My Sweet Folly

  “Please, did Mrs. Hamilton bring the ferret home with her?’’ the boy piped eagerly.

  Robert cursed silently. He went quickly down the steps, about to tell the footman to send the child packing, when a woman spoke.

  “Hush, Christopher! The ferret indeed! We’ve come to inquire after Mrs. Hamilton. Chris thinks that he saw her just now return!”

  The servant cast Robert an inquiring look. He shook his head. Lander had come out into the hall. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Paine,” he said briskly. “Mrs. Hamilton is not at home.”

  “Yes, she is!” Christopher cried. He managed to insinuate his towhead into the door, in spite of the unseen lady’s hand on his collar. “I saw her come in a cab!”

  “Christopher William! Come here! It was your imagination, my dear. Come—” The hand jerked him back out of view. “We are all so concerned about Mrs. Hamilton, Lander. Have you had any word of her health?”

  “I believe she is expected to recover fully, ma’am,” Lander said, while Christopher leaned against his mother’s hold like a straining dog on a leash, peering around the door. He looked at Robert, and then upward to the stair landing.

  “There she is!” he cried. “I knew she had come home!” He broke free of his restraint. The front door flung wide as he burst into the hall. “Mrs. Hamilton! Good day!” he exclaimed, with childhood’s happy certainty of welcome. “It’s Christopher! Where is Toot?”

  They all turned. Folie stood at the stair landing, the picture of good health. Robert stepped forward. “Come in, please!” he commanded, so that at least the door might be shut.

  Mrs. Paine entered with nearly as much cheerful aplomb as her son, though she apologized profusely for his outrageous behavior. She held out her hands as Folie came down the stairs. “My dear Mrs. Hamilton! How good to see you well! Gracious, we have been beside ourselves to hear you had taken ill so sudden! And Christopher has pined to play with the girls. But the country has done you a world of good—your cheeks are like pretty apples!”

  Folie greeted her, casting a guilty look toward Robert. But before he could even speak, another authoritative rapping from the door knocker reverberated in the hall. The footman received a pair of visiting cards, stood back with a proper formality, and announced, “Mrs. Witham-Stanley. Miss Davenport.”

  Robert and Lander exchanged looks as the new callers entered the house. Mrs. Witham-Stanley sought Robert with an eager smile, holding out her hand. He saw no help for it now.

  “Lander,” he said, “conduct the ladies up to the drawing room.” He gave a brief bow to Mrs. Witham-Stanley and the unexpected assemblage in the hall. “I am Robert Cambourne, by the way.”

  Mrs. Paine gave a small gasp. “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir! I did not realize.”

  “No matter, madam. Pray excuse me—I shall join you in a moment.”

  His nameless teacher waited in the breakfast room, calmly sipping coffee. Robert closed the door behind him. “The ladies who just arrived,” he said. “I believe we have an opportunity.”

  The other man lifted his eyebrows in question.

  “Can you play a doctor?” Robert asked.

  “My good man, I am an F.R.C.P.!”

  Robert grimaced. “Whatever that may be.”

  “A Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians.” He rose and brushed back his hair, becoming prim and spruce—and a good two inches shorter with no visible stooping, Robert could have sworn. “Dr. Ignacious Joyce. Magdalene College, Cambridge, offices in Jermyn Street.”

  “All right. You treated Mrs. Hamilton, the lady who just arrived, a fortnight ago.”

  “Ah! And perhaps I saw no hope for her, in spite of my most extreme exertions on her behalf.”

  Robert nodded. “She was at death’s door.”

  “Beyond the help of any medicine, even the most modern and efficacious treatment. I called in several colleagues, but to no avail.”

  “And now she is in perfect health.”

  Dr. Joyce smiled. “Indeed. I understand you, sir.”

  Folie sat perched on the edge of a chair, trying to say the right things. She knew something of the story that had been spread to cover her abduction—she had succumbed to a sudden illness and was removed to the country to recover under Melinda’s tender care, while the Dingleys, who naturally could not impose themselves by remaining at Cambourne House, packed themselves off home, cutting short their season.

