Drops of Gold (23 page)

Mr. Sarvol would have been nearly as unwelcome as the vicar. Layton didn’t know if the man blamed him for his daughter’s death or simply wanted nothing to do with the man who had been her husband. He had never shown any interest in Caroline, which had solidified Layton’s disinclination to pursue the connection.

Layton warily glanced in the direction of the approaching footsteps. Corbin, the Jonquil just younger than Layton, walked silently up the row of grave markers.

“Good day, Corbin,” Layton offered when his brother stopped beside him.

Corbin nodded with an awkward smile. “Throckmorten’s mount has been favoring a leg” was Corbin’s quiet explanation for his presence at the vicarage.

Layton nodded at that. Corbin had a way with horses, a talent he’d turned into a relatively profitable undertaking. Corbin owned the most successful stud farm in the Midlands.

“Did you leave him a liniment?” Layton asked, his eyes back on Bridget’s grave marker.

“Mm-hmm.”

They stood in silence, and for the first time since Bridget had begun her sojourn there beneath the ground, Layton felt some degree of comfort within the walls of the churchyard. He silently thanked Corbin for just being there, knowing his brother would be embarrassed if Layton actually told him so. Perhaps all those years Layton had just needed someone to stand with him.

“Caroline looks more like Bridget all the time,” Corbin said after several minutes had passed in silence.

“Does she?” Layton tried to see the two of them in his mind. Bridget’s image wasn’t as clear as it had once been.

Corbin nodded. “Her . . . coloring is . . .” He took a deep breath in the middle of the sentence, something he’d always done. His natural timidity made conversations difficult for him. “. . . more like yours. But . . . something in her face, I think . . . reminds me of . . .”

Leaving off the ends of his sentences was normal for Corbin as well. His family had learned to simply finish the thoughts for him silently.
Bridget
, Layton thought to himself.

He looked back at Corbin after a few minutes had passed in mutual silence. Corbin’s lips were moving slightly, no words coming out. He’d done that for years, rolling words around in his mind before speaking, thinking through his words before he let them out. Corbin had been known to mentally sort through his thoughts for days, weeks sometimes, if what he wanted to say was really important. For things that were crucial or hard to speak about, he’d sometimes waited for years. His first horse, Whipster, had been in the stables for two years before he’d managed to tell Father what that gift had meant to him.

The family had learned over the years to listen when Corbin spoke. His words would inevitably be sincere and important to him.

“I always . . .” Corbin cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes focused on the smooth granite headstone at their feet. Layton gave his brother his undivided attention. “You and Bridget were . . . I know it wasn’t a love match, but . . . you were good to her, and I . . . Well, Father would have been proud of you for that . . . and I . . . If I ever . . .” He let out a frustrated breath. “I’m not saying this right,” he mumbled.

“You’re fine, Corbin,” Layton reassured him.

After a fortifying breath, Corbin plunged on. “If I ever meet someone, could I . . . Would you mind . . . if I asked you for advice now and then?”

“You want
my
advice?” Layton could only stare.

Corbin nodded, entirely serious.

“Certainly,” he managed to say through his shock. “I’ll do my best.”

Corbin smiled and stood still and silent. For the first time in years, Layton felt almost at peace standing on hallowed ground.

“You made your wife happy,” Corbin said with a nod, his eyes focused in the distance. “I want . . . I’d like someone to be able to say that about me someday.”

You made your wife happy
. Did Corbin really believe that? But Layton knew Corbin—he wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t believe it.

“Thank you, Corbin.” He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Corbin just nodded.

“Did you ride here?” Layton asked.

“Elf.” Corbin named his favorite mount.

“Come on.” Layton pushed him down the row. “I’ll ride back with you.”

Corbin didn’t put up any resistance.

“So have you actually met a lady, or were you speaking purely hypothetically?” Layton asked as he mounted Theron.

Corbin immediately turned several shades of red.

Layton laughed out loud. “Tell me about her.”

