My Sweet Folly (6 page)

She looked down at his note again. “Don’t make me,” she whispered. “Oh, Robert, don’t.”

But she knew as she spoke that she would go. He had chosen the words that compelled her. If she did not face him now, her own contempt would haunt her all her life.

When Folie woke from a weary, bumpy drowse against a folded cloak, their post chaise was rolling along beside a red brick wall that seemed to go on endlessly in the twilight. Before her, the rumps of the horses jogged rhythmically as the team splashed through puddles. A rain shower had mercifully avoided them, though Folie could still see it moving off across the far hills, blue-gray vapor cut by the golden rays of the late sun.

Melinda, her cheeks flushed pink from the wind, glanced at Folie over the maid who sat between them. “Almost there!” she said cheerfully. “The boy says this wall belongs to Solinger Abbey. It goes all the way about the estate.”

The postboy, mounted upon the bay wheeler, rose in time to the horse’s trot. Bare trees hung out over the brick, scraping over the carriage roof, scattering droplets against the glass. Though neat hedgerows and pasture bordered the lane on the open side, there appeared to be an extensive forest inside the wall. Black staghorn branches, leafless and dark with rain, seemed to reach blindly for the rainbow-hued clouds drifting past above.

“Most forbidding,” Folie murmured. “I like it.”

“Perhaps you will write a novel,” Melinda said, and lowered her voice portentously. “‘The ancient dreadful oaks beckoned her to her doom…’“

“Of course,” Folie said. “They always do.” The chaise was slowing, approaching a perfectly mundane gatehouse of neat brick. A porter grinned, already stepping outside as the postboy hailed him.

“The Misses Hamilton arrive!” the postboy called.

The porter waved in friendly acknowledgment and unlocked the wrought-iron gate. The team swung around, sidestepping into the opening, blowing a little from their work. The chaise wheeled in place, then jerked forward and swept through as the horses resumed their trot.

Both Folie and Melinda leaned forward, looking for the house. There was nothing to be seen but the aged trees, a tangle of uncut brush swarming beneath their low branches. Ruts in the drive had been newly patched with gravel, so the ride was tolerably smooth, dipping and curving through the forest.

The house burst into view with a suddenness that made them all gasp like light-headed debutantes. Red brick glowed in the sunset, a Tudor fantasy of towers and twisting chimneys, the round turrets crowned by oriental domes and delicate spires of lead. It seemed to grow as they neared, revealing wings and windows, gabled fronts carved with the heraldic outlines of medieval creatures. The chaise bumped across a low bridge and moat.

“Oh, Mama, you
must
write a novel now,” Melinda said, laughing.

“Very tempting, I admit!” Folie hid her tight fists beneath the cloak folded on her lap. It was just what he would like, this house. This whole estate, a quaint romance. One expected a knight to come thundering down one of the wooded rides at any moment, his banner flying and his armor glinting in the last misted rays of sun.

It would not be out of character, she thought wryly, for Robert Cambourne to arrange just such a fanciful greeting. It would not be beyond him to assume the guise of a medieval warrior himself; he would delight in it, adding some unexpected touch to make a joke of it all.

But their chaise was met by no such mythical figure. A bewigged footman opened the door as the vehicle rolled to a halt. Folie and Melinda crept out, surreptitiously stretching arms and legs and backs abused by a long day of travel. Sally scrambled to collect the scarves and combs they had managed to scatter about the vehicle.

Folie looked up at the leaded glass windows. A thousand diamond lights winked back at her from pointed lancet arches, reflections of the red sun. The air smelled of boxwood hedges and rain.

“Madam,” the butler said, waiting beside the low steps. He was dressed in a suit of black velvet and white stockings, a square-jawed young man with his long sandy hair in a queue, barely old enough to have charge of such a large house, Folie thought.

They followed him under the heavy vault of the doorway. Just inside the entry, it was too dim to see much beyond some dark paneling. Folie’s heart was in her throat. At any moment they would meet him, or even worse his wife, and no matter how she tried to compose herself, the anxiety had her in its sick clutches.

“Mrs. Hamilton.” A masculine voice startled her so that she spun about. He stood in a side doorway into the buttery, a tall man who kept his eyes down deferentially. For an instant she had thought it would be Robert, but she saw that this must be the actual butler—he kept his hands behind his back and made no move of welcome or greeting, only a small deferential bow.

Besides, he did not look at all like Robert. She had never known what he would look like, but certainly not this. In the dim light this man’s hair was black, his expression utterly forbidding—he never looked at her but seemed to be watching for something, his attention moving restlessly to the doors and corridor.

“Lander will take you up,” he said. “Dinner at eight.”

