My Sweet Folly (11 page)

Robert wanted to warn Folie to take care, even here under his protection. But he could no more explain to her what to fear than he could to his servants. He should not have brought her here at all; he saw that now. What use was his protection? He himself was the danger. Lunatic—he had thought for a while that he was sane, that in England all was well, that he could bring her near—then just as she had arrived, he had fallen again into this abyss.

He should send her away. If there was a real menace, he had only brought her to the center of it. He must tell her to go. Already he had avoided her for days, avoided food and drunk only water to clear his brain. He was safe when he did not eat or drink; safe, but slowly killing himself. He walked into the library with his blood pounding in his head, dizzy with tension.

It was empty. He stood at the door, looking at the two writing desks, both abandoned with the pens and ink left unheeded to dry. A bolt of fear seized him, but he managed to think his way through it, remember that he had heard the two ladies go up the stairs, heard Folie’s voice through his father’s ringing in his ears.

He stood in the silent library, thinking of her voice. It was lower and lazier than he had expected, soft even when she was annoyed. In her letters she had seemed breathless sometimes, excitable and happy. She was so much more a quiet gentlewoman in life—he wondered if she had changed, or if it was a misinterpretation he had made, seeing more than was real.

On one of the writing desks, letters were stacked neatly, waiting to be folded. He did not read them, but he could see Miss Melinda’s signature on the top sheet. The other desk held only a stack of blank stationary, a pen and an inkwell. But a white curve of paper dangled out from under the lid.

There was writing on the sheet. He looked down at his cuffs, at his hands, feeling oddly embarrassed.

Of course he should not read it. She never wrote him anymore; he had told her not to write, and she had not. A wave of intense longing swept over him, a physical ache to be back in Calcutta on the hot verandah, the fan swinging with its slow squeak above him, her letter held between his palms as if it were a small bird.

Just to see her handwriting again—the way the words slid up to the right even though she ruled her paper like a careful schoolgirl, the faint double period after each sentence—he only wished to see it.

He lifted the lid of the desk. The paper swept to the floor, and he stooped to pick it up.

Sweet knight.

He made a faint sound as he straightened, a hungry laugh. He could not even look at the page again; he was afraid the words would be different. Folding it carefully, he slipped it inside his coat. Like a pi-dog that had snatched a morsel from the bazaar, he left the library quickly, retreating to safety with his prize.

“There, that should do nicely.” Folie held her own garnets against the shimmering cream of Melinda’s overdress as it lay on the bed. “I’ll call Sally.”

“No, I don’t want Sally,” Melinda said, fussing with her combs on the dressing table. “You help me dress, Mama.”
 

“Well, I mislaid something downstairs, I’ll just go and—’’
 

“No,” Melinda said anxiously. “Please don’t go down there.”

“My dear, you heard the maid say that it was only a poor madman from the village. He is spending the night in the jail by now.”

“Please, Mama!” Melinda turned a flushed face toward Folie. “I don’t feel well.”

“Oh, come...”

“No, truly.” Melinda stood up. “Does my forehead feel warm? And that tea had no taste. Truly, Mama, I’m not funning.”

Folie touched her stepdaughter’s face. “Well...”
 

“I don’t feel hungry at all,” Melinda said. “I have such a headache.”

“Perhaps you are a trifle warm,” Folie admitted. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but it cannot hurt you to lie down for a bit. I’ll go down and see the cook about a tisane.”

“Cannot Sally do that?” Melinda said, pushing the dress aside and folding herself down across the pillows with a tragic air. “May I have a cold compress? Would you hold it for me, Mama?” Her voice grew faint as she closed her eyes. “I want you to do it.”

Hours later, Folie sat bolt upright in her bed. That letter! She scrambled out from under the bedclothes, searching for the bedstool with her bare toe.

How could she have forgotten it...even in the commotion about the housebreaker; left it there for any servant to find! But Melinda had been in such a strange temper, alternately petulant and loving, as if she were indeed coming on with a fever. Still, she had never seemed to grow hot or damp, and had even eaten much of the broth and toast Sally had brought for their dinner.

Folie found her candlestick and lit it hurriedly. Likely enough no one had been into the library after they had left it; most of the housekeeping, such as it was, seemed to be completed by noon each day. The floorboards were chilly beneath her slippers. She closed the door behind her and made her way along the passage and down the stairs, sliding her fingertips along the scaly creature that coiled in and out of the banister. At the foot of the stairs, she gave the beast’s nose a friendly flick with her middle finger and tiptoed across the cold marble hall, shielding her candle.

