The Folly at Falconbridge Hall

by Maggi Andersen

  Fear stilled her breath as she rushed to the window. It afforded an even better view of the folly than hers. As she watched, a small shadow broke from the trees and raced across the lawns towards the light. The moonlight picked up a flash of blue. Blythe, in her blue dressing gown.

  Vanessa flew downstairs and flung open the front door. Leaving it ajar, she rushed out into the darkness. She almost tripped on the steps, her eyes raking the shadows ahead. Racing across the lawns with frost crunching underfoot, she entered the pitch-black copse of trees. She banged into a tree branch in her rush scratching her cheek. When she emerged, the folly stood silent and still beneath the moon. The light had vanished, and there was no sign of Blythe. She crept over the ground, her heart thumping, fearful of what she might find. “Blythe?”

  “I’m here, Nessa!”

  A small body sat hunched over on the steps in deep shadow.

  Relieved, Vanessa ran to her, sending up a prayer of thanks to find her safe. A glance told her the folly was deserted. “Blythe, what are you doing out here?”

  “I saw the fairy lights from my window, but they’ve gone. Fairies are very shy.”

  Vanessa put her arm around her trembling shoulders. “Let’s go back to the house before you catch your death.” She led her away. “You know, you promised to come and get me before you went to find the fairies.”

  Blythe sneezed. “Did I? I forgot. I wanted to surprise them.”

  “Let’s hurry. It’s going to snow again. I felt a snowflake touch my cheek.”

  Blythe’s teeth were chattering. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could skate on the lake?”

  Vanessa took off her cape and wrapped it around Blythe. “Yes, sweetheart, let’s run.” More afraid Blythe would get sick than of running into anyone, she half pulled her along.

  Back in the bedroom, she removed Blythe’s dressing gown. Her little body felt icy cold. Vanessa tucked her into her bed, piling on extra blankets, and rang for a hot water bottle and warm milk. She was rubbing Blythe’s hands when a sleepy-eyed Agnes brought them.

  Blythe sipped the milk, handed her the glass and lay down.

  “Sweetheart, did you see anyone in the garden?”

  “The fairies flew into the wood. They were too fast for me.”

  “Was it just the light you saw?”

  She had finally stopped trembling and yawned, snuggling down against the pillows. “Yes.”

  “More than one?”

  “There was just one in the folly. Another waited in the woods. I wish I’d seen them, Nessa. What do you think they look like?”

  “There were no fairies, Blythe.”

  Blythe’s drooping lids threatened to close.

  Vanessa shook her gently by the shoulder. “You’ll never go there without me again, will you? I want you to promise.”

  “I promise. I’m very sleepy, Nessa.” She shut her eyes, and then opened them again. “If they aren’t fairies, what could they be?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Vanessa kissed her brow. “Sleep now.”

  She left the room feeling relieved that Blythe appeared unharmed by her experience.

  Before breakfast the next morning, Vanessa walked down to the folly. She carefully examined the ground all around it. The frost had melted, and no footprints showed in the hard ground. She climbed the steps. There were deep gouges in the wood, as if something heavy had been dragged across the folly floor. She was sure she would have noticed the marks had they been there before. What had caused them?

  Returning to the house, Blythe was listless and complained of aching joints. “You’d best remain in bed,” Vanessa said as her stomach churned with worry.

  By lunchtime, Blythe had developed a temperature. Dr. Marston came within the hour. He stated gravely that he feared Blythe’s chest infection had returned. Worried sick, Vanessa ordered a bed to be moved into Blythe’s room. She spent hours reading to Blythe while anxiously observing the wan face on the pillow.

  Vanessa hardly slept during the night as Blythe’s condition worsened. The next day the child barely responded and sank into a deep sleep. She tossed and turned, her face feeling hot and dry to the touch.

  The doctor visited every day, but several days passed with little change. Blythe would wake briefly and slip into sleep again. Vanessa remained by her side all day. She lay awake listening to her labored breathing all night. She prayed constantly for Blythe to get better. She and Julian loved Blythe so much. If anything happened to her … she buried the thought with a painful gasp. As each day the doctor continued to shake his head with a worried frown.

