Drops of Gold(34)

“I was sorely tempted to send you off with a flea in your ear the first time you addressed me that way.” Layton smiled at the memory of her saucy salute.

“I am so glad you didn’t, sir.”

“So am I, Miss Wood. So am I.” And he meant it fiercely in that moment.

She tucked her arm through his, blanket and all, as they walked along the winding path that followed the river. Layton didn’t know what had possessed her to make the gesture, but he gratefully accepted it, pulling her arm a little closer to him.

“So Miss Sarvol’s father accepted your offer and sent the tubby old man packing,” Miss Wood cued him.

“Ah, yes.” When had the telling of this history become so much easier? “Now, ours wasn’t a love match, not in the truest sense of the word, but we were happy. Her father seemed satisfied enough. Though he hardly spared me a glance, he and Bridget wrote to one another when he was in Town.”

Layton told Miss Wood story after story of that first year of his marriage as they continued to walk. He spoke of the time he and Bridget had raced on horseback and Bridget had beaten him by more than a horse length and could not be convinced he hadn’t let her win. He told her of the time the vicar had come for tea and, much to his and Bridget’s shock and eventual amusement, spent a full two hours declaring the house, the furnishings, and the color of Bridget’s dress too “worldly” and suggested they’d do well to address their obvious struggle with pride. Layton recounted the myriad experiences that had built their connection into an enduring friendship, though never beyond, as well as the little things that had made their marriage comfortable and happy.

Miss Wood listened attentively, laughing when the stories warranted and nodding her understanding at a recounting of some disagreement or another they’d had during those early weeks and months of adjusting. She was an easy person to talk to, a more than adequate listener. He discovered that talking about Bridget was almost medicinal for him, and the heaviness he usually associated with any thought of her seemed to slowly slip away.

“A few months after we married, Bridget realized she was increasing. We were both ecstatic. I believe she conducted the most rigorous interviews any potential nurse has ever been forced to endure, convinced no one was worthy of the post of raising her precious child. She embroidered more infant dresses than any child could possibly wear. I set an entire army of workmen to fixing up the nursery. I’m not sure there have ever been two people more overjoyed at the prospect of becoming parents.”

This was where the story became difficult to recount. The memories seemed to rush at him, painful, difficult, and bewildering. Yet the words poured out of him like a volcano exploding under the mounting pressure built up underneath.

“The time came for her confinement, and the delivery was, thankfully, unexceptional. She was understandably worn down that first week: tired, perhaps a little out of sorts, but nothing to raise any suspicions of coming difficulties.”

He felt Miss Wood’s fingers close more firmly around his arm. He laid his hand on top of hers, where it rested on his sleeve, noticing in the back of his mind that she wore no gloves and her fingers felt cold even through his own gloves. But the words he’d held back for so many years didn’t stop long enough for him to react to her state.

“Bridget was never what one would call perpetually cheerful, neither was she prone to moodiness or pessimism.” Layton hardly noticed where they walked. “She was different after Caroline’s birth. She didn’t leave her room, even after Doctor Habbersham declared her fit enough to do so. After those first couple of days, she never wanted to hold Caroline. After a few weeks, she refused to see anyone but her lady’s maid and myself. After two months, even I was barred at times. And she cried for hours on end, sobs that filled the house. She began drawing the drapes on all of the windows in her sitting room and bedchamber.

“By the time Caroline was three months old, Bridget wouldn’t leave her own bed. She just lay there in her nightclothes. Crying or sleeping, mostly. I would go to her when she allowed it, try to speak to her. Every visit seemed to end in her either weeping or raging at me.

“I tried to tell her about Caroline, but she didn’t want to hear. I don’t know if she was unhappy with motherhood or disappointed with Caroline or with me. That’s when I started walking along the river. The hours of sobbing became too much. The house felt . . . closed in, like I was suffocating in there, like if I stayed one minute longer, I would be forced to sob myself at the sheer frustration of it all.