The Regency Romances

by Laura Kinsale

  “Did Mr. Hawkridge give you bad news?”

  “Nothing that I did not know already. We are entirely at the mercy of Mr. Robert Cambourne.”

  “Oh, that,” Melinda said dismissively.

  “Well enough for you to say ‘oh that’—you will have a rich husband to dote upon you the rest of your life!” Folie sat down and began to loosen her shoes.

  “Well...perhaps.”

  “While I shall be a slave to that—that—madman.” Folie kicked a shoe across the room. “Oh!” She pressed her fists against her eyes.

  “Mama—” Melinda said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Not now. Please. Let me rest a bit.”

  “But—”

  “No!” For the first time in her life as a mother, Folie let a note of impending tantrum leak into her own voice. She shook her head behind her hands. “I cannot, Melinda.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Please go away!”

  Folie heard Melinda breathing sharply. After a moment, her stepdaughter’s footsteps crossed the floor. The door opened and closed.

  Folie dropped her hands.

  She stared at the patterns on the India carpet, reds and blues and golds running together. With a speechless sound, she flung herself on the bed and curled her knees up against her chest.

  “What do you know?” she whispered, clinging to a pillow. “Silly girl, you won’t have to live alone. You won’t have to live on stupid dreams.”

  As night fell, the soft chatter of the knitting needles did not cease. There was a strange sheltered silence in the room, a hush between the fire and the rocking chair. Skipper stretched and slept.

  Robert sipped his ale. “What are you making?’’ he asked at last.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I just knits, and see what comes of it. Often enough, I pull it all apart again. But now and then, ah, my hands just seem to know what they want to do.”

  He smiled in the darkness. Skipper stood up and turned around, lying down again in the firelight.

  “I love the best what I make that way,” she said. “ ‘Just make a scarf,’ me husband he’d say. ‘Ye can turn out lovely stuff. Just make me a waistcoat, can’t you? How hard can it be?’ But even if I tried, it would come out ugly. And I took it apart. Don’t know why. It was because my hands wanted to make something else.”

  He thought of Phillippa. Can’t you just put your mind to something useful? You’ve wits enough. How hard can it be?

  “Makes no sense, I know,” the landlady said. Robert stared into the flames.

  “Yes, it does,” he said quietly.

  “Do you think?” The rocking chair creaked a little faster. “I never met a man before who didn’t laugh over it.”

  He was not laughing. He drank, watching her needles move with such smooth certainty. “I’ve never known what my hands wanted to do.”

  She smiled. “You must just let them move,” she said.

  “Ah. The secret.”

  She lifted yarn over her forefinger deftly. “They don’t always do the handiest thing for me. Times I would have liked a soft little cap for me grandbaby, and I got a shawl fit for a fine lady. But afterward I seen that the wool weren’t soft enough, and the ribbons I bought to weave in were too stiff for a baby. But the hands knew it, y’see, before I did.” She chuckled. “So I give it to me daughter-in-law, and never said naught o’ the cap at all. And she’s a happy mother, full o’ love. May be it’s that shawl, for she was main pleased by it.”

  Robert made slow circles with his thumb on the tabletop. “I wrote letters once. That way. Didn’t think. Just let my hands move.”

  “Did ye? And did it come out gainful in the end?”

  He smiled wryly. “She fell in love with me. The lady that I wrote to.”

  His hostess rocked, her needles working evenly. “You’re low tonight,” she said. “Thinkin’ of her?”

  “She says we never knew one another. It was all a dream.”

  “Was it?”

  “Of course.” He drew a long breath. “Of course she is right. I was in India—married, unhappy. She was here, and the same.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re both free now. But I didn’t do well by her.” He laughed harshly. “She says she has paid too much heart’s blood. Won’t pay more. Who could blame her?”

  “Hmmm,” the landlady said. “Hmmm.’’

  “God knows why I’m telling you this,” he said, rubbing his palm over his face.

