My Sweet Folly (59 page)

Folie said nothing. She squeezed Lady Dingley’s hand.

“What did I do wrong?” Lady Dingley moaned. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“It is not your fault.”

“I loved him so much! That was what did it. I loved him too much. It’s not a good thing, for a woman to be in love with her husband. Oh, but we used to be...it was so...” She made a whimpering sigh that turned into a sob. “And now he has...some horrid...some awful—g-g-girl!”

Folie handed her a fresh handkerchief. She wished that she had Sir Howard at the point of a sword.

“I don’t know what to do,” Lady Dingley cried. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You can stay here as long as you like,” Folie said soothingly. It was only after she said it that she realized that it might not be such an excellent idea—still, at least for tonight, it must do.

“But the girls.” Lady Dingley blew her nose. “When they wake up, they’ll want me.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At that h-hideous Limmer’s Hotel. I hate it! And he said the girls must have their own room—probably because he
knew
he was going to shout at me until I could not endure it! It was as if he meant to do it! As if he would not be satisfied until I s-said I would leave him!”

Folie remembered that Limmer’s was where Sir Howard always stayed. She sat back on her heels, wishing desperately that Robert or Lander would come back. The later it grew, the more her nerves tightened. She should never have let Robert walk out that gate, never. It seemed insane now.

The doorbell rang again. Lady Dingley drew in a sharp breath, but Folie was already on her feet and running to the stairs. “Robert?” she called, halfway down, before Martin even made it to the front door.

A heavy fist pounded on the door. It rang again.

“Hurry!” Folie cried, thinking it must be Robert in danger. “Open it!”

Martin flung wide the door. Sir Howard stood in the rain, his hat brim-dripping. “Please,” he said, without stepping inside. He looked up to where Folie stood on the stairs. “I wish to speak to Lady Dingley.”

Folie stood rigid. She was not at all inclined to let him in—but the door stood open, and suddenly he took off his hat.

“Oh, God. Let me see her.” His voice was strained, hardly even audible.

“All right,” Folie said coldly. “You may stay a few moments.”

“But, ma’am—” Martin said.

Folie knew she should not allow Sir Howard inside. But the look upon his face was nothing calculating—it held as much unhappy desperation as his wife’s.

“Close the door,” she ordered. “Be quick. And keep close watch for Mr. Cambourne’s return. I’m frightened that he’s been gone for so long.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Martin said unhappily. “I’ve sent to Mr. Lander to tell him Mr. Cambourne’s gone missing, ma’am, but nothing comes back.”

“They aren’t here?” Sir Howard asked, pausing with his hand on the newel post.

“Not at present,” Folie said briefly. “But you may see Lady Dingley in the drawing room. And I’ll just mention, sir, that she is welcome here at Cambourne House as long as she likes to remain.”

He put his head down and mounted the stairs. Folie went ahead of him, and made him wait in the passage while she went in to warn his wife.

Lady Dingley met her news with wide terrified eyes. “Stay with me!” she whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

“Yes—all right.” Folie opened the door and beckoned to Sir Howard. He came inside, holding his hat between his hands. As Folie closed the door behind him, he turned quickly.

“Cambourne is not here?” he asked.

Folie kept her hand on the door knob. A new note had entered his voice—something in it made the base of her spine tingle.

“No,” she said. “You did not wish to see him, I presume?”

He stood facing her, not even looking at his wife. His mouth was pale; quivering. Folie’s heart began to pound in her throat. She could see his hand behind his hat—hidden.

“H-howard?” Lady Dingley said unsteadily.

He turned his head. But still he did not move, or take his eyes from Folie. She wondered if she could pull open the door and race out fast enough to escape him.

“Are the g-girls still asleep?” Lady Dingley asked in a small, shaky voice.

His face worked, his mouth tight and his eyes wide. He began to look as wild as a silent madman. He stepped forward, seizing Folie’s arm just as she yanked at the door. His hat rolled away on the floor, leaving him holding a gun openly, but he did not aim it. Instead he squeezed her arm until she squealed, the pistol clutched in his white fist. He was panting like a dog. “You’re hiding him!” he exclaimed. “Tell me where he is!”

“I don’t know!” Folie cried. “He left the house! He’s gone!”

Sir Howard stared at her. As Folie watched, a disintegration seemed to overtake him. His menacing stiffness failed; he let go of her. His limbs seemed to give way—he fell to his knees on the floor.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “God save me.”

“Howard?” Lady Dingley whispered. “What is it?”

He shook his head, lifting the pistol in his hand, covering his face.

“What is it?” Lady Dingley cried. “What is that? Put it down! Put it down!” Folie held her breath. Sir Howard knelt on the floor, the gun at his head. She saw his hand tighten on the handle, aiming the muzzle toward himself.

“Howard,” Lady Dingley said, in a voice that had suddenly gone icy and clear. It was as if someone else in the room had spoken. Some voice like a cold angel, a ruthless guardian. “You cannot do that. Your daughters need you.”

Sir Howard began to shake all over.

“We need you,” his wife whispered, her own quavering self again.

Sir Howard make a choked sound. He closed his eyes and laid the gun down on the carpet. Silent tears ran down his face.

“Please,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes and looked up at Folie. “Please help me. I can’t do this. My little girls—” His eyes widened again and his jaw grew rigid in that maddened look. “I need help!”

“The girls?” Lady Dingley asked, her voice peaking to a panic.

