My Sweet Folly (36 page)

The supervisor came again before dawn, looking as if he had not slept at all, his curled wig askew. Folie felt much the same, although the dizziness and blurred vision had disappeared. She had leisure now to be utterly miserable, hungry and weak, her clothing foul. What jewelry she had been wearing was gone. She thought briefly of Melinda, of how she must be beside herself with terror, but the thought was so upsetting that Folie put it quickly out of her mind.

The supervising officer of the hulk let himself into their cell with a furtive air that was hardly consistent with his position. “All right, Raikes!” he whispered, holding up a lamp. “I’ll close the lantern door for just long enough.”

Robert did not rise from the floor. “You need not,” he said quietly. “Just hold it there.”

“I don’t have much time for this,” the man said.

“No,” Robert murmured, “you’ve more to do than a reasonable man could. And you are bone weary, I know that.”

“Aye, that’s God’s truth.”

In the shadowy light of the lantern, Robert smiled. “Last night, the night before—no sleep, bad dreams. Remember?”

“I had no dreams. I never dream.”

“You were dreaming, but you thought you were awake.” There was an intangible sweetness in Robert’s voice, a strange compassion. “Sometimes this place seems like a nightmare that you can’t escape.”

The man stared at him. His face twitched, as if he was trying to remember something. “How do you know these things?”

“I can see them,” Robert said simply.

“But am I sick?” the superintendent asked apprehensively. “My liver—my aura—can you see that?”

Robert looked at him for a long moment. “Your body is ill because your mind is betrayed. You are persecuted from above and below; your superiors and your inferiors.”

“Yes!” the man said, and then, “Nonsense, nonsense. Gibble-gabble.” But he did not turn to leave.

“I can’t tell you merely what you wish to hear. You know something is wrong. You hope I’ll say there is not.”

The superintendent began to look frightened. “Something
is
wrong, then.”

“Your physical body is failing. Because your mind is deceived. If you let this deception command you, I think you will certainly die here.”

“What? What is this? How am I deceived?”

“You must see it for yourself.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Go, then,” Robert said, with a sudden shift from tenderness to a sharper tone. He gave an impatient wave. “I can do nothing for you.”

“No...no!” The superintendent said. “I will think. I will try. Help me.”

Robert stood up, the chains clinking. “I want to help you,” he said, more kindly. “It’s disturbing to me to see you in this painful state.”

“I’m in misery. I’m in misery.”

“When did it begin? Can you remember?”

The man shook his head. “No. It seems I’ve been in pain forever.”

“That is an illusion. When this sort of pain comes, it seems to have no beginning and no end. The Hindus call it
avidya
—ignorance and mirage. But that is what you must overcome, that illusion, and begin to understand how you are deceived.” He gave the superintendent another long and searching gaze. “It began...I think it began not long ago. A week? A fortnight?”

The officer chewed his lips. “I am not sure. I think...” He nodded. “A week, perhaps. It seems so much longer.”

“I know,” Robert said softly. “I know. Someone came to you.”

The superintendent blinked. He started to shake his head, and then paused.

“Yes,” Robert said. “Someone came.”

With a faint nod, the man leaned heavily back against the wall.

Robert held out his hand, palm downward, his fingers outstretched. He closed his fist and turned it upright.
 
“Here is what he brought.”

A golden guinea lay in his hand. Both Folie and the superintendent drew breath in sharply.

“This is what will kill you,” Robert said. “This is how you are deceived.”

“What do you mean?” the man exclaimed, staring at the coin. Even Folie could not conceive of how Robert had produced it.

“You know what I mean,” Robert said. “You, better than any. The money will murder you.”

“Nonsense!” the superintendent cried. “This is trickery.”

“Here, then.” Robert held out the coin. “Take it.”

The man thrust out his hand. He grabbed the guinea, as if in defiance. Robert looked down at the man’s closed hand with a smile that seemed demonic.

“Hold it tight,” he said pleasantly. “Hold it as long as you can!”

The superintendent shook his head. He stared at his fist. Then he began to breathe faster.

“Hold it hard,” Robert said. “Don’t let go.”

The man whimpered. His hand trembled. While Folie watched, he hissed air through his teeth.

“It is your money. Don’t let it get away,” Robert said.

The superintendent gave a choked cry and flung the coin from him. It hit the floor, flashing gold in the lantern light. He examined his palm, holding it up to his face, blowing on it as if he had burned his skin.