  “Happen He does,” she murmured.

  He shook his head. “What am I going to do?” he asked the dark. The despair in his own voice shocked him.

  The landlady nodded in time with her rocking. “I conjecture ye’ll walk a good deal.”

  Robert chuckled bitterly. “Yes.”

  “Walk here and there. Never get nowhere.”

  “You must have known me in another life.”

  She smiled. “Men, they drink or they walk. As if there was something comin’ up behind ‘em, and if they stopped they might look round an’ see it.”

  “We have our reasons.”

  “Oh, aye. I reckon we all got reasons.” She paused in her knitting. “Like your old dog, the ugly yeller one.”

  “My wife had him shot.” Robert took a deep swallow of ale. “He tore her best petticoat off the line.”

  She nodded, as if she had already known it. “And this other lady, the one fell in love with your letters? She the sort kill an ugly dog over a petticoat?”

  “No.” He pushed the bundle of shawl and muff forward on the table. Gingerly he nudged the parcel. “She just handed me a damned ferret that bites me every time I touch it.”

  At the disturbance, the masked creature poked its head from its prison, upside down, and craned to look in all directions. Its tiny eyes glittered with malevolence and mischief.

  His landlady opened her mouth and laughed soundlessly. She began to knit again. “Well, sir. I think ye’d better stop walkin’. I believe ye’d better turn around and fight for that one. You won’t find diamonds worth so much.”

  Robert walked into his hotel rooms after noon the next day, carrying the ferret in a reliably locked cage. It was the third one he had bought—the thing had managed to escape all the others within moments. He set it down on a side table in the parlor and walked into the bedchamber to take off his hat and cloak. The animal began to run in frantic spinning circles, rattling the enclosure.

  In the doorway, he came to a sharp halt. Across the bed, neatly laid out, were a housemaid’s apron and cap. They were both covered in blood, steeped from the top down, as if from a cut throat.

  Robert stood frozen. Like a nightmare vision, he saw the girl Kathy’s terrified face, memory rising up to gag him. He stepped backwards into the parlor, looking around. The door to the wardrobe stood ajar. He yanked it open.

  The satchel where he had packed his journals was gone.

  His journals. Folie’s letters in them.

  It took only a minute to bundle what little he had brought with him into his valise. The cap and apron he stuffed into a linen bag, not daring to leave it. He wrote a note advising that his horse was to be stabled until further notice, folded inside twice the amount he calculated for his bill, addressed it to the manager and sealed it with a hotel wafer. He left the packet on the secretary.

  A vigorous clatter made him pause with his hand on the doorknob. The ferret was plucking energetically at the locked cage.

  “Right,” he muttered, and grabbed the trap as he went out the door.

  Folie was dreaming of Toot. He rattled his cage, speaking to her in Robert Cambourne’s voice, whispering her name urgently. Folie tried to open the cage, but her hands would not move.

  “Folly!” The imperative whisper came again. “Wake up.”

  His paw brushed her cheek lightly. Folie whimpered, trying to move, her mind surfacing in and out of the dream.

  She became aware of faint light, squinting her eyes against
it, turning her face down into the pillow.

  “Folly.” Something touched her again.

  She leaped in the bed, turning over. A scream came out as a throttled whimper. She scrambled up, flinging herself back from the intruder looming over her. He jerked his hand away from her shoulder as if she had burned him.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered quickly. “It’s me. It’s only me.”

  Folie stared at him through the dim light of daybreak. She panted, clutching the pillow in her fists.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, standing there in the half-light beside her bed, wrapped in his cloak like a black warlock.

  “Oh, my God.” Folie swallowed, closing her eyes. “Oh, good God.”

  “We must talk.”

  “You are mad! Utterly, utterly mad! What are you doing here?”