  Several days later, Blythe appeared to have grown worse. She kicked off her blankets and muttered incoherently. So frightened she could barely breathe, Vanessa remained beside her bed, bathing Blythe’s brow with a cool damp cloth. The child was flushed, a film of sweat gathered on her brow where damp ringlets clustered. Vanessa knew she should write to Julian, but dared not to put the words on paper, until she had something positive to say.

  Dr. Marston studied his watch, holding Blythe’s delicate wrist in his fingers. “The fever is approaching its crisis,” he said his forehead furrowed with concern. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Vanessa felt cold inside as she watched Blythe toss about and murmur incoherently.

  Another night dragged by. Vanessa was losing sight of how long it had been. She didn’t even know what it was like outside. Was that rain she heard?

  “You must rest, too,” Mrs. Royce said in the morning. “It won’t do if you become sick.”

  Completely drained, Vanessa resisted. “Never mind me, I have a strong constitution.”

  “Nevertheless, you won’t be any use to Blythe if you fall ill yourself, my lady. Now, don’t you worry, I’ll sit with Blythe and I’ll call you immediately if there’s any change.”

  Vanessa lay down on her bed, her body stiff with fear. She was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink, even though she’d barely napped since this began. Surprisingly, she fell into a deep sleep and dreamed that Julian was there beside her. She woke suddenly when a hand touched her shoulder. “Julian?”

  “No, it’s Mrs. Royce, my lady. Forgive me, you didn’t answer my knock.”

  “Blythe?” Sitting up too fast, Vanessa put a hand to her spinning head.

  Mrs. Royce was actually smiling. “The fever has broken. Blythe appears to be improving. The doctor is with her.”

  Vanessa jumped off the bed and ran to Blythe’s room. The doctor greeted her cheerfully. One glance at the bed told her that Blythe was indeed better. “Hello, Nessa.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m hungry.”

  “Are you, sweetheart? That’s wonderful.” Vanessa turned to the housekeeper. “Thank you for staying with Blythe, Mrs. Royce. Would you have a tray sent up? Something light.”

  “Jam muffins,” Blythe said, “and hot chocolate.”

  “Jam muffins and hot chocolate it is then.” Vanessa smiled at Blythe for making the most of her illness.

  Outside in the corridor, the doctor confessed his diagnosis had been wrong. It was not a recurrence of the old illness. Blythe’s chest was clear. When he left, Vanessa went to her room and sank down on the bed. Her chest heaved, and tears dripped off her chin. If only Julian was here and she could hear his voice, feel his arms around her. She sniffed, dried her eyes, and returned to Blythe, propped up by pillows while nibbling on a muffin. Vanessa picked up a book. “Shall I read to you?”

  She read for an hour until Blythe yawned. “Why don’t you have a sleep before lunch?”

  After Blythe closed her eyes and sank into a healthy sleep, Vanessa went downstairs for a light lunch and a cup of tea.

  She entered the sickroom after lunch, and found Blythe crossly insisting she be allowed to get up. “Not today, sweetheart, you may sit in the chair tomorrow if you’re well enough. We’ll continue with the book, shall we?”

  Blythe lay back obediently as Vanessa read Treasure Island to her. She took on a gruff tone wh
en she read in Captain Smollett’s voice.

  “You sound a bit like the man I heard in the garden the night I went to the folly,” Blythe said, her eyes closed.

  Vanessa lowered the book. “You heard a man’s voice? Have you ever heard him before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did he say?”

  “‘We’ll have to move it.’”

  “He didn’t say what it was?”

  “Perhaps it was pirate treasure. That’s all I heard. But I was annoyed because he scared the fairies away.”

  Her words brought Vanessa to her feet. “I’ll be out for a little while, sweetheart. I’ll call Agnes to sit with you.”

  Vanessa located Johnson and asked him to gather the staff together in the ballroom.

  An hour later, she stood before the room of curious faces. “The folly is out of bounds to the staff for now. It’s structurally unsound. Some wood rot has been found, and timbers must be replaced.”