  All that was simple enough. But she found that the details were deceptively easy to botch. Naturally Mrs. Paine, one of their more inquisitive neighbors on Curzon Street, would want to know all about what had happened, what physician had attended her, how she had borne the trip, why she had returned, and had Miss Melinda not come back also? Folie had never met Mrs. Witham-Stanley or Miss Davenport; she recognized their faces only distantly, from some party or other; she had no notion why they might have called at Cambourne House. She managed to look confused, ignored the greater number of the inquiries and appealed to Robert as he entered the drawing room for the name of the physician.

  “He is right here, my dear,” Robert said solicitously. “Dr. Joyce.”

  On his heels was the man Folie had glimpsed sitting with Lander and Robert in the breakfast room. He looked more genteel now, sleeked down like a very modem professional man. He came at once to Folie and sat down next to her, lifting her wrist. “I’m not surprised that you don’t remember me,” he said. “You were insensible at the time!”

  Mrs. Paine clucked sympathetically, shaking her head. Folie blinked at Dr. Joyce. He smiled at her absently as he felt her pulse.

  The room fell quiet. Folie could not imagine that they would be so prying; she had thought perhaps that this “doctor’s” appearance was some attempt by Robert to shame them all into excusing themselves and departing. However, if that was his intention, it miscarried completely. Mrs. Paine was affectionate, honest, kind—and one of the busiest gossips in Mayfair. Perhaps Robert was too innocent to recognize it, but Folie was well acquainted with the breed. Rivalry was paramount, and the earliest report secured the highest prize. Accurate particulars might be secondary to speed, but they were still significant. To have both, in the original firsthand account of such interesting news as Folie’s illness, would be a coup of no small measure.

  Everyone hung upon the physician’s pronouncement. Even young Christopher was silent, gripping his mother’s hand and staring with all the repelled wonder of a six-year-old boy who had stumbled upon a brain surgery.

  Dr. Joyce nodded to himself. He let go of her wrist and patted Folie’s hand as if she were a good student. “Perfect.” He turned to Robert. “I am not a man given to hyperbole, sir—but I believe this must be accounted one of the most astonishing recoveries I have ever had the good fortune to witness. Not a fortnight ago, when I was called in, I did not suppose this patient could survive the night.”

  “You are an excellent practitioner, sir,” Robert said, with a slight bow.

  The doctor hesitated, then shook his head. “Nay, sir. I do not take credit for this.”

  “Indeed, you must not be so modest. Your attendance was invaluable,” Robert said. He smiled at the other ladies. “I think I could recommend Dr. Joyce to your service without reservation.”

  The doctor rose, clearing his throat gruffly. “Too generous.” He bowed to the room, and once, deeply, to Folie. “I shall not disturb you further. I had merely wished to verify Mr. Cambourne’s happy report with my own observation.”

  “I thank you,” Folie said.

  “Ha. Do not thank me, ma’am. I am an honest man—I will take no credit when it is not due me. I even called in two colleagues of mine, as Mr. Cambourne can tell you. I shall not mention their names, but in that association, I think I may say without undue prejudice, you had in attendance the highest learning and experience that modern medicine can provide. And we were helpless. We could do nothing for you.”

  Folie saw that Mrs. Paine and the other women were listening raptly. She nodded, som
ber. “I must thank God to be alive.”

  “Aye!” The doctor cleared his throat. “Aye, God be thanked. And perhaps this gentleman here.” He nodded toward Robert, who shook his head negatively. “Well, sir, deny it if you will. But I am a physician. I am trained in scientific observation. I know what I saw.”

  “What did he do?” Mrs. Witham-Stanley asked, leaning forward in her chair. “Did he lay hands upon her?”

  “Madam, it was astonish—”

  “We thank you, Dr. Joyce,” Robert said, interrupting him. “I’m sure you are a busy man—we will take no more of your time. Lander will see you out.”

  The doctor bowed and went to the door. Lander was holding it open for him when abruptly he stopped and turned. “I wonder—” He lifted his finger. “You would not—but no...” He shook his head.

  “Sir?” Robert prompted.

  Dr. Joyce kept shaking his head. “I made considerable notes upon Mrs. Cambourne’s condition. I wonder—if I might be so entirely and unforgivably presumptuous—I wonder if I might ask her to condescend to appear at lecture I am to give upon—”

  “No,” Robert said firmly. “That will not be possible.”