“I . . . I haven’t actually . . . spoken to her,” Corbin admitted, still red and stumbling over his words more than usual.

“But you’ve seen her at least?”

Corbin nodded.

“Is she pretty?”

Corbin’s eyes opened wider, and he nodded rather emphatically. Layton couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real conversation with Corbin. How long had it been since he’d overlooked his own difficulties and just been a member of his own family?

“Find someone to introduce you,” Layton suggested.

“But . . . what . . . what if she thinks I’m . . . an idiot or something?” Corbin said uncomfortably.

“You’re a Jonquil. Of course she’ll think you’re an idiot.”

Corbin laughed, and so did Layton.

“You just have to convince her you’re not.” Layton chuckled, nudging Theron on.

“How do I do that?” Corbin looked doubtful, but he was still smiling.

Layton thought of Marion and what she must think of him. “When I figure that out, Corbin, I’ll let you know.”

* * *

The first person Layton came across upon returning to Lampton Park from the churchyard was Caroline, who was taking enthusiastic marching instructions from Stanley on the back lawns. She smiled and waved at Layton before taking up her practice once more.

He’d never taken her to her mother’s graveside. The thought had only entered his mind on a few occasions, and he’d always dismissed it under the weight of a great many arguments. He told himself she was too young, that she hadn’t the understanding of death and its finality to grasp what she would see there. He argued that her thoughts of her mother should be of a vibrant young woman, not a cold, inanimate slab of stone.

Had he been wise in that decision? His thoughts flew back to a conversation with Marion very early in her time at Farland Meadows. She hadn’t been certain Caroline even knew her mother was dead.

What else did Caroline not know?

Caroline skipped to his side, wearing her angelic, broad smile. “Did you see me marching, Papa?”

“I did. You looked just like a soldier.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Little girls aren’t soldiers, silly.”

He brushed a hand over her sweet, golden curls. “Will you walk with your silly papa?”

Without even a moment’s hesitation, Caroline slipped her tiny hand in his. She waved to Stanley, who locked eyes with Layton. Layton recognized the unspoken question. He nodded, assuring his brother that he needn’t look after Caroline any longer.

“If you’d been here, Papa, you could have marched with us. Stanby would have taught you how to ‘do the thing properly.’” She lowered her voice on the last phrase, obviously doing her utmost to mimic her uncle’s description. “Where did you go?”

Here was the opportunity to introduce the topic he’d avoided all of Caroline’s life. “I went to the churchyard.” He watched her closely, but the mention of the graveyard didn’t have any noticeable effect. His next breath came out tense and shaky. “Your—” Another quick breath. “Your mother is buried there.”

Tears didn’t pool in the small girl’s eyes. Shock didn’t pull at her features. She simply nodded and continued walking, swinging their arms. “Your papa is buried there too,” she said. “And Mama’s mama, and Grammy said her parents are there. It sounds very crowded. Is it crowded, Papa?”

Relief and sadness warred for possession of his mind. Caroline knew her mother was buried. She, in fact, had a more extensive understanding of the passing of her family members than he ever would have guessed. But he could hardly take credit for her ease with the topic. Mater had, it seemed, walked her through that difficult topic.

“Crowded?” He forced his tone to remain light. “Not terribly. There’s room for everyone.” There had even been room for a woman so broken by illness of the brain that she’d ended her own existence. There had been room for Bridget. The thought was comforting. “Did Grammy tell you anything else about your mama?”

Caroline skipped a little ahead of him, pulling his arm along with her. “She said Mama was pretty. Mary said so too, but she said she didn’t know her. Did Mary know Mama?”

“No, dear. No, she didn’t.” His thoughts hovered on Marion for a moment. He wanted to talk to her but didn’t know what he would say.

“Mary said she is sad sometimes because her mama is dead.” Caroline looked up at him, her brow puckered in thought. “Sometimes I feel sad because my mama is dead. Mary said I can love Mama even if I don’t remember her.”

