My Sweet Folly (17 page)

There were times, looking back, that Folie wondered how she had lived through it. Hiding in the greenhouse, where Charles’ roses had gone to a thorny tangle; sitting on the bench and weeping until she thought she had no more tears left. Weeping for a dream. How a dream could take such a hold on her spirit that she grieved for it as if for a real man, she had never fathomed. Even still, after all the shocks of disillusionment, it seemed as if Robert, her own loving Robert, was alive somewhere, such was the grip that mirage had upon her brain. But everything this Robert Cambourne of Solinger had done was a jarring contradiction, a shattering of the delusion; a solid proof that she had misjudged and misinterpreted and fallen in love with a chimera of her own making. No sweet lover, but a petty selfish oddity, determined to imprison them and deprive Melinda, to have his own cold way at any cost to those under his care.

How Folie hated him! He had no heart, he had no character; he did not even have a sense of humor. If he had been anyone else, she would have been dismayed and bewildered enough, but that he was
Robert
—Robert who had written that he loved her...who had lured her to give her love to him, asked her not to forbid him to write to her, taken her in like the silly openhearted country miss she was! Never again would she succumb to false hopes and fantasies. She would live alone till the day she died to avoid it.

The tune came to an end as Folie was contemplating the many advantages of becoming a nun. A lusty applause broke the silence after the last note—Sir Howard clapping loudly, Lady Dingley patting her hands together. As Folie turned, she saw two girls of Melinda’s age standing beside the door clapping as enthusiastically as their father.

“Come in, come in,” Sir Howard said, motioning. “Mrs. Hamilton—Miss Jane Dingley and Miss Cynthia, my oldest pair.”

As a maid left a tea urn, bundled their red cloaks over her arm, and vanished out the door, Miss Jane and Miss Cynthia came forward and dropped curtsies to Folie. They brought a scent of horse with them in the full navy blue skirts of their riding habits. Miss Jane, the eldest, returned Folie’s smile with an engaging grin that might have been her father’s own. Miss Cynthia glanced at her older sister and then gave a smile that was more subdued, but still sweet. “What a pretty tune!” she said, turning to Melinda as she rose from the instrument.

“Let these girls get acquainted among themselves!” Sir Howard said, drowning Melinda’s thank you. “Off with you; there’s a fire in the back hall.”

“Oh, Papa, we cannot take her there—” Miss Jane began to protest, but her father only shook his head.

“Your know your mother doesn’t like you in all your dirt. Off, before you give us all the headache! Miss Melinda, you do not mind.”

“Not at all, I—” Melinda began a polite assent as Miss Jane took her arm. Miss Cynthia fell in behind. The three of them went out the drawing room door, already employed in friendly questions before they disappeared.

“There!” Sir Howard sat down. “Mrs. Hamilton, will you do us the honor of pouring?”

Folie filled saucers of tea from the urn. Lady Dingley accepted hers with an indistinct murmur. Sir Howard took his cup in a strong, well-shaped hand, smiling up at her.

“How did you leave things at Solinger?” he asked as Folie sat down with her tea. His tone was merely polite, but he looked at her keenly as he spoke.

Folie took a brief sip to clear her voice. “Much as last night,” she said uncomfortably. “You must pardon our bedraggled appearance, Lady Dingley. There was some confusion about the carriage at first, and we set out to walk before we knew how far it would be.”

“Confusion?” Sir Howard asked quickly.

Folie hesitated. He set down his cup and leaned forward in his chair.

“You need not scruple to be frank, ma’am,” he said. “Lady Dingley and I would stand as friends to you, if you will allow us. Not one word will leave this room; I sent the girls away with that thought.” He turned to his wife. “I’m sure you agree, my dear.”

“Yes, of course I agree,” Lady Dingley said, stirring her cup.

“Well, I—” Folie hesitated between embarrassment and the desperate desire to lay her troubles and fears on someone’s shoulders.

“There was confusion about the carriage?” Sir Howard prompted. “I dare say it was hardly a morning to set out to walk five miles.”

“No,” Folie said. She took another sip, stared down at her cup a moment, and then said in a low voice, “The servants were informed we were forbidden to use the carriage, or even to leave the grounds.” She looked up quickly. “But perhaps it was all a simple misunderstanding. Lander came at last with the carriage, and accompanied us. He is here now.”

Sir Howard nodded. “So I saw.”

A silence descended. The songbird made a small whistle and rustled in the cage.

“I think,” Folie said slowly, with a sense of unreality as she spoke, “that we ought not to return to Solinger.”

She found herself staring at Sir Howard, as if she had never seen him sitting there before that moment. She could hardly believe she had uttered such a thing, and yet she knew with a blinding certainty that she could not put Melinda and herself into the carriage and allow the gates of Solinger to close behind them again.

“I don’t know what we shall do!” she exclaimed.

Sir Howard stood up. He nodded briefly, as if she had opened an important matter of business that he had expected. Lady Dingley put down her saucer and watched her husband with unblinking eyes, an expression of impartial expectation.

“Of course your things are still there; your clothing and so forth.”

“Yes,” Folie said. Her voice seemed to come out without any breath behind it.

“You must stay with us tonight.” Sir Howard turned toward the fireplace and yanked the tasseled bell rope. “Lander can return for your things.”

“Oh, no—we should not impose—that is beyond anything we can ask of you.” She glanced at Lady Dingley. “I’m sure there is an inn—”

“Nonsense,” Sir Howard said. “It is no imposition, my dear.” He leaned out the door to speak to the servant who answered his ring.