  “Of course not.” The doctor’s cheeks grew ruddy. “You must accept my excuses for such audacity. But knowing what I saw—what you have done here, sir—”

  “Good day,” Robert said brusquely, nodding. “Lander will see you out.”

  “Of course. Of course.” The chastened doctor scuttled out of the drawing room. Robert closed the door behind him.

  “What could he mean?” Mrs. Paine was looking at Folie with barely suppressed excitement. “Whatever did he mean? Dear me, one would think the man had witnessed a miracle!”

  “I have no doubt that he did,” the older lady said wisely. “I saw him cure Mr. Bellamy myself.”

  “Who cured Mr. Bellamy?” Mrs. Paine demanded.

  “Why, Mr. Cambourne, of course!” She nodded at Folie. “You are blessed indeed, Mrs. Cambourne, in your husband.”

  Folie shook her head quickly, groping for some reasonable reply. But she was afraid to make any mistakes—she knew that Dr. Joyce must be part of the grand scheme, and she did not want to create any more glaring public contradictions than she already had by her very presence. She looked in dismay toward Robert, hoping that he could pass it off lightly.

  Instead, he looked back at her with an unreadable expression. The moment seemed to spin out to an agony of mortification. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she mumbled at last. “Mr. Cambourne and I are not married. I am Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Oh.” Folie could see Mrs. Witham-Stanley’s face change even as she said it. “Forgive me.” Their visitors all looked from Folie to Robert; the other ladies seemed—at least to Folie’s apprehensive vision—to grow stiff with affront.

  “Miss Melinda is with you?” Mrs. Paine asked kindly. She turned to the callers. “Have you met Miss Melinda Hamilton? No? She is a darling girl—so unfortunate that her season was interrupted, but now that Mrs. Hamilton has recovered so beautifully, all can go on gaily! Will the Dingleys be returning?”

  “No, no,” Folie said. “I am only here because I had to consult Mr. Cambourne upon—urgent business.” She waved her hand vaguely. “It was all so quick—Miss Melinda could not come.”

  “Oh! You have come alone?” Mrs. Paine asked. Folie could see her storing that scandalous tidbit away like a diligent squirrel.

  “Melinda could not come,” Folie said. “It was really impossible.”

  “How vexing. But you will remain at least a few days? Where are you staying?”

  “I—” Folie looked at Robert. She was sinking fast. “I really have not thought of that. This was a very hasty trip—I could not make arrangements ahead—I really must attend to that, but I haven’t yet had a moment to think of it.”

  “My poor dear! Do not trouble yourself over that trifle, then! Of course you know our home is open to you. You must stay with us.”

  Folie began to trip over her tongue, completely at a loss. She made helpless noises, wringing her hands in her lap.

  “No,” Robert said, in the same brusque tone he had used to dismiss the doctor. “That will not be possible, I am afraid.”

  “Nonsense, sir,” Mrs. Paine said. “She cannot stay here alone with you, and I will not hear of her going to a horrid hotel! Even if you are to move out of your own home, Mr. Cambourne—to have her stay in this great huge place by herself? No, no—it is out of the question. I know that you haven’t any relatives in town, Mrs. Hamilton, but consider us your family for the nonce.”

  “Thank you,” Folie said meekly. She glanced at Robert. “It might be for the best—”

  “No,” he said. “It will not do.”

  “Well!” Mrs. Paine ruffled a little. “I cannot see any objection!”

  “Truly, I believe Mrs. Paine’s kindness could be the solution.” Folie was thinking of Melinda’s prospects. If she insisted upon staying here now, with Robert, the knowledge would be all over Mayfair by evening. Bad enough, that she had already been discovered here in town without a decent companion—she desperately did not want Melinda’s reputation and future to be tarnished by any hints of improper behavior by her stepmother.

  “No.” His answer was adamant. He scowled at her. “What are you thinking of? Mrs. Paine, we are much obliged to you, but it is impossible.”

  “But, sir—” Mrs. Paine was sitting stiffly at the edge of her chair. “Why ever should it be impossible?”

