wife had been. Surely he knew that was illness, a mind ravaged by madness, and nothing he had done.

“I cannot promise to get everything right, but I swear to you I will try.” His eyes were pleading with her, begging for understanding. “Won’t you please give me a chance? At least come back for Philip’s wedding. Give me the opportunity to show you I could do better, that I—”