My Sweet Folly (14 page)

“And you, missy, are entirely too full of sauce for a chit of your age, I see that at a glance.”

Folie dropped a curtsy. “Why, thank you, sir! You are quite charming for a barbarian!”

Robert stood by the fireplace, watching Folie’s face, caught between a vague angry disgust at this flirtation and the laughter that had come into her eyes the moment she responded to Sir Howard’s bow. It was like a strong touch on a place he had locked in his heart, the way he had locked her miniature in a velvet strong-box. “I hope your daughters are well, Sir Howard?’’ he asked coolly.

“Too well!” his guest said. “Would that
they
would all take to their beds with the headache!”

Folie laughed. “How many children have you, sir?”

“Seven girls!” Sir Howard exclaimed. “Can you believe it?”

Folie thought it was no wonder Lady Dingley had developed the headache. She glanced inadvertently toward Robert. Their eyes met. A roguish, stifled smile changed his whole aspect so suddenly that Folie felt as if a spike of sweet lightning had struck her throat.

“What fun!” Miss Melinda said. “I should love to have so many sisters!”

“Take any number you please off my hands,” Sir Howard said carelessly. “We have plenty to spare.”

Folie turned in surprise when Lander entered to announce dinner. It was far too early for any normal civility. Robert stepped toward Folie, but Sir Howard had already tucked her hand into his arm with a jocund announcement that he knew Mr. Cambourne would not begrudge him the honor of taking Mrs. Hamilton in. Folie accepted his escort with relief. Deliberately, she laid the rosebud on a side table as she passed through the door.

Robert looked at it. He lifted his eyes and found Miss Melinda regarding him with interest. He offered her his arm and took her in.

With the ladies seated, Sir Howard took a leather chair at the foot of the table and cast a glance about the dining room. He shook his head at the dragons. “Damned feverish mind it took, to carve this stuff! Don’t think I could live with it more than a day, myself.”

Melinda sat with her hands in her lap, looking uneasy. Folie said archly, “We don’t dare mention the decoration here, Sir Howard. Our host dislikes it. Although I must say I find myself growing rather fond of Xerxes and Boswell.” She nodded toward the dragons.

“Mama,” Melinda warned in a soft voice.

Folie lifted her chin and took a sip of wine. She felt a light flush coloring her cheeks, as if she had already drunk much more than a swallow of the claret Lander had just poured.

Sir Howard cleared his throat, looking down the long table at his host. “Well then. Do you hunt, sir?”

“No, I have hunted very little,” Robert said.

“Pity, pity...I keep a pack of hounds—five pups this morning—thought you might like to take a look at ‘em tomorrow.”

Robert felt an instant misgiving at the thought of leaving the house. “How big is your pack?’’ he asked, turning the subject.

“No more than twenty couple. Quality over quantity, eh, Mrs. Hamilton? Do you like dogs?”

“Yes, certainly,” Folie said. “But I haven’t brought myself to have another since our last.”

“Brandy,” Melinda said stoutly, “was the
best
dog in the world.”

“Indeed?” Sir Howard grinned. “It can’t be so. My Maggie was the best by far. Why, she could bring home a stray lamb from the next county, save a drowning child, and then fetch a fellow’s slippers before she was dry! Tell me what your Brandy could do to match that!”

Folie and Melinda laughed and exchanged glances. “Oh, Brandy was not that sort of dog at all.” Folie gave a smile and a shrug. “He would merely put his paw upon one’s knee and look up as if to say, ‘I have something to tell you that will please you very much.” She traced the silver engraving on her spoon with a fingertip, smiling wistfully. “Everyone loved him.”

A vision visited Robert, one of the strong bright ones, of salt-and-pepper fur, brown eyes; a scruffy, panting, mischievous face. “Yes,” he said in a stifled voice. His guests all looked toward him. He hardly realized he had spoken until the expectant pause invited him to say more.

“I had a dog,” he said uneasily.

“Our house is always full of ‘em,” Sir Howard said. “I could not trust the man or woman who don’t like dogs.”