  Not waiting to be dismissed Lovel turned and left the room, without another word. Unnerved by his obvious lack of respect, Vanessa said, “Thank you, that’s all.” She waved a hand to dismiss the rest of the staff. “You may return to your work.”

  It did not seem to matter. Whatever Vanessa said, Blythe was determined to believe in the fairies. Vanessa wished she could be sure the child would not visit the folly again. Could she be sure whoever was responsible would stay away?

  The next morning, she and Johnson searched the folly again. She bent to scrutinize the scratched boards. “Move the chaise, please, Johnson.”

  Vanessa admired Johnson’s quiet strength. The big man didn’t offer an opinion and wouldn’t unless he had something noteworthy to contribute. The chaise longue was pushed back, revealing deeper gouges. Vanessa ran a finger along the edges where the boards were badly scraped. Some appeared to have been tampered with, the nails newer than the rest. “I want these taken up.”

  Johnson returned with a hammer. Flexing his muscled arms, he levered up several boards with little effort. An opening appeared, big enough for a man to fit through. Johnson sank to his hands and knees and stuck his head down.

  Vanessa held her breath wondering what could lie beneath the pretty structure.

  “Can’t see anything. Shall I go down, my lady?”

  “If you will, Johnson.” She was confident that nothing and no one could get the better of Johnson.

  He jumped agilely down beneath the floor. The folly floor was high enough off the ground for him to stand.

  “Nothing here, my lady,” he called up.

  Vanessa bit her lip as frustration surged through her. “Are you sure?”

  He squatted down. “The ground’s disturbed, but that might have been made by an animal. Hang on, what’s this then?” He climbed out and offered her a piece of jewelry nestling in his wide palm.

  Vanessa picked it up and dusted the dirt of it. “It’s a cameo.” The brooch was a profile of woman dressed in a bonnet. It was carved in green malachite and set in white gold.

  “I wonder how that got under the folly.” Johnson scratched his head.

  “It looks years old,” Vanessa said, turning it over. “The pin has broken off. Might it have slipped through the boards at some time?”

  Johnson looked doubtful as he wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

  Vanessa tucked the cameo into the pocket of her jacket, wondering about the history of it. It looked too big to have fallen through a crack, but it might have lain there since the folly was built. It occurred to her it could have belonged to Clara. “Let’s leave the boards as they are, Johnson. It will deter visitors.” She picked up her skirts and descended the stairs, returning to the house.

  After her message to the staff, and the floor taken up, the folly received no nightly visitors. Every morning before breakfast, she walked down to check. Light snow dusted the ground, and any footprints from the previous evening would have been obvious.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wandering away from camp, Julian collected some excellent specimens. He discovered a broad pool, the banks covered in soft green grass. It swarmed with waterfowl such as snowy egrets and dark-colored striped herons. Macaws called from the top-most branches of the surrounding trees. He held his breath, caught by the colossal, pale silvery-blue butterflies floating above him in the still moist air. They seemed to sail a long way without a flap of their giant wings, riding the currents. Engrossed, his foot slipped off the bank, depositing him up to his thighs in the water. A ripple crossed the pool, and the nostrils of an alligator appeared.

  “Goddam it!” Julian struggled to gain a foothold in the bank, but the soft rim of earth kept giving way. He scrabbled at it, cursed, and fell back into the water.

  The beast swam closer. Julian swung around and faced it. He shoved at it violently with his butterfly net and slapped the water when the snout submerged. He expected to feel its teeth sink into his leg at any minute.

  As panic increased his strength two-fold, he put in a mighty effort; using his butterfly net as a lever, he heaved himself up and out of the water. He snatched up his belongings before the beast decided to pursue him on land. His soggy trousers flapping, and his wet boots rubbing his heels, he ran through the forest.

  Entering the camp, his close shave with the alligator was forgotten. He was excited with his find and keen to return to gather more specimens. As he crossed to his tent, he met Frobisher, who had just arrived.

  “Good trip?” he asked him.