The door stood partially open. Folie touched it gently, pushing it inward with her shoulder. The veiled glare of her own candle prevented her from discerning the faint glow inside until she was standing in the wide open doorway.

She started, expecting to see someone there. But a quick glance around the library showed no one, only a guttering candle on the desk where she had been writing that afternoon.

Folie bit her lip. It had been found, then. Quick heat came to her face as she hurried to the table. A sealed letter lay on it...directed to her in that familiar hand.

If she had stumbled upon him there in person, she could not have been more agitated. For a few moments she stared at it—he had read it; he had answered her—she did not know whether she was embarrassed or terrified.

She set down her candle and picked up the letter. The wax was cool but still slightly soft, the impression of the Cambourne coat of arms blurring under her finger. She broke the seal.

Folly, I am here. Perhaps it seems otherwise. I am lost, my dear sweet Folly, well and truly lost, and I cannot seem to find my way back this time.

Robert

Folie put her fingertips over her mouth, holding the note gently. She sat down slowly at the desk, frowning at the words.

It had not been long since he had written it. As she touched the letter, a sensation came back to her vividly— she felt as she had felt in that dream of India so long ago...as if he were just out of sight; as if she could reach out and touch him if only she knew how. If only she knew where; and yet she followed and followed the echo of an image and never quite saw him, put out her hands and met only blowing silk and silence.

“Robert,” she whispered.

There was no answer. Motionless figures stared back at her from the deep shadows of the room, enigmatic blank eyes. She tucked the letter inside her robe, pulling it closer about her.

That is not him,
she thought vehemently.
That man in this house is not him at all. It cannot be him.

It was a strange thought; she knew it even as it came to her so strongly. This was undeniably his handwriting. He was clearly the master of this house, which had been a well-known Cambourne property for decades. And yet the suspicion had dogged her from the first instant—now that she gave it free rein in her mind, a rush of wild speculations followed one upon the other.

Robert Cambourne was wealthy. A veritable nabob. It had been something of a legend among Charles’ kin, one of those things mentioned as an aside, a murmur of awe, of pride and just a trace of jealousy—the vast Indian fortune and political influence that the Cambourne branch of the family had amassed in two centuries of service to the East India Company. The Cambournes sent their sons and daughters home to England to be educated and married, but their adult lives were spent in foreign opulence, a leisurely swim through cascades of precious jewels, marvelous banquets, and marbled palace halls—at least, that was the impression in the Hamilton branch. Only through her letters from Robert had Folie caught a different glimpse, though she had never mentioned it to any of the Hamilton kin.

But Robert Cambourne was rich. Very rich, that much she did know. Mssrs. Hawkridge and James made no bones about it. And if he was rich, then there might be Unsavory Elements who wished to steal from him. Extort money from him. Even kidnap him.

She frowned blindly at the glossy scarlet surface of the desk. It was a ridiculous notion. She had no reason to entertain any such idea.

I am lost. I am here. Perhaps it seems otherwise.

She opened the letter again and bent over it, looking closely. It was certainly his handwriting, or an extraordinarily accurate imitation of it.

But it was not the writing that convinced her. As she held it up near her face to examine it, she breathed a memory, a scent so faint that it seemed to vanish even as she drew it in; the scent of her sky-blue shawl and his letters.

She knew it instantly and unequivocally. She pressed the paper to her face and breathed deeply.

He had written this. Handwriting, diction, greeting—all that could be imitated—but not the imperceptible incense that brought a lightning re-creation of those days when she had eagerly broken open his letters and thought of him from moment to moment.

Folie laid the paper down again, smoothing it open. A part of her tried to remain reasonable and sober, arguing that it was all a nonsensical flight of imagination; a part of her wanted to flee this place immediately, as frightened as Melinda by its strangeness and shadows—but as Folie spread her fingers across the letter, she felt a deeper welling of fear.

If this was him...the real Robert, her Robert...she was in another sort of danger altogether.

A moment of near panic seized her heart. Somehow until this moment, this letter, this scent, he had not seemed quite real; she had not ascertained her jeopardy.

Oh, God save her. If it was truly Robert—she would fall in love with him again. How could she not?

She made a soft whimper of dismay. It seemed unlikely...the man in this house was hardly attractive to her, but four years ago she had learned a lesson that she would never forget. Love was not for her. Better a practical marriage, safe and quiet, as hers had been, than the foolish flight and terrible fall from those airy heights. She should not have written that letter to him, even in fancy. She must not allow any such thing to happen again.

With a quick move, she tore the reply in half, and half again, crumpling the pieces in her hand. She must not stay here, not another day.