Folie was looking at Robert. He had a horrible moment in which he felt a sickness in his chest, a burn behind his eyes and nose. He stared straight ahead, breathing slowly.

Do not think, do not think of that; don’t think, don’t think, do not think of it.

“And have you filled your stable?” Sir Howard was saying. “There’s a pair of grays up for sale at Camden...known ‘em for three years, very nice-going creatures—you might like to think of them for a phaeton if you have the need.”

“Thank you.” With an act of ferocious will, Robert put his mind on Sir Howard’s words. “I’ll be sure to look into it.”

“Miss Hamilton, this reminds me that I am charged with discovering your age!” Sir Howard thumped his hand on the table. “I am not to go home without the information.”

“I am nineteen in June, sir,” Melinda said modestly.

“Very good, very good!” Sir Howard said, helping himself from the mutton. “My second girl is nineteen. I’ve just bought a little chestnut hack for her to take to town. All my girls ride like demons, I’ll say that for ‘em.” He looked to Robert. “Does Miss Hamilton have any sort of seat?”

Robert stared at him a moment, his mind so distracted that he felt as if he had to translate the question from a foreign language. “I don’t know,” he said, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. “I have not inquired.”

“Your daughters go to town this season, Sir Howard?” Melinda asked, leaning forward. The light of eagerness gave her beauty a striking glow. Robert glanced at Folie and saw her dismay.

“Ha! They do if their mother can recover the headache. I’ll be jiggered if I’ll take ‘em on my own, though she’s threatened to task me with it!”

“Perhaps we will see you there!” Melinda said.

“Do you go too, then?” Sir Howard looked toward Folie with an interest Robert found all too transparent.

Folie opened her mouth as if she would answer, fixed her gaze on the base of the silver candlestick before her, then gave Sir Howard a look that seemed to Robert full of entreaty.

“No,” Robert said coldly. “They do not go to town. Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Melinda will be living here.”

Melinda’s radiance froze. She turned a white face to Folie. “Mama...”

“We will discuss it later,” Folie said, lifting her hand as if to brush away an uninteresting subject.

Melinda sat up very straight in her chair. “We are not to go to town?”

“Later, my dear,” Folie said, but there was an uneasy note in her voice—Robert saw the girl fasten on it, saw how the blood mounted dangerously in her face.

“Tell me now,” Melinda said. As her back stiffened, her voice took on a piercing note that was all too familiar. “Are we to go or not?”

“Melinda—” Folie’s voice faded.

“We are not!” Melinda’s eyes grew wide and wild as Folie hesitated. “We are not to go!”

“Now, my love—”

“I don’t believe it!” Melinda gasped. She pushed her chair back from the table. “I cannot—you have let him convince you, haven’t you?”

“We will discuss it later,” Folie said firmly.

“Discuss what? Discuss that we are not to go?”

Folie tilted her head meaningfully toward Sir Howard. But Melinda seemed oblivious.

“Ohhh, I knew it!” her stepdaughter hissed. “You have let him ruin everything! And I know why! For that forty thousand pounds!’’

“Melinda!” Folie said sharply, her voice trembling.

“I don’t care! I don’t care what everyone thinks! It is not fair! It is monstrous! I hate you—”

“It is my decision,’’ Robert said, keeping his voice cold and steady. “Not your mother’s.”

Melinda turned on him with a look in her eyes that he knew too well, that touched a well of dread deep inside him.
“You!’’
she cried. “Why should you have anything to say to it? Where have you been? Away off in India, living in a palace! You don’t care what happens to me! You don’t care for anyone but yourself—” She stood up, flinging her hand wide. Her fingers hit her wineglass. It shattered like an explosion as it struck the candelabra, spilling a wave of red across the cloth, glass fragments flying in all directions.

Robert found himself on his feet. He felt a sting on his hand, but his body seemed to slow down, immovable. His hands froze in fists.

“There!”
the girl cried, “There! I don’t care! See what you’ve made me do! Oh, I hate you all!” Her shrill voice broke into a sob.

