Drops of Gold(76)

He shall be a most attentive and loving father, of that I am certain. Is it possible for a man to possess a talent for being a father and husband? I am convinced there must be, for my Layton, having no prior experience, seems remarkably well suited to the roles.

Any woman would count herself excessively fortunate to have such a husband!

I send you my love as always. And I am sure Layton would too if he knew I was writing this letter. Do not worry yourself over me, Father. I could not possibly be better cared for!

Your happily contented daughter,

Bridget Jonquil

Layton read the letter again and again. There was no doubt as to its author. Layton fancied he could almost hear her speak the words written there, so much did they sound like his late wife. Yet these were thoughts she’d never expressed to him.

I could not possibly be happier.

Was ever a woman so lucky in her husband as I?

Any woman would count herself excessively fortunate to have such a husband!

Was it possible she actually felt that way? That she was not only content but, from the excessiveness of her praise, quite happy? And that he had, at least to a degree, been a good husband to her?

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.”