  He stood straight, his brows lifted. “It is my house,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “Oh yes, and so you prance in at dawn over the back windowsill!” she hissed. “Why can’t you act this way in front of the solicitor? Why must you be perfectly reasonable after I have sworn to Mr. Hawkridge you are a lunatic, and then behave with me as if you have a screw loose?”

  “It must be love,” he said dryly.

  “Oh, quite.” She glared at him. “What do you want?” She pulled the covers up to her chin. “And do not suppose I am letting you near me this time!”

  He gave her a look, a lift of his eyelashes that followed the shape of her body from her toes to her throat. Then he bowed. “As you wish, madam.”

  Folie drew in a deep breath. Her heart was still beating high in her throat. “What do you want here?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “Talk to me? In my bedchamber at this hour?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I must suppose they do not practice the civil morning call in India.”

  “Hush,” he said intensely. “Listen to me.”

  Something in his voice made her fall silent. He stood at the foot of her bed, holding himself very erect, as if he could impose himself on the room by his confident posture. She drew her knees up tight against her chest. “What is it?”

  “I know you believe I am irrational. In fact I admit—that I have been.” He paused, looked down at her.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Perhaps you will put that in writing.”

  “Damn it!” He took a step around the bed, closer to her. “Listen to me.”

  She thought that she had better humor him. She lowered her face. “Yes. All right. I am listening.”

  “We are in danger.”

  “Danger!” Folie looked up.

  “I know it is startling,” he said. “But I fear your life may be at risk, and I’m certain that mine is.”

  Folie watched him warily. She had heard of this—lunatics who began to believe that some evil stalked them. “Risk from what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said seriously. “I ‘m not sure.”

  “Then how do you know there is danger?” she asked in a careful voice.

  He turned suddenly away. “They’ve been poisoning me,” he said. “I discovered it at Solinger. The girl Kathy admitted it.”

  Folie felt a sinking sensation. He began to sound as if he were losing any grip on reality at all. “Why,” she asked slowly, “would anyone poison you?”

  “I don’t know!” he exclaimed, turning back. “I was not even sure of it—but I’ve found...” He scowled. “Well, it’s not something I wish to describe to you. I threw it in the Thames. But I believe they have murdered poor Kathy.”

  “Murdered! Who is Kathy?”

  “A maid—a housemaid at Solinger. I only saw her the one time. After you had left. She served my dinner. And she admitted it. That is, as good as admitted it, that she was being forced to poison my food. And when I went downstairs to find her, they would not—they claimed there was no Kathy on the staff.”

  Though she tried to school it, something in Folie’s expression must have conveyed her incredulity. He made a sound of disgust, flinging his hand.

  “Of course you don’t believe me,” he snapped. “Why should you? I know it appears absurd. I would not be here, I would not tell you at all, but they’ve taken my journals.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t.” He leaned over her. “You don’t know what I’ve found. You don’t know what I’ve been through.” His face was close; she could smell the cold smoke of night air that lingered on him and see the shadow of dark stubble on his cheek. “Folly—your letters, and copies of mine—I kept them in my journals. They have our letters.”

  “They?” She leaned back a little.

  “I don’t know who. I don’t know. But they’re trying to make me mad. If I’d not gotten away from Solinger, I would have killed myself. And I’m afraid—I’m afraid that if they read those letters, if they discover what—” He stopped. With a sound in his throat, he moved away. His back to her, he said in a low voice, “If they realize what you have meant to me, they will use you somehow.”

  She put her fists to her cheeks. There was a tremor deep inside her. “Use me. Use me for what?”

  “I don’t know! Blackmail, silence—to drive me into a madhouse! I don’t know!”

  “Robert,” she said, trying to sound very reasonable. “Robert. I do not think you ought to dwell upon this sort of thought.”

  “Listen to me!” He turned about. “I understand that you have no particular feelings for me now, but those letters—anyone who read them would think, would understand—”

  He did not finish. He kept his eyes turned away from her. His hands worked. Suddenly he took hold of the bedpost and pressed his forehead against it, squeezing shut his eyes fiercely, as if against a vision. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, “listen to me. You don’t know. You can’t conceive. I would do anything to keep you safe. If I must shoot myself to please them, I will do it.”

