My Sweet Folly (5 page)

Your Knight,
 

Robert Cambourne

Folie shook her head. She read it again, and laughed angrily, giddily, to herself. “You must be mad!” she whispered.

An investigation of the fat packet and its contents showed that the travel plans and expenses had all been arranged by the efficient and attentive Mssrs. Hawkridge and James.

The bedroom door opened. “Whatever is it?” As Folie turned, Melinda slipped in, her pretty face clouded with worry. “What’s the news?”

Folie stood up from the chair. “Your guardian wishes to see you.”

“Oh.” Melinda’s expression relaxed. “Well, that is not so bad! Sally and Cook said that from the look upon your face, it was something very shocking.”

“It is shocking,” Folie said dryly. “Considering that he has not lifted a finger on your behalf in years!”

“Lieutenant Cambourne? Well, he has been in India, has he not?” Melinda’s lashes swept upward. “Surely he does not expect us to travel out there!”

“No, only as far as Buckinghamshire, I’m afraid. He is at Solinger Abbey.”

“Solinger! Oh, I shall like to see that place! It must be very grand.”

“As grand as all the gems in India can make it, I have no doubt. But happily for our self-respect, we need not concern ourselves with vulgar calculating designs on the Cambourne fortune. He is married.”

“I shall pay him no mind, then.” Melinda gave a pert grin. “Besides, as a calculating hussy, I insist upon having all the sport of hunting down my own rich bachelor—perhaps a few years younger!”

“Why, today of all days, is this household so haunted by allusions to decrepitude and old age?” Folie exclaimed. “The poor gentleman is but four years older than I. But never mind, if he is too dilapidated for your taste, you shall simper prettily at him anyway. We might move to his house in town for the season if—”

“Of course! Of
course!
Oh, Mama, you are wicked!”

“If the notion should happen to occur to him,” Folie finished gravely.

“That will be no problem. You can wrap him about your little finger,” Melinda said.

“I quite doubt that. He has not written since—” Folie paused. “Shortly after your papa died, God bless him. But we shall do our best to squeeze Lieutenant Cambourne for our own nefarious purposes. You are to leave for Buckinghamshire tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! As soon as that?”

Folie waved a limp hand at the packet. “Hawkridge and James,” she said helplessly. “You know how they are.”

Melinda made an unladylike snort. “I know for a certainty that you can wrap
them
about your finger. Why should we hurry so?”

“I see no reason to delay. Your spring wardrobe is quite ready.”

“But the packing—”

“Why, have you never stayed up all night to pack for a mad flight from your evil creditors? It is most diverting.” She walked past Melinda, sliding a finger under her stepdaughter’s chin. “Seize your gowns and what’s left of your jewels, my child, and you shall be off to skin fresh pigeons!”

“Such a shady character you are, Mama,” Melinda said fondly.

“I know,” Folie said from beyond the door. “I really believe I should have been born a highwayman.”

She finished packing for her stepdaughter at 4 a.m., long after a somnolent Melinda had fallen asleep in a chair and been coaxed off to bed. Folie decided it was best simply to stay awake until seven, when the post chaise was scheduled to arrive at their door. She made herself a cup of tea in the kitchen and sat alone at the table, reading the letter again.

Her sweet knight. From half a world away, he had come to her through his letters, whimsical and intriguing, shy and flirtatious, a unicorn stranded in the solid beef of the Indian Army.

She sipped her tea and toyed with the corner of the paper. It had been a woman’s dream, of course. All an impossible fancy.

She had not been able to remain angry at him. In the days after his last letter, she had hated him; hated herself for what she had allowed to happen to her. But that had faded, slowly faded, with time and an eternity of heartache. How could she blame him for deceit, for drawing her into loving him, when she had slipped and skidded so easily down that slope herself? She could hardly remember the unhappy girl she must have been, to develop such a passion for a man who was no more than ink upon paper.

It was best, the way he had done it. She did not doubt that. Folie knew herself; she had longed to write him, to maintain a connection, to remain friends. And yet at the same time she had known how impossible it must be—that she could not keep her heart out of it.

So she had not written. Only thought of him every day of the past four years, until he was a habit, a smile and a gentle stroke of the blue cashmere shawl when she rose, a little prayer for him each night.

Only a few months after his last letter, Mssrs. Hawkridge and James had informed her that the father had passed away, and Lieutenant Robert Cambourne, being next named in the will, was now her stepdaughter’s guardian. But nothing had changed, no letter had come to her from him, and Folie had ceased watching for the post.

At least, she had ceased hoping. She had thought that she would watch for the rest of her life.

But now...

Now he asked her to come to him. Commanded it. By his letter, she thought his character must be much the same, but she was not so sure of her own. In the years after Charles’ death, her heart had toughened in some places and grown softer in others. She and Melinda had become friends, and friendship had grown into a deep love.

