My Sweet Folly (47 page)

She turned her back on him—remembering just at the last moment, as she went out the door, to shut it as softly as possible so as to maintain her full dignity. Then she mounted the stairs to her bedchamber, closed that door very gently too, sat down on the bed, and stared at the drawn curtains.

She did not cry. She stared harder and harder at the pink velvet. Her whole body trembled.

But she did not cry. Her lip curled downward with disdain. She spread her fingers over the coverlet and crushed it into her fists. Still she did not cry. She was finished forever with weeping over Robert Cambourne.

Robert glared at the back of the closed door, and then turned away. He braced his arms against the mantel and pressed as if he could shove it over.

Why the devil had Folly come? How did she do this to him, touch that fuse so easily? It was half-fear that had made him speak to her that way, like a badly frightened parent abusing a child for its carelessness, driven by a crystalline vision of how exposed she had allowed herself to be—half-fear and half-something else.

It was as if Phillippa still possessed him, he thought wildly. He looked up and stared at himself in the mirror over the mantel. His eyes were dark, clear gray; focused— there was no madness in them. And yet it was if she were here inside his brain, in command of his throat, spurring him on to say the sort of acid things that had burned through every hope of love, or respect, or even truce between them.

In truth, the very idea that Folly had put herself in danger—that she had even thought of bestirring herself at all— because she was worried for him—because they were fast friends—Robert swallowed hard against a block of something in his throat. He snarled at himself in the mirror like a silent tiger. Stupid little ninny, she was. Maddening little half-wit. How was it possible to love her with every fiber of his body and soul and want to tear her to shreds for overhearing a senseless joke never meant for her ears?

Well, he had sunk himself, now. He had begun to entertain some hope that she might trust him again after the prison hulk—in fact, he had to stop himself frequently from beginning so many musings with, “After this business is finished...” But it all remained in fleeting fantasy—moments before he fell asleep, thoughts that passed as he ate or dressed. By main force, he had prevented himself from thinking about her further, focusing his mind completely upon the precarious task at hand—another reason he could wish she had not flung herself back into his consciousness with such exuberance. The last thing he needed was a mortally offended female—and one that he adored at that—to complicate his life at just this moment.

He shoved himself away from the fireplace and left the room. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, one of Lander’s “footmen” opened the door. Robert heard a child’s voice.

“Please, did Mrs. Hamilton bring the ferret home with her?’’ the boy piped eagerly.

Robert cursed silently. He went quickly down the steps, about to tell the footman to send the child packing, when a woman spoke.

“Hush, Christopher! The ferret indeed! We’ve come to inquire after Mrs. Hamilton. Chris thinks that he saw her just now return!”

The servant cast Robert an inquiring look. He shook his head. Lander had come out into the hall. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Paine,” he said briskly. “Mrs. Hamilton is not at home.”

“Yes, she is!” Christopher cried. He managed to insinuate his towhead into the door, in spite of the unseen lady’s hand on his collar. “I saw her come in a cab!”

“Christopher William! Come here! It was your imagination, my dear. Come—” The hand jerked him back out of view. “We are all so concerned about Mrs. Hamilton, Lander. Have you had any word of her health?”

“I believe she is expected to recover fully, ma’am,” Lander said, while Christopher leaned against his mother’s hold like a straining dog on a leash, peering around the door. He looked at Robert, and then upward to the stair landing.

“There she is!” he cried. “I
knew
she had come home!” He broke free of his restraint. The front door flung wide as he burst into the hall. “Mrs. Hamilton! Good day!” he exclaimed, with childhood’s happy certainty of welcome. “It’s Christopher! Where is Toot?”

They all turned. Folie stood at the stair landing, the picture of good health. Robert stepped forward. “Come in, please!” he commanded, so that at least the door might be shut.

Mrs. Paine entered with nearly as much cheerful aplomb as her son, though she apologized profusely for his outrageous behavior. She held out her hands as Folie came down the stairs. “My dear Mrs. Hamilton! How good to see you well! Gracious, we have been beside ourselves to hear you had taken ill so sudden! And Christopher has pined to play with the girls. But the country has done you a world of good—your cheeks are like pretty apples!”

Folie greeted her, casting a guilty look toward Robert. But before he could even speak, another authoritative rapping from the door knocker reverberated in the hall. The footman received a pair of visiting cards, stood back with a proper formality, and announced, “Mrs. Witham-Stanley. Miss Davenport.”

Robert and Lander exchanged looks as the new callers entered the house. Mrs. Witham-Stanley sought Robert with an eager smile, holding out her hand. He saw no help for it now.

“Lander,” he said, “conduct the ladies up to the drawing room.” He gave a brief bow to Mrs. Witham-Stanley and the unexpected assemblage in the hall. “I am Robert Cambourne, by the way.”

Mrs. Paine gave a small gasp. “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir! I did not realize.”

“No matter, madam. Pray excuse me—I shall join you in a moment.”

His nameless teacher waited in the breakfast room, calmly sipping coffee. Robert closed the door behind him. “The ladies who just arrived,” he said. “I believe we have an opportunity.”

The other man lifted his eyebrows in question.

