My Sweet Folly (39 page)

They caught a ride, perched among turnips, for the price of Folie’s cheap army sword. The farmer would take them all the way to Westminster Bridge, six miles on, but Robert thought Folie would be dead of pneumonia by then. She was already fading, leaning hard against Dingley’s side, making small, watery coughs. The fog had lifted, but the day was yet cold and clouded when the oxcart rolled into a village.

Robert did not know what might await them in London. To walk into Cambourne House alive was impossibly dangerous as long as he did not know who wanted him silenced. And Folie had become irrevocably involved. He could no longer hope they might ignore her or leave her safe. Even Dingley was entangled in it now—if he had not been embroiled up to his arrogant chin anyway.

But for the moment, Robert knew he must find shelter and dry warmth for her. He scanned the village. There appeared to be little to it, beyond a vague familiarity. The road was muddy, the houses small and warped with age. Chickens strutted in the ditch. Inside one garden gate, yellow daffodils nodded their gay heads, defying the dismal day.

He stared at the flowers. And then Robert recognized the place with a start.

He called to the driver to stop. The cart creaked to a halt right under the sign of The Highflyer. Robert said a short, silent prayer of thanks for one small blessing.

“We’ll stop here,” he said, sliding down to the muddy road.

“Are you mad?” Dingley exclaimed. “We must get her to town and a doctor!”

“Come down. We stop here.”

“No.” Sir Howard turned to the farmer. “Drive on!”
 

“Folie,” Robert said.

She lifted her head weakly, looking at him. Her hair clung to her bruised face, dark limp strands. Her eyes seemed huge and tormented.

“Folly,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s best to stop here.”

She nodded, holding out her hands. Robert reached up and helped her down. Her whole body was quivering.

“This is madness,” Dingley said. “You are responsible for this, Cambourne!”

“Dingley,” Robert said. “Shut yourself up.”

He led Folie into The Highflyer, past the little garden where the yellow daffodils brightened the gray day. To his relief, the same landlady looked up from her knitting with the same placid, cheerful smile that he recalled.

“Ma’am,” he said.

She stood up hastily from her chair. “The Calcutta gentleman!”

“Ma’am,” he said, “do you remember the lady of the letters? The lady I love?”

She stood, nodding in wonderment, just as Folie’s trembling figure went limp, collapsing into him. Robert startled, barely catching her as she fainted. He lifted her in his arms, the red coat trailing.

“This is she,” he said wryly.

“Good God!” The landlady hurried forward. “Whatever have you done to her? God bless us, sir—It’s no wonder the poor girl won’t have ye!”

Folie had no idea how long she had slept, but she woke in a warm, soft bed, so comfortable that it seemed dream-like. She did not know where she was, but gradually realized that the dark images rising and vanishing in her dazed mind were no nightmare. The prison hulk had been real, the river and the smell—she could still taste it in the back of her mouth.

But there was a bright stream of sunlight through the leaded glass windowpane, casting a sparkle of prismatic colors across the white quilt, and next to the bed a gay bouquet of daffodils gave out the sweet scent of spring.

She sat up, finding herself in a voluminous gown that was not her own. Beneath an unfamiliar nightcap, she seemed to have a head bandage wrapped firmly about her skull. Gingerly she felt the lump on her head, wincing. Beneath the cap and bandage, her hair was in such wild disarray that she did not suppose she would ever get a comb through it again.

Melinda!
she thought suddenly, and threw off the counterpane. As she stood up, a wave of dizziness struck her, but she leaned on the bedpost until it passed and then shuffled out of the room into a low-ceilinged passage.

Immediately she could hear voices raised in contention. The short passage opened into a common room, where a fire crackled and a great number of bottles and mugs and a pair of kegs adorned the walls. Robert and Sir Howard sat at one of the tables in the center, arguing.

She did not discern the subject, since they both fell silent instantly upon looking up at her. Robert rose. A black and white shepherd dog trotted over to nose at her hem, wagging its plumed tail.

“You should not be out of bed!” he said, and turned to call, “Mrs. Moloney!”

“We must tell Melinda we are safe!” Folie exclaimed.

Sir Howard rose, coming to take Folie’s hand and turn her back.
 
“We are just preparing to do so, my dear. But you must lie down.”

A stout woman trotted briskly up from the cellar stairs. “Ah, she is awake. And walkin’ about barefooted in her night rail, the child! Turn about, me dearest; it’s back to bed with you! You don’t want your gentlemen to see you so immodest, now!”

Before she could protest, Folie was bustled back into the bedchamber. Mrs. Moloney threw back the covers. “Are you ready to take a little broth?”

“I am famished,” Folie said, sitting down on the bed. Her brain felt giddy. “I believe I could eat a roast!”

Mrs. Moloney laughed. “That is good news. Haps you ain’t to expire of pneumonia after all.”

“Not I,” Folie said. “I am never ill.”

“I’ll gladly acquaint your gentlemen with that news. I told ‘em ye looked pretty stout to me, after ye got warmed through, but they’ve been in agonies, a’worritin’ on ye. One would have the doctor, and the other would not hear of it, havin’ a mortal horror of leeches, which I commiserate with that! I’ll tell you, me love, they have not let up on each another for one living moment.”