“Melinda!” Folie pleaded. “Sit down!”

“I won’t!” Melinda held the back of the chair and banged it against the floor. “I hate you, I hate you!” She glared at Robert with a furious venom, filling the room with wooden thumps. “I don’t want your horrid money! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you all! Oh, I want to die!” she wailed. “I’m going to—”
 

“That
will do, miss!”

It was Sir Howard’s deep voice, filling the room like a resonant bell, startling everyone silent.

Melinda looked at him, holding the chair poised. Then she gave a choked sob. The mask of rage seemed to collapse and turn to a child’s tragic plea. “Oh,” she whimpered. “Oh. But we aren’t to go.”

“Curtsy to your mother and Mr. Cambourne and beg their pardon,” Sir Howard commanded in a tone that brooked no disobedience. “And sit down.”

Melinda blinked rapidly, her mouth in a pinched bow. Then suddenly the pinch relaxed into a helpless tremor. She bowed her head, weeping, but more calmly.

“Make your apologies,” Sir Howard said.

“Yes, sir.” Melinda bit her lower lip. She started to move toward Robert. He felt struck into stone. He could barely breathe and hardly see her; it took all of his focus simply to contain the flinch when she came close enough to touch him. Through Phillippa’s silent clamor in his head he heard Melinda make her apology as if she were speaking through a thick blanket.

He said nothing in reply. Speech was beyond him.

She moved away, curtsied to her mother. As she tried to beg pardon, falling into a deep curtsy, her voice caught on uncontrollable sobs. Folie shook her head mutely and drew Melinda to her feet, pulling her into a deep hug.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mama,” Melinda moaned. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Never mind,” Folie murmured, stroking her hair. “Never mind. It will be all right. I promise. It will be all right, darling.” Over her stepdaughter’s head, she looked at Robert. Her eyes glistened with tears, but there was pure rancor in them for him. He stood numbly. Some distant part of his reason told him to speak, to say she might go, that he did not mean to keep her incarcerated here with him. But he saw that she would go and not return, go out where he could not reach her, to London, to life, to sanity. He could not bear it; he could not even bear a girl’s tantrum. He felt as if he might shatter into a thousand shards of bleeding glass.

“You must pardon me,” he said beneath his breath, and walked blindly past her to the door.

Folie did not think he had even seen them as he left, or felt the bloody cut on his hand. She drew a deep, shaky breath. With a soft push, she set her stepdaughter away from her. “Sir Howard—”

“Do not say it!” he exclaimed roughly, shoving to his feet. He shook his head at Melinda. “Good God. I daresay you are hardly old enough to leave the schoolroom, miss, far less disport yourself in London, if this is how you intend to go on!”

“Oh no, oh no,” Melinda said in meek rush. “I beg your pardon, Sir Howard! Truly! I am abominable.”

“That you are! If you was my girl, you would go to bed on bread and water!”

Folie started to protest, but Melinda shook her head vigorously. “No, Mama—I—I should. I could not eat, not now. Please—if you would just go up with me...”

For the first time, Folie realized that Lander had come into the room. He stood attentively by the side door, his face expressionless.

“Take the child up while the table is set to rights,” Sir Howard said.

“I don’t know if Mr. Cambourne will return—” Folie began, but he cut her off with a significant look. Folie was too flustered to keep her mind straight; she kept seeing Robert Cambourne’s white frozen countenance in the face of Melinda’s histrionics, and the blood that dripped unacknowledged from his hand.

“Yes, of course,” she said in a confused voice. “You’ll accept my excuses, Sir Howard.”

Melinda gave a curtsy, bidding Sir Howard a humble good night and begging his pardon again and again. He nodded impatiently, apparently unmoved by her pretty, tear-stained face. As Folie passed him, following Melinda from the dining room, he leaned toward her and touched her arm.

“You will come back down,” he murmured. “I wish to speak to you.”

Folie nodded blindly.

“Good. I shall await you in the drawing room.”