“Can you play a doctor?” Robert asked.

“My good man, I am an F.R.C.P.!”

Robert grimaced. “Whatever that may be.”

“A Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians.” He rose and brushed back his hair, becoming prim and spruce—and a good two inches shorter with no visible stooping, Robert could have sworn. “Dr. Ignacious Joyce. Magdalene College, Cambridge, offices in Jermyn Street.”

“All right. You treated Mrs. Hamilton, the lady who just arrived, a fortnight ago.”

“Ah! And perhaps I saw no hope for her, in spite of my most extreme exertions on her behalf.”

Robert nodded. “She was at death’s door.”

“Beyond the help of any medicine, even the most modern and efficacious treatment. I called in several colleagues, but to no avail.”

“And now she is in perfect health.”

Dr. Joyce smiled. “Indeed. I understand you, sir.”

Folie sat perched on the edge of a chair, trying to say the right things. She knew something of the story that had been spread to cover her abduction—she had succumbed to a sudden illness and was removed to the country to recover under Melinda’s tender care, while the Dingleys, who naturally could not impose themselves by remaining at Cambourne House, packed themselves off home, cutting short their season.

All that was simple enough. But she found that the details were deceptively easy to botch. Naturally Mrs. Paine, one of their more inquisitive neighbors on Curzon Street, would want to know all about what had happened, what physician had attended her, how she had borne the trip, why she had returned, and had Miss Melinda not come back also? Folie had never met Mrs. Witham-Stanley or Miss Davenport; she recognized their faces only distantly, from some party or other; she had no notion why they might have called at Cambourne House. She managed to look confused, ignored the greater number of the inquiries and appealed to Robert as he entered the drawing room for the name of the physician.

“He is right here, my dear,” Robert said solicitously. “Dr. Joyce.”

On his heels was the man Folie had glimpsed sitting with Lander and Robert in the breakfast room. He looked more genteel now, sleeked down like a very modem professional man. He came at once to Folie and sat down next to her, lifting her wrist. “I’m not surprised that you don’t remember me,” he said. “You were insensible at the time!”

Mrs. Paine clucked sympathetically, shaking her head. Folie blinked at Dr. Joyce. He smiled at her absently as he felt her pulse.

The room fell quiet. Folie could not imagine that they would be so prying; she had thought perhaps that this “doctor’s” appearance was some attempt by Robert to shame them all into excusing themselves and departing. However, if that was his intention, it miscarried completely. Mrs. Paine was affectionate, honest, kind—and one of the busiest gossips in Mayfair. Perhaps Robert was too innocent to recognize it, but Folie was well acquainted with the breed. Rivalry was paramount, and the earliest report secured the highest prize. Accurate particulars might be secondary to speed, but they were still significant. To have both, in the original firsthand account of such interesting news as Folie’s illness, would be a coup of no small measure.

Everyone hung upon the physician’s pronouncement. Even young Christopher was silent, gripping his mother’s hand and staring with all the repelled wonder of a six-year-old boy who had stumbled upon a brain surgery.

Dr. Joyce nodded to himself. He let go of her wrist and patted Folie’s hand as if she were a good student. “Perfect.” He turned to Robert. “I am not a man given to hyperbole, sir—but I believe this must be accounted one of the most astonishing recoveries I have ever had the good fortune to witness. Not a fortnight ago, when I was called in, I did not suppose this patient could survive the night.”

“You are an excellent practitioner, sir,” Robert said, with a slight bow.

The doctor hesitated, then shook his head. “Nay, sir. I do not take credit for this.”

“Indeed, you must not be so modest. Your attendance was invaluable,” Robert said. He smiled at the other ladies. “I think I could recommend Dr. Joyce to your service without reservation.”

The doctor rose, clearing his throat gruffly. “Too generous.” He bowed to the room, and once, deeply, to Folie. “I shall not disturb you further. I had merely wished to verify Mr. Cambourne’s happy report with my own observation.”

“I thank you,” Folie said.

“Ha. Do not thank me, ma’am. I am an honest man—I will take no credit when it is not due me. I even called in two colleagues of mine, as Mr. Cambourne can tell you. I shall not mention their names, but in that association, I think I may say without undue prejudice, you had in attendance the highest learning and experience that modern medicine can provide. And we were helpless. We could do nothing for you.”

Folie saw that Mrs. Paine and the other women were listening raptly. She nodded, somber. “I must thank God to be alive.”

“Aye!” The doctor cleared his throat. “Aye, God be thanked. And perhaps this gentleman here.” He nodded toward Robert, who shook his head negatively. “Well, sir, deny it if you will. But I am a physician. I am trained in scientific observation. I know what I saw.”

“What did he do?” Mrs. Witham-Stanley asked, leaning forward in her chair. “Did he lay hands upon her?”

“Madam, it was astonish—”

“We thank you, Dr. Joyce,” Robert said, interrupting him. “I’m sure you are a busy man—we will take no more of your time. Lander will see you out.”

The doctor bowed and went to the door. Lander was holding it open for him when abruptly he stopped and turned. “I wonder—” He lifted his finger. “You would not—but no...” He shook his head.