“Oh dear,” Folie said. “I thought I heard them disputing.”

“Ach, just a little,” Mrs. Moloney said dryly.

“We have had a terrible adventure.” Folie found that settling back into the soft bed was rather necessary after all. “Do you think I might have a bath?”

The landlady chuckled again. “Aye, that’s the fit end to a terrible adventure. I’ll have my girl bring up the tub as soon as she gets the sheets in. You rest now. And we’ll start you with some broth—haps your stomach’s not so bold as your mind, missy!”

Folie nodded, already drifting back to sleep.

It was several naps later before Folie could find the vigor to bathe, but the faint fetid scent lingering on her skin finally drove her to insist that Mrs. Moloney allow her to attempt it. Clean at last, Folie dressed in one of Mrs. Moloney’s Sunday gowns, tucked up behind and tied with crossed apron strings, with a crisp lace cap over her carefully washed and tenderly braided hair.

“Well, ye look the veriest ragamuffin in that getup,” Mrs. Moloney said, “but better than the King’s red coat, at any rate! Come sit down to the commons—since you took that broth well enough, you may have some bread and meat. We’ve no private parlor here, so ye must meet your gentlemen in the taproom, I’m afraid.”

Folie followed her into the public room. Robert and Sir Howard stood up simultaneously from an isolated cubicle tucked into the corner by the fire. They both bowed, incongruously elegant in the borrowed, shapeless dark coats of farmers. Sir Howard’s graying hair was tied neatly back, but Robert’s shorter mane fell black and shaggy on his neck, giving him a more feral wolfishness than ever.

“We have been beside ourselves, my dear,” Sir Howard said gently, offering his hand. “Sit down here, sit down. You must not overexert yourself.”

“I’m really quite all right,” Folie said, sinking onto the bench. “Aside from a little dizziness. I believe we can go home now. Have you heard yet from Melinda?”

Sir Howard sat back, crossing his arms. He gave Robert a scowling look. “We have not. Mr. Cambourne insists that we remain here.”

His tone of voice was faintly sneering, as if this were an example of flagrant cowardice. Folie looked toward Robert questioningly. He sat deep in the back of the booth, returning Sir Howard’s insinuation with a cold glance.

“Perhaps we’d not be so lucky as to end in the hulks next time,” he said, very low. “I believe it would be the bottom of the river.”

Folie gazed at him. After a long moment, she nodded slowly. She remembered the river, cold and choking.

Mrs. Moloney hustled up to the table, setting down a steaming pie with a flourish. “There you are, my pretty girl. Just hot out of the oven, as fine a pork pie as you’ll ever see. I left out the curry,” she said, aside to Robert, “as she might not be up to it.”

“Very wise,” Robert said. “We are in your debt.”

“La! You’ve paid me a gold guinea—I’m still owing you change. Ring if you need anything, child. I’ve got my eye on some chickens roasting for you gentlemen.”

As the landlady retired to her kitchen, Sir Howard leaned over the table. “A guinea! Where the dickens did you get any money?”

“I stole it,” Robert said coolly.

“Oh, of course.” Sir Howard sat back. “I dare swear you’ll end up back in the hulks.”

“No doubt one of us will,” Robert replied.

Folie pursed her lips and cut into the pie. “This smells delectable!” she said brightly. “How is the food here?”

“Excellent,’’ Robert said, at the same time that Sir Howard muttered, “Adequate.”

She took a bite. “It tastes marvelous,” she said, and then added, “Though I’m sure I’d think anything edible quite marvelous at this point.”

Robert smiled slightly. “Fence-sitting?”

“Yes, I am devoted to peaceable pursuits. I’ve had enough of adventure lately.” She felt odd and frivolous, almost blithe. As if in the release of tension, the terrors of the night dissolved in this flighty, light-spirited relief. “But when can we send word to Melinda? And Lady Dingley? Please. They’ll be frightened out of their wits.”

“Folly—” He fingered a flat-bladed knife that lay on the table, looking up at her. “Tell me what you remember of the note that you wrote.”

She paused with a bite poised. “Note?”

“The note about Vauxhall.” He glanced toward Sir Howard, and back at her. “The one that came to me.”

Folie ate more of the pie. She shook her head, frowning. “It’s all a blur. Vauxhall—I remember the fireworks. But...did I write a note to you?’’

“You told me—on the ship. Do you remember that? You said that you had written it to him.” He nodded toward Sir Howard.

Folie looked doubtfully at Sir Howard. He said nothing, giving her no aid. “Did I?” She frowned down at the steaming gravy on her plate. “I suppose...” She chewed her lip. When she tried to concentrate on the recent past, her memory seemed a confusion of vivid, distinct pictures, like frozen scenes lit by the bursting rockets at Vauxhall. “I don’t remember a note. Are you sure that I wrote it?”

“Utterly,” Robert said.

“How so?” Sir Howard demanded. “Perhaps it was a forgery. It makes no sense whatsoever, that she wrote a note to me, only to have it delivered to you!”

“It was not a forgery,” Robert said with certainty.

“Oh, are you so very familiar with Mrs. Hamilton’s handwriting?” he asked mockingly.

“Yes, Dingley,” Robert said with some exasperation, “I am.”