Drops of Gold(75)

“I had him get this from my desk drawer.” Mr. Sarvol roughly pushed a folded piece of yellowed parchment into Layton’s hands. “Ought to have given it to you years ago. I knew you were weighed down by everything that happened, but I . . . I liked having it. It made me think of her. But I ought to have given it to you. I almost did a couple times the last few years, but . . . couldn’t . . .”

As his words trailed off, so did he. Mr. Sarvol wandered from the churchyard without a backward glance, climbed into his antiquated carriage, and rolled away.

Layton looked down at the paper in his hand, turning it around to try to make sense of it. He realized he held a letter. One addressed to Mr. Sarvol at a London address, written in handwriting he knew he’d seen before.

The seal had long since been broken, the wax completely gone, leaving behind only the slightest stain. Layton opened and unfolded the letter, letting his eyes drop to the signature. His heart thudded against his ribs.

Bridget Jonquil.

Layton hastily refolded the missive and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He wasn’t prepared for a letter from Bridget.

“The Meadows,” he instructed James Coachman as he climbed inside his rig. The door closed, the carriage began bowling down the lane toward home.

The letter seemed to burn in his pocket. What might she have written to her father all those years ago? They were obviously married at the time it was written. Had she mentioned him? What would she have said?

Though he couldn’t see the road well for the condensation on the windows, Layton knew the way by memory. He knew the very moment the carriage turned from the main road, could picture with little effort the canopy of barren trees the carriage would even then be passing under.

He needed someplace quiet, isolated, to read, for he had to read the letter. He had to know what she’d said to hopefully gain some idea of how she’d felt during their brief marriage. He tapped the roof of the vehicle, and it came to a skilled stop. Layton opened the door enough to lean out and address his driver.

“Let me off here,” he instructed. “Then continue on to the stables. I will no longer be needing the carriage.”

James pulled his forelock respectfully and did as instructed. Layton didn’t watch to see the vehicle disappear up the lane but made straight for the place he had in mind. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that it drowned out his footsteps.

He reached the riverbank sooner than he would have expected. He sat down on an overturned log, knowing his pantaloons would be hopelessly stained. He took a few deep breaths and listened to the sound of water lapping against the bank. Slowly, some of the tension drained from his shoulders. He’d known, somehow, that this place would work its magic.

Here it was that he’d listened to Marion’s stories. He’d told her about Bridget, about himself. She’d charmed Caroline into smiles and giggles, and they’d fished sodden leaves from the river with all the enthusiasm of treasure hunters.

Layton sighed. He pulled off his gloves and reached into his jacket. The parchment felt almost soft beneath his fingers. It opened silently, the creases worn nearly all the way through in places. Mr. Sarvol had apparently read the letter several times over the years. What could have been so important to warrant saving a letter for half a decade?

He closed his eyes for a second before forcing himself to read.

Sept 23 1809

“Five and a half years ago,” Layton whispered. Before Caroline was born.

Dearest Father,

My condolences on your poor luck at Tattersall’s. Layton’s brother Corbin is considered something of a hand at choosing horseflesh, and he too has recently lamented the lack of options at Tatt’s. Perhaps the coming weeks will prove more profitable for you both.

How pleasant you make the Little Season sound, and how pleased I am that you are enjoying yourself. Alas, my condition does not permit me to join you as you have requested. Do not, dear Papa, think for a moment that I resent missing the delights you write of. I could not possibly be happier anywhere than I am at Farland Meadows.

My Layton is everything attentive, seeming every bit as eager for our coming arrival as I am. He quite adamantly declares that this child will be a girl. And though I am of the same opinion, I find I am enjoying asserting otherwise if only to give myself the pleasure of watching him debate his point. In the end, he shall be proven right, of course.

Oh, Father! Was ever a woman so lucky in her husband as I? And for that I need thank you for agreeing to my Layton’s suit. When I think I might very easily have been shackled to a boorish or unkind man, I can scarce countenance the thought. I could never do without my Layton!