  “Not bad. The worst of it is the tedium.”

  “The long boat trip? I agree.”

  “Should bring a woman with me.” Frobisher grinned. “Maybe I’ll take one back. One of those nice native maidens. Now that would set the cat amongst the pigeons, wouldn’t it?”

  Julian refused to be drawn. Pulling up his tent flap, he ducked inside and placed his specimens on the table.

  Frobisher followed him in. “What have you collected so far?” He took off his hat and ran a hand through the golden hair the native women seemed drawn to like moths to the flame. He sat and looked through Julian’s specimens and drawings.

  “These are excellent,” he commented, studying Julian’s collection of insects. “Black and vermillion Catagramma, named for the pattern under their wings that resembles Arabic numerals. Correct?”

  “Correct.” The man’s knowledge always impressed Julian.

  “Velvety-black, green, and rose-colored swallow-tailed Papilio,” Charles continued. “Remarkable Trojans, who never leave the shade of the forest, and the metallic blue, must be Morphos.” He paused over a huge drab-colored insect. “The hawk moth is a giant, isn’t it? Has a proboscis like a bird’s beak.”

  “Yes, a gentle giant.”

  “Is it? I believe the male douses the female with pheromones before mating.”

  “Some species do.” Julian threw a book at a monstrous hairy spider a half-foot across, climbing down the inside of the tent. It scampered away under the door flap.

  “I passed a village on the way here and plan to do some reconnaissance.”

  Julian stacked his papers into a neat pile and placed them in a folder. “Reconnaissance of what exactly?”

  Frobisher grinned, rested his boot against the table, and pushed his chair back onto two legs. “The local women. I’ve already seen one I’d like to ‘collect’.”

  “You should be careful in this region.” Julian attempted to veil his disgust for the man. “The Indians can be dangerous. If you rile them, who knows what might happen?”

  Frobisher’s gaze assessed him. “I’ll be working on the life-cycle of termites and ants while I’m here. Over the next few weeks, I should have enough to present to the British museum.”

  “So you’ll be ready to depart in May?” Julian asked with a raise of his brow. The man was up to something.

  Charles rested one leg over the other and tapped his boot. “I’d like to take a detour to search for the lost Inca city,” he said. “I
know you’re not keen, but the other two seem to agree with me.”

  Julian had feared as much. “We are botanists not archeologists. We’re not set up for such a trip. The rainy season will swell the creeks and rivers and make travel difficult,” he said, suspicious of the man’s motives. “If not impossible.”

  “You adapt.”

  “I don’t wish to adapt, Frobisher.”

  “Shall we put it to the vote?”

  “I doubt you’re asking my opinion.” Julian glared at him. “You will do what you want, whatever I say.” He understood how seductive searching for the lost Inca city would be to the others. To be the explorers who discovered the ancient city would be an achievement, not only for them, but also for the world. Others had tried and failed. It was madness to attempt such a trip. They would need to detour for new supplies. Then it would be hard to justify such added expense to the committee, and he refused to be involved with the looting of artifacts. As it was, he would miss Blythe’s eleventh birthday. The appalling thought gripped him that, if they chose to go against him, he wouldn’t return to England until Blythe was turning twelve. And Vanessa? He did not want their relationship to suffer from such a long absence.

  *****

  A few days later, Charles staggered into camp, his eyes glassy. He’d gone to the village the day before and only just returned. Most likely, he’d been imbibing the fermented liquors the natives made from bananas, Julian thought, revolted.

  “A great occasion. They killed a toucan,” Frobisher said wryly. “The women aren’t allowed to eat the meat. They can only sup the gravy.” He grinned. “I’ll take them a little of our meat and see what they think of that. There’s one woman there … .” He made a crude gesture with his hands at chest level.

  “Spare me the details.” Julian pushed his way into his tent. Frobisher was an enigma. A brilliant scientist, but with a destructive flaw which ran deep in him, seeming to poison everything he touched.

  Frobisher fell into his bunk and slept for hours. Then he joined Julian and the others in the main tent for a drink as they discussed their findings.