“Now do you understand?” Robert asked.

“I’m dying,” he whispered in a horrified voice. “I’m dying—because I took their money to imprison you.”

“I want to help you,” Robert said softly. “Let me help you save yourself.”

“What must I do?”

“Tell me the names of the ones who did this to you.”
 

The superintendent swallowed. “I don’t know their names! I swear I do not!”

“Who brought you the money? Who did this to you?”

“He gave no name. I never ask.”

“Of course you do not. But they mean to snare you. This time it’s an entrapment. The men above you—they have never understood you or esteemed you. They mean to catch you out in corruption, with your hands red, and the gallows for you.”

The man’s eyes widened. “By God!” he whispered. “By God!”

Robert said no more. Folie waited, hardly daring to breathe. The river lapped gently against the hull, the only sound in the depth of the night.

“I want you gone from here!” the superintendent exclaimed in a low voice. “Tonight.”

Robert shook his head. “I don’t know how it’s to be done.”

“Ha. I’ll do it. Good God, those blackguarding bastards! Catch
me
out, will they? As if they ain’t the prettiest bribe-mongers on earth themselves!”

“It is always so, is it not?” Robert said.

“By God, I swear that it is. You wait quietly now. Be ready—I’ll return directly.”

Robert rested back against the door of the cell, his head turned to hear through the barred window. He said nothing to Folie. But she could not seem to look away from him. In the first faint light, his unshaven face was menacing, his eyes half-shut in a still concentration, as if he listened to the heartbeat of the ship itself.

She might have been seeing him for the first time. Through the light-headed ache in her head, he seemed extraordinary.

“I think you are a bit more than a natural pickpocket!” she whispered.

He shook his head slightly, without opening his eyes. Folie understood that she was not to disturb him. She eased her head back, allowing herself to sink into the bewildered weakness that spun in her brain. Robert was there, awake. She felt a mysterious faith in him, a trust that seemed perfectly familiar, as if it had been in her all along, hidden beneath the confusion and doubt.

He had confounded himself. Though he had seen Srí Ramanu lead many a skeptic on a merry dance, Robert had never supposed that he could do the same. But he had found easy game in the superintendent, he thought. Some people were primed and ready to believe, even though they would deny it vigorously to themselves and others. Robert had made a fortunate hit in his first attempt.

But at any moment, the man might reconsider. Away from Robert’s voice and persuasive questions, from the subtle means of influence Srí Ramanu had taught him—the superintendent was liable to wake to a different notion. A true yogi like the Hindu priest might have real powers beyond the physical; Robert had never been quite certain of that, but he was utterly sure that he himself had nothing of the kind.

Still, he could not afford to allow misgiving to beset him. The delicate communication; the posture; the open gaze, sweet and forceful at once; all the elusive aspects of this deceit—they required a pure and perfect conviction.

Strangely, Robert had no real doubt that he could influence the man. His incredulous thoughts seemed to exist on some plane outside the present, ideas to be considered later perhaps, irrelevant to the moment. He had triggered deep fears in the superintendent, ancient fears of conspiracy and death and illness, of persecution from above. Powerful forces. He had only to wait for them to do their work.

So he hoped.

Folie jerked awake out of a half-dazed dream. Robert’s hand was on her arm. She looked up into his eyes, those gray wolf eyes, light and haunting, and waited mutely for him to tell her what to do.

He thrust a pile of clothing into her lap—a heavy red coat, a shirt, and breeches. The early morning light was stronger now, the creaking of the hulk punctuated by the cries of shore birds. He had shaved, or at least scraped his beard down to a dusky shade, and his manacles were off, heaped in a corner. She could smell something cooking, but even in her famished state she could not call it appetizing.

Robert turned away, leaning down to buckle a pair of black gaiters over the same sort of pale breeches Folie held in her lap. She stood up and reached behind herself, attempting to find her buttons. The pretty yellow dress she had worn to Vauxhall was ruined beyond repair, but the laces and buttons, sewn so carefully by Folie and Melinda through a long winter of anticipation, did not give way easily. She had never expected to be undressing without Sally’s help. Merely lifting her arms so high made her head pound.

She made an involuntary sound of distress. Robert turned around. Without hesitation, he moved to assist her, opening the buttons and pulling the laces on her stays free. She felt cold air on her back. Modesty seemed a foolish aside at the moment, and yet she grew flustered, making ineffectual attempts to help. All she did was manage to tangle her fingers with his.