Melinda was her priority now. Folie could remember the silent, frozen battles from her stepdaughter’s childhood, but she could no longer feel them. Somewhere along the way the two women had thawed to one another—there was nothing in Folie’s life more important than that Melinda should make an excellent marriage, a happy marriage. And Folie would settle somewhere close by, but not too close by, perfectly comfortable on Charles’ modest pension, and there would be children to spoil and perhaps if she were fortunate some entertaining females to gossip with, and...

And she was commanded to meet him. To go to his home, to see his wife. A wave of despair washed over her. She did not want to meet him. She wanted him to stay forever as he had been in her memory, a perfect knight.
Her
knight, hers alone.

Her throat closed too quickly as she swallowed another sip of tea. She wrinkled her nose. With a deep unsteady breath, she folded the letter, slipped it into her apron, and stood up to wash her cup.

“Mama, this is perfectly absurd!” Melinda exclaimed, standing between her trunk and valise on the front stoop. An early morning fog obscured most of the village street. “I will not go alone!”

“Sally will do as a companion for the journey. The letters say you will be there before dark,” Folie said, bending down to check the leather buckle on the valise. “I really do not feel well enough to travel, and once you’ve arrived, Mrs. Cambourne will be a proper chaperon.”

“If you don’t feel well, then all the more reason I should remain here with you!” Melinda turned to Sally, pulling back the stylish gray hood of her cloak. “You must go for Dr. Martin directly.”

“No, no!” Folie said. “It’s not as bad as that. Just a touch of the headache.”

Melinda looked at her suspiciously. “Certainly your eyes are quite puffy and dull,” she said. “You look as if you’ve been weeping all night.”

“Thank you so much,” Folie said. “I feel as if I have been packing all night!”

“Well,
I
did not insist upon it! This is entirely silly. It’s no wonder you feel unwell, staying up till all hours. I simply do not see why there is this great rush—”

‘“There, that will be the postchaise,’’ Folie said, straightening up at the sound of hooves and a creaking jingle that carried through the fog.

Down the street, a handsome carriage materialized, the horses moving at a slow walk jwhile the postboy, mounted on the leader, peered about at the houses. There were even two footmen up behind, a most luxurious touch. Folie lifted her hand and called out to them.

“I am not going,” Melinda announced. “I will not go without you, Mama.”

The vehicle came to a halt before Bridgend House. Next door, a parlor window opened and the two Misses Nunney leaned out like a pair of capped and gray-headed puppets.

“Of course you are going,” Folie said under her breath. She motioned to the baggage as the two footmen leaped down. “This is all.”

One of them came up the steps and bowed to her. “Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Yes,” Folie said, looking up at the burly young man. In spite of his polished bow, there was an air of toughness about him, as if he could turn his hand to dock work as well as a lady’s luggage. “Come, Sally, where is the small basket, the one I packed for inside the cab?’’

“Here, ma’am.” The maid picked up the basket.

“Put it in, then.” Folie turned to the footman, who had made no move to begin loading. She waved her hand toward the trunk. “No doubt that one should be put up first,” she said helpfully.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “I’m to inquire if one of these cases is yours?”

“No, I am afraid not. I’m not well enough to travel.”

“Mama!”

Folie gave her stepdaughter a pointed glare. “Do not make a scene, Melinda. Half the village is watching. Sally,
do
put that basket in the chaise!”

“Beg pardon, ma’am.” The footman produced a letter from his pocket. Folie tried to hide the little twist of her heart as she saw the familiar lettering. She slipped the note into her apron pocket.

The footman made another bow. “Mr. Cambourne sent instructions that you must read directly his letter that I put into your hands.”

“Indeed!” Folie stood straight. “I don’t believe I am under any obligation to him to do so.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the footman said. “Then I am not to do any loading, by Mr. Cambourne’s instructions.”

“I beg your pardon?” Folie exclaimed.

“Whatever has got into you, Mama?” Melinda hissed, waving cheerfully at the Misses Nunney. “Only read the gentleman’s note. Perhaps it is a change of plan!”

Folie stepped back into the house, pulled the door closed and tore open the seal on his folded letter, scowling.

My dear,

You are digging in your heels, I see, if you are reading this. My sweet Folly, I know this is difficult for you. You need not forgive me, or even speak to me if you like, but muster your courage. You are no coward, of that I am certain. But if you do not come now, I shall not waste time about retrieving you in person.

Robert

She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall with a small sound of misery. “Oh, do not make me come. Don’t make me come.”

All the shame of that moment when she had read his last letter washed over her again, the shattering realization of her foolishness, her loneliness, of her secret treason. She had never had a right to love him, never a claim to any truth from him, and yet the humiliation had burned as deep as if he had courted her like a rightful suitor. She had done it to herself, had never asked or wished to ask if he were free; had forgotten that she was not; had fallen insensibly, irrationally in love with an unthinkable dream.