“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.
Chapter Twenty-Four
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.