“It is beyond kind of you, but surely, ma’am,” Folie said to his wife, “you have not been feeling well. We had only wished to call briefly, not throw ourselves upon you! If we could be directed to an inn—”

“And how are you to pay for this inn?” Sir Howard demanded, closing the door. “You must pardon my plain speaking, but I doubt that you brought a full purse along on a morning call?”

That was entirely true; what money Folie had was still at Solinger, but before she could discover a reply amid the confusion and indecision in her mind, there was another scratch at the door. Lander entered and bowed.

“The ladies will not be returning to Solinger,” Sir Howard announced. “They desire that their things be packed and brought here.”

Lander looked toward Folie. His expression registered neither surprise nor dismay, only a quiet vigilance. She had never known quite what to make of him; too young to have charge of a large house, with more the aspect of some untamed gambling buck than a butler. With his long natural queue and muscular shoulders, he appeared perfectly capable of manhandling anyone who objected to his intentions.

“Ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I think we must...depart Solinger today.”

“As you wish, madam,” he said calmly.

“I’ll send one of our men and a maid back with you; they can bring the baggage here in our gig,” Sir Howard said.

Lander made a brief bow, but kept his gaze fixed resolutely upon Folie. “This is permissible, ma’am? I will be pleased to return with it myself if you prefer, or make any arrangement you wish for your accommodation.”

Folie felt herself blushing. “You must be sure to—” She stopped, and then glanced at Sir Howard.
 
“If you will forgive me for a moment?”

“Certainly!” Sir Howard said on the instant. He offered his hand to his wife. “Come, my dear, you should see to having the chambers made ready.”

“Indeed, yes.” Lady Dingley rose, smiling, but seemed almost to sigh inaudibly at the same time.

“You are too kind,” Folie said, “to take in a pair of strangers at no notice.”

“Oh, it is you who favor us, Mrs. Hamilton. I am so pleased for the girls to make your daughter’s acquaintance.”

She did not linger to expand upon this statement, which surprised Folie, as Lady Dingley had not seemed to take to Melinda at all. But she had no time to contemplate that, for Lander stood awaiting her instructions.

“I do not quite know how Mr. Cambourne will receive this,” she said hesitantly.

“Nor I, madam,” Lander said.

“Perhaps I should write a note,” she said.

He nodded slightly.

Folie looked about her, and sat down at the portable writing desk atop a table. She helped herself to the pen and paper inside—if she was to be so beholden to the Dingleys, what was a sheet of parchment?

Dear Mr. Cambourne,
she wrote, and then found herself at a complete stand.

Dear Mr. Cambourne, your pigeons have flown. Dear Mr. Cambourne, I have had enough of your nonsense. Dear Mr. Cambourne, you are as mad as May-butter, so I fear we must take our leave...

She sighed. Here, away from the strange heated carvings and dark halls, it all seemed quite fatuous and unreal. And yet when she thought of entering the carriage again, she knew that she could not.

SEVEN

Dear Mr. Cambourne,

We must take our leave of you. Hereafter, it will be convenient to maintain our necessary correspondence through Mssrs. Hawkridge and James.

With respect,
 

Folie Hamilton

Lander was laughing, Robert thought, though the man’s face was austere. God knew, he would have laughed at himself; such an impotent fool he must appear. Robert crushed the note and tossed it into the fireplace under Phillippa’s looming portrait. “Where are they?”

“Lady Dingley has invited Mrs. Hamilton and her stepdaughter to stay at Dingley Court.”

“You took them there.”

Lander did not reply.

“Damn your insolence,” Robert muttered. He stared at the portrait. “I suppose...” He stopped, and then said with a bitter chuckle, “She is greatly relieved, doubtless. To escape my evil snare.”

“She said no such thing, sir.”

Robert gave him a satirical look. “She was in love with me once. Can you imagine that?” He lifted his face toward the ceiling. “Oh, God. Are you poisoning me, Lander?” He laughed, shaking his head. “Come, tell me that you are, and this is not really madness.”

Alarm rose in him as he spoke, for the peril of saying such words. He turned quickly toward his butler. “I jest, of course!” Robert said. “Indian humor.”

Lander’s gravity changed to attention. “Poison, sir?” he asked, without shock or bewilderment. “You hired me for your safekeeping, Mr. Cambourne. If you have some suspicion of poison, I hope you will speak plainly of it.”

Robert tightened his jaw. He focused fiercely on the gilded frame, avoided Phillippa’s face looking gaily down on him. He did not trust Lander. He could not bring himself to trust the man.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” The faintest trace of impatience touched Lander’s words. “How am I to provide the guard you desired if you will not confide in me?”

“Guard!” Robert snapped. “After I ordered you to prevent their leaving the grounds, you kindly provide a personal escort as they go!”

“Dismiss me for it if you will, sir,” Lander said grimly. “I’ll provide you with all the protections I am capable of rendering, as you engaged me to do, but I cannot participate in incarcerating ladies here against their will.”

“Fine words! And if you have put them into danger?”

“What danger?” Lander’s voice rose. “Tell me what danger!”

The edge in his voice matched Robert’s, hardly the tone of a servant to his master. Robert turned sharply, staring at him.

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Lander lowered his eyes, but there was still a doggedness about the set of his shoulders.

“I suppose if I hire a thief-taker out of Bow Street for a butler, I should not be astonished at his cheek,” Robert said.