He never took his eyes from Folie. “They have my little girls,” he said, barely audible. “I have to bring Cambourne back.”

“Who has them?’’ Lady Dingley cried. She grabbed her husband’s arm, dragging at him. “Who has them?”

Folie stared back at him as a clear, terrible understanding dawned. “You came for Robert,” she whispered. “You staged this all to get in.”

“What?” Lady Dingley tugged at him frantically. “What is it? Who has my girls?”

“Quiet!” Folie said, dismay adding a biting command to her voice. “Get up. Get up and tell me everything.”

Sir Howard rose, ignoring his frenzied wife. “I must have Cambourne by dawn,” he said. “They are holding the girls until dawn.”

Lady Dingley turned to Folie, gone mute now, holding her husband’s arm with a grip like death.

“I tried to refuse,” he said. “I told them I’d have nothing to do with it. I never from the beginning wanted anything to do with it!”

Folie gazed at him, her body as still as the silent street outside.

“Please help me,” he said. His voice broke. “I’ve tried to handle it; I thought I could handle it. I never wanted Belle to find out. I could handle it alone. But they just—whatever I do, they want more.” He looked down at the gun at his feet. “I could not do this. I told them I would not do this. But my girls. My girls.” He made a deep sob and closed his eyes. “Pray God, please help me.”

“Yes,” Folie said. Her mind was racing wildly. “Let me think.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The sale horses at Tattersall’s Repository dozed and nibbled hay and snorted softly. Even deep in the night, the trading stable was alive with gentle rustling; now and then the deep thud of a hoof sounded against a stall partition. Robert sat on a stool tilted up against the wall, watching the night grooms roll dice and clean leather tackle.

He was not the only gentleman who had wandered in out of the rain. In the far corner, two drunken young lords leaned against one another, having fallen fast asleep in the midst of an argument over what horse had come in fifth last season in the Hundred Guineas at Ascot. A veterinarian came in and out, checking every hour on a horse that seemed like to colic, shooting dice in the intervals to keep himself awake. The grooms addressed a nod and a civil word to whoever rambled in, and scrupulously avoided any illicit monetary bets on their devil’s bones.

Robert had spent countless nights this way, sheltered among tolerant strangers. He had not gone far away from Cambourne House—his retreat had taken him only as far as Hyde Park Corner, a few streets off, before rain and hard reflection drove him to take cover in the auctioneer’s stable.

He sat there a long time, locked in his rusted armor. The image she had evoked was so vivid that he felt almost physically frozen, benumbed and unable to move.

He had fallen in love with his sweet Folly so long ago that it hardly mattered when it had happened. Fallen in love with her stories of wayward geese and pigs, with her dreams of knights and her embroidered “R. C.” on a handkerchief—with the way the stitches were not quite even toward the right-hand side, as if she had grown impatient to finish and send it off. He had fallen in love with her fears and her sorrows, her life that had come to him through her letters—in love with a grown woman who called in a solicitor’s office with an evil-tempered ferret wrapped in a shawl.

There was so little in all of that to fear, and yet he was terrified. It was as if his heart skidded down an endless drop and he could not see the bottom.

Are you afraid?
Lander demanded, with such an unbelieving look.

Of course I’m not afraid, Robert thought hotly.

But he was. Afraid of failing. Afraid of falling back into madness. Afraid of losing Folly.

So what did he do? He failed his task. He claimed the madness for reality—there was no plot, no enemy; only his irrational mind. He walked away and left her. Point by point, he insisted that what he feared must be the truth, even if he had to make it true.

But still he sat frozen, caught between going away and going back.

A gray tabby cat slipped into the stable and moved among the shadows, keeping close to the wall. The animal was missing an ear and walked with the stiff hind legs of advanced age. Its fur was drenched, its white paws muddied.

The horse doctor murmured, “Kitty, kitty,” but the cat only glanced at him warily and sat down at the edge of the light. It began to groom itself carefully, starting with its remaining ear.

“Kitty, kitty,” the doctor said again, gently. The cat gave him an aloof look and moved farther away, into a half-lit corner.

“Cool old campaigner,” one of the grooms said. “Won’t have no truck with a kind word.”

Sitting alone, the cat worked its fur. When it had cleaned and dried itself, it looked out from its safe corner, slowly waving the tip of its kinked tail.

When the veterinarian had gotten up again to examine his horse, and the grooms were absorbed in their game, Robert felt something rub against his leg. The old tabby leaned against him. It began to purr.

Robert pushed it away with his knee. In response, the cat lifted a white paw and tentatively touched his leg. Then with a graceful spring it came into his lap. It curled up and lay down, purring so loudly that he could feel the vibrations in his belly.

He picked it up and deposited it on the floor. The cat, undaunted, rubbed its leg and rose on its haunches, placing both front paws on its thigh.

“No,” he said irritably. “I can’t keep you.”

The animal ignored him, leaping up into his lap again in sublime confidence. He thought of Skipper, lost—he thought of Phillippa; he thought of Folie.

I love you, Robert.

I can’t keep you.

I can’t keep you; I can’t bear to lose you. It’s because I’ll lose you that I can’t...I can’t...

Rusted. Rusted solid in his armor.

Robert looked down at the old cat settling in his lap. Lander was wrong; his magician-tutor was wrong. It was not his life Robert feared to lose. It was his life that he feared to live.