  “Circumstances,” Robert said. “Private circumstances.”

  Their neighbor looked at him, her eyebrows lifting. “Allow me to be frank, Mr. Cambourne. I’ve every sympathy for your desire for privacy, but perhaps, as you are not very well acquainted with our London ways, you should listen to those who are more experienced. I do not know how it may be in India, but in London, it does not look well for Mrs. Hamilton to be here.”

  “I am perfectly aware of that, madam. I thank you for your advice and interest.”

  “As a gentleman,” Mrs. Paine persisted, “I apprehend that you do not quite understand how delicate a lady’s reputation can be, and how easily damaged. A pretty young widow’s in particular.”

  His face had begun to change. Folie had seen that look; hunted and yet hostile. She gripped her hands uneasily together.

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “However, there are other circumstances in this case—”

  “I know you would not wish to compromise Mrs. Hamilton or her stepdaughter in the slightest manner!”

  “Mrs. Paine—”

  She grabbed Christopher, clapping her hands over his ears. “Mr. Cambourne!” she hissed in agitation. “Do you not understand me? People will suppose she is—’’

  “Thank you, Mrs. Paine!” he snapped, cutting her off. “You need not sully anyone’s ears with your insinuations, madam. In fact, you may tell the entire city that we are engaged. Now that she is recovered, Mrs. Hamilton and I are to be married in a private ceremony this afternoon.”

  Folie felt as if the floor had sunk into the basement under her feet. The room fell silent. She just managed to keep herself from exclaiming, What?

  She gathered her senses and shook her head vigorously. “But—Robert...”

  “Everything is arranged, my sweetest,” he said, giving her a pointed glare. “I’m sorry that we could not keep our secret. Pray do not exercise yourself over it.”

  Folie took the hint. She said nothing more. He had landed them in the soup now. Of course he was inventing anything that might throw Mrs. Paine off her dogged notion. Folie would have staked her whole jointure that he hoped his announcement would shame them all into going away with their tails between their legs. And then this “engagement” could be forgotten.

  It was a grandly foolish attempt, hastily conceived and hopeless. But let him extricate himself. It served him quite well, she thought, for the mean, low things he had said of marriage and wives.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Paine c
ried, recovering from her stunned silence. “But how splendid!” She hurried over and clasped Folie’s hands. “Oh, what a shock! Forgive me! Do forgive me.”

  “No, no,” Folie murmured. “It’s quite all right. You could not know.”

  “Do tell me what I can do! Have you a proper bouquet?” She looked over her shoulder at Robert. “Are the flowers ordered?”

  “Yes, everything has been taken care of.”

  “What nurseryman did you use? Not that paltry fellow in Shepherd’s Market, I hope! Have they been delivered yet?”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Witham-Stanley said, “I used him myself just last month—I was wholly disappointed. His lilies were perfectly atrocious. I cannot endorse him.”

  “Cancel it!” Mrs. Paine straightened up militantly. “You may leave the flowers to me. Depend upon it, I shall see that you have the loveliest bouquet you can conceive!”

  “And pray let me send over a plum cake!” Mrs. Witham-Stanley exclaimed. “But what sort of bride cake have you planned, Mr. Cambourne?”

  “We have a plum cake,” he said swiftly.

  “But is it to be iced? My cook creates the most splendid marchpane icing for a decoration. You have not seen the like. I should consider it an honor, my dear Mr. Cambourne. I’ve recalled so much of that dream of my sweet mother—you don’t know what pleasure it has given me! If you had not brought it into my mind, what would I have done?”

  “And I have a recipe for a French kickshaw,” Miss Davenport offered shyly. “I should be happy to have one made up for the occasion.”

  Folie bit both her lips together. Robert looked as if a calamity had overtaken him.

  “You are all very kind—” he said. He glanced at Folie. She sat still, wickedly innocent.

  “Come, Christopher! We have much to do! I vow I shall pick out the most perfect blooms myself.” Mrs. Price took her son’s hand. “Oh—I’ve just had the most charming notion! Would you like for Christopher to stand up with you, and hand Mr. Cambourne the wedding ring? I’ve just bought a new lace collar for his blue velvet coat—he is such a darling in it!”