Layton reached down, scooped Caroline into his arms, and held her tight. The miracles Marion had worked in their lives continued to pile up. She had touched a lonely place in Caroline’s heart that he, the girl’s own father, had been too intent on his own suffering to even see.

“Of course you can love your mama, poppet. I’ll tell you all about her as you grow up so you can know her for yourself.”

She rubbed her hand against the bristles on his cheek and chin. “Was her hair yellow like mine?”

“It was brown, but it curled like yours does.”

“Oh.” Her eyes grew wide a moment. “What did you call her? Did you call her Mama?”

He felt a smile tip his mouth. “I called her Bridget. That was her name, like your name is Caroline.”

“Did she name me Caroline?”

Layton nodded. They had chosen to name the baby for Bridget’s mother if it was a girl and Layton’s father if it was a boy. “Caroline was her mama’s name.”

They continued to talk as they walked slowly around the grounds. She wanted to know the oddest things about her mother. They spoke of which foods she had particularly liked, whether she had enjoyed snow or preferred sunshine. Caroline asked if her mother rode horses and if she could run fast. On and on the questions went, and she never seemed to tire of hearing the answers.

Though he’d avoided even thinking of Bridget more than necessary in the years since her passing, Layton had discussed her with two different people that day alone. The experience was, in many ways, freeing. Yet, a weight remained on his heart.

Layton still felt uneasy thinking back over the year and a half he’d spent as a husband. He didn’t feel like he’d done the job very well and didn’t want to disappoint someone else. And there yet remained the question of the truth he’d kept hidden. He was beginning to hope that in laying Bridget to rest in the churchyard, he hadn’t done anything wrong. But he never intended to tell anyone beyond those who already knew, and someday, he’d tell Caroline the true nature of her mother’s illness.

So he’d go on being a liar of sorts. He hadn’t yet decided where that put him, whether he ought to feel guilty or justified. That was one of the things he wanted to ask Marion. Her opinion had come to matter to him even if her view of him was rather bleak.

* * *

“I won’t! I won’t!” A petulant child’s voice echoed loudly off the walls of Lampton Park a few hours before dinner on Saturday. Layton instantly recognized it as Caroline’s, though he’d never heard her sound so uncontrollably angry.

“What is going on?” he asked, stepping into Mater’s sitting area and finding Caroline red faced, teary, and stomping her feet. He’d never seen her like that. “Car—”

“Layton.” Mater stopped him. “No coddling. She has done something entirely unacceptable, and I have insisted she apologize. She has refused.”

“And that is the reason for this . . . ?” How did he describe what he was watching? Pouting, stomping. Gads, Caroline even sounded like she was growling.

“Tantrum,” Mater finished for him. “I am perfectly content to wait for her to change her mind.”

“But I—”

“You’re too soft a touch, my dear,” Mater said gently but firmly. “Allow me to address this issue.”

Layton knew that look in Mater’s eye, the one they learned at an early age never to argue with. “May I at least ask what she did?” He couldn’t imagine.

“Caroline? Would you like to tell your papa what you have done?”

“No!” Caroline nearly shouted.

Layton stared. She had never acted like this before.

“Leave us, Layton,” Mater said to him under her breath. “She will come around faster if you leave her be.”

Bowing to Mater’s vast experience—she’d raised seven children, after all—Layton quietly, confusedly, left the room.

What had happened? Caroline was always a well-behaved child, quiet and obedient. Layton passed the open door to the east sitting room and heard a sniffle. Convinced pandemonium had descended on the Park, Layton peeked inside. Marion stood at the window, her back to him.

He hadn’t seen Marion in days. She had clearly been avoiding him. Layton wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Something in him wanted to see her again and talk to her one more time. He’d heard from Mater that she and her cousin, the new Marquess of Grenton, were leaving the Park on Sunday to return to Derbyshire. Layton couldn’t allow things to end the way they were.

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.