“Eight,” Folie repeated, rather cross at this cursory hospitality. “May we make our salutations to Mr. and Mrs. Cambourne before that?’’

He turned his head a fraction to the side as he glanced toward her, as if she were a light that was too bright. “I beg your pardon. I am Robert Cambourne.” Then, for just an instant, he gave her a clear gray-eyed look, a gaze outlined in black lashes. It was like being caught in the direct stare of a wolf.

Folie gazed back at him. If he knew her, if he even recognized her name, there was no hint in his perfect features. Like some Renaissance prince, he was sinister and flawless, but his face held nothing of civilized humanity. High cheekbones, straight nose, skin sunburnt to darkness; a bleak mouth and black brows. And his eyes—light and violent, like a caged beast’s.

His glance lowered again, finding nowhere to rest. “Mrs. Hamilton.” He made his faint, stiff bow. “Miss Hamilton. Welcome to Solinger Abbey.”

Folie stood rooted to the floor.
You are not!
she wanted to exclaim.
You are not Robert. That cannot be true!

Melinda put her hand on Folie’s arm. “We are honored to meet you, sir,” she said, making a sketch of a curtsy. Her fingers squeezed. “Let us go up, Mama.”

Propelled by her stepdaughter’s hand, Folie turned blindly and followed the servant down the corridor and up the stone stairs. She did not see anything that she passed. Her whole body felt numb.

She found herself in a pleasant yellow bedroom, but she could not seem to make herself move beyond the middle of it. Melinda came up behind her.

“Do try not to look so horrified, Mama!” she said gently. “I’m sure you must have hurt his feelings.”

Folie looked at her. “I don’t believe that is him.”

Melinda’s mouth curved unhappily. “I’m so sorry if you’re disappointed. But perhaps when you get to know him a little better—”

“I do know him!” Folie turned away and sat down on the bed. She shook her head, laughing without humor. “I thought I did. I would have thought—’’ She made a little shrug. “He might have been more—pleased to see us.”

“Perhaps he is a little shy.”

“I never thought he would look like that! He is so...” She shook her head.

“Devilish?” Melinda suggested wryly.

“Decidedly satanic!” Folie exclaimed. She spoke in jest, but a shiver seized her.

“I thought him quite handsome. Rather beautiful, really. For a gentleman.”

Folie shook her head again. “He cannot be Robert Cambourne,” she exclaimed. “My God, his eyes. I believe he is mad!”

“Mama, you are working yourself into a state. This is not like you.” Melinda gave her a hopeful look. “But perhaps you are just rehearsing for your novel?”

Folie realized that she was well on the way to frightening her stepdaughter. With an effort, she summoned some steadiness. “Oh, there—you’ve found me out!” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Where have they put you, next door?”

“Round the corner,” Melinda said. “The bedrooms are quite lovely, and every one we passed is different. Mine is all in red and yellow chinoiserie. I think they’ve just been fitted out not long ago.”

“Oh, that
is
a bad portent,” Folie said balefully. “Prepared for our arrival! We had best make a thorough inventory of the secret doors.”

TWO

Robert stood in the small room off the passage. It was empty and dark, the haunt of long-vanished butlers—one place without the torrid furnishings and carvings that consumed the rest of the house.

He put his palm against the stone. It felt cold and blessedly smooth. He did not think he could bear one more phoenix or griffin or Chinese dragon, to see or to touch them. They worked their way into his demented dreams, and sometimes out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught them moving, but when he looked, they were only perfect decoration on perfect tracery, beautifully executed, carved by a master in wood. Feverish stuff: wyverns with necks that coiled like snakes; bodiless wings and claws; strange smiling faces and arabesques growing like rank foliage on every mantle and alcove and ceiling and staircase.

Amid that madness, she had come. He felt a spinning relief, to be certain that she was real after all.

He touched the miniature in his inner pocket. The painter had not caught the truth of her; she was less handsome and far more alive in reality. A face of glowing simplicity—not pretty, no, nothing like her extraordinary stepdaughter; in fact when she had turned and frowned at him, she was endearingly plain, with ordinary brown hair and features he had already forgotten, except for such expressive eyes that looked at him and right through him.

She terrified him. It had seemed imperative that he bring her here, safe within his protection, and yet he was afraid she could see through him. He was afraid he could not protect her. He was afraid there was no danger at all, and yet he walked through each day in a state of spring-wired tension, primed to defend himself, as if hands might rise out of the floors or the walls and pull him down and strangle him.

He must discipline himself to go outside again, because the sun would not kill him, the open space would not annihilate him.

It would not. It would not.

He closed his eyes and leaned his fists and his face against the cold stone wall.