  “Do not speak like this,” she said sharply. “You must not speak like this.”

  He dropped his hands. When he looked at her, his face was wild and set, demonic. “Then you must listen to me, and do as I say.”

  “No, you must listen to me.” Folie threw the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you suppose that it does not affect me to see you this way?” Her voice cracked. She creased her nightgown on her knees, gathering it in tight fingers. “Robert, do not do this to yourself. Please do not.”

  “It isn’t a delusion. Believe me. Believe me. Come away with me, and we’ll find somewhere safe.”

  “Why do you do this?” she moaned, kneading her fingers. “Why do you say these things? Poison; some housemaid no one knows. Come away with you. As if I could. You frighten me.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No. Folly, I would never hurt you. I swear it on my life.”

  “You tried to keep us at Solinger! I don’t know what is wrong; something is wrong with your mind.”

  “Not any longer. Please believe me.” He knelt before her, cupping his hands over her knotted fingers. “I only want to keep you safe. Folly. You must come.”

  Folie looked down into his face. For a moment it was as if he was her real Robert, her own love, his gray eyes clear, his hands warm, gripping hers. And yet he said such things, such crazy things, so earnest.

  “Robert...” she said helplessly. “I can’t bear this.”

  “Let me take you away where I can protect you,” he said. “I can’t do it here. They’ll be looking for us here. It’s dangerous.”

  “I believe that you think that,” she said desperately. “You think that.”

  “Damnation!” He flung himself away, rising. His cloak swirled around him in the increasing daylight. “You will never trust me again, will you?”

  She said nothing. The tremor inside her had become a visible shake in her hands and shoulders.

  “Well,” he said, “I see now what they can do. Steal every shred of credit I ever had with anyone. No one will believe me, will they?
If you won’t, who will? No one will listen to a madman.” He turned to her. “I can’t stay longer. I don’t want them to see me here.”

  Them. Folie twisted her fingers together. “Yes, Robert.”

  “Don’t patronize me, damn it!”

  She bent her head. “No.”

  “Be careful, Folly.” His voice changed, became soft and urgent. “Please. If you ever loved me. Watch everything. Don’t take a step outside the house without Lander. Promise me that, at least.”

  She nodded, still looking down at her hands.

  She felt his hands on her hair, both palms sliding down the side of her face. For just an instant. Then he stepped back. Folie did not look up as he vanished; she did not know how he came or left. Her eyes were blurred. Cold drops fell on her fingers. He was so strange and alarming and insane, and she loved him so.

  Robert thrust his hands into his pockets as the sun came up on a clear day, pouring pink and gold light across the facades of elegant townhouses. His breath made frost as he strode across the street. At a park gate, he bought bread and a mug of beer from a street vendor. It was one advantage of London, at least, he could always find food he was sure would be safe.

  He stood in the open, breaking his fast with the laborers who gathered in the last wisps of early morning fog. It seemed bizarre now, how he had been afraid of stepping out under the unroofed sky. And yet, if he dwelled on the thought, he could feel the sensation growing on him, the sense that the crystalline blue arch would take him up, suck him upward into a spinning infinity, spinning and spinning until he flew apart.

  His heart began to race, and the bread in his mouth seemed dry and impossible to chew.

  He stood still, concentrating on the ground, on the green peek of bulbs at his feet. They were growing out of the ground, pushing up into the sky. The sky did not pull them up; they forced themselves into light and air. If he thought of the bulbs anchored in rich solid earth, his feet a firm base beside them, he could breathe again.

  He shook his head slightly, like a dog shaking off water. From inside the park palings, he watched the far side of the street, waiting. Just as he had finished off the mug, Lander appeared at the corner.