Mr. Bellamy put his forefinger to the bridge of his nose, rubbing. “Indeed,” he said incredulously.
Robert tilted his head, watching Mr. Bellamy. He said nothing.
“I wish that I could recall more of it!” Mrs. Witham-Stanley said. “It was so lovely.”
“If you contemplate it, you will recall more.”
“But however did you know, Mr. Cambourne? That is what we cannot fathom! Mr. Bellamy says I must be mistaken, and yet you did—”
He shook his head, touching her arm as if he were distracted. “I believe that Mr. Bellamy does not feel well,” he said quietly.
Mr. Bellamy’s dark eyebrows came together to a sharp fold. Robert lifted his hand, almost touching the man’s cheek, and then dropped it away.
“A scrap of the headache, that’s all. When Mrs. W-S tried to tell me that you—”
“Don’t worry over that just now. Give it a color,” Robert said. “Your pain. Does it have a color?”
Mr. Bellamy pursed his lips. “I cannot fathom your meaning.” His whole face seemed to wrinkle into disapproval.
Robert looked steadily at him. “A deep reddish-black,” he murmured. “Heavy and pulsing. Gather it up here. Between your eyes.” He touched his own forehead at the place Bellamy had rubbed his finger against the bridge of his nose.
Bellamy’s cheeks puffed. He moved his lips, as if he meant to speak, but instead he only frowned more deeply.
“Do you feel it there?” Robert asked. “All gathered there?”
Bellamy scowled at him.
“What color is it?” Robert asked.
Bellamy shook his head, frowning so hard that Robert thought he must give himself the headache with that alone.
“Dark,” Robert offered. “Very dark. The color of darkened blood. It’s constricted there, hurting you. Don’t speak. Do you understand me?”
Bellamy had begun to look as if he were holding his breath under water. He blinked, and then after a hesitation, nodded once.
“Good. Now let me have it,” Robert said. “Don’t let it slip away. Keep the darkness between your eyes. Trap it there for me. You must help.” Though Bellamy did nothing in response but stand still, stifling his breath, Robert smiled. “Good man. Keep it there. I know it’s difficult.”
Bellamy made a faint sound, his eyes squeezed shut. His eyebrows were drawn together agonizingly tightly. Robert reached up and touched him between the eyes with two fingers.
“Give it to me now,” he said, increasing the pressure of his fingertips. “Push it out to me.” He bore hard against the man’s forehead, intensifying his opposition until Bellamy would have fallen a step forward if Robert had taken his hand away. “It comes,” he said commandingly. “Keep pushing, until I have it all. Push it to me.” He watched Bellamy’s eyebrows strain together, strain and strain, until at last they lost the strength to maintain it. “Now!” He lightened his pressure a little. “I have it in my hand. Tell me where to put it.”
The man’s mouth worked. He opened his eyes.
“Somewhere that it will hurt no one else,” Robert said quietly.
“Into the pot,” Bellamy said, his eyes darting aside.
Robert bent, without ceremony, and thrust his fist into the center of the fronds, near the soil. He opened his hand. “There. Look. Can you see it?”
Bellamy stared into the pot, along with the ladies. He shook his head, touching his temple. But the scowl had vanished from his face.
“Still, it is there,” Robert said simply. “You must help me keep it there. I can’t do it alone. Your anger will draw it back to you. Mistrust. Resentment. Leave it there. Leave it all there.”
Bellamy nodded faintly.
“I hope you feel better,” Robert said.
“Yes,” he said in wonder. “I—yes—undoubtedly I do.”
“Mr. Cambourne,” Mrs. Witham-Stanley said in an awed voice, “what are you?”
Robert hesitated. Then he shrugged. “It pleases me to help.”
“Yes, but—” Mrs. Witham-Stanley’s blue plume bobbed in agitation. “You knew what I dreamed! In my own head!”
“You must tell no one,” Robert said. “It was only a fortunate guess. Now and then they come to me. Now if you will accept my excuses—Miss Davenport, Mr. Bellamy. I’m afraid I must depart.”
Outside the door of the Malmsbury house, Lander stepped from the shadows, joining Robert as he strode quickly down the steps. This was a dangerous moment, leaving the house. They were both exposed; there was no way to know if Robert’s enemies had yet discovered his escape from the hulk. They might lie in wait, determined to dispatch him now without mercy.
As they turned the corner, walking fast, taking a roundabout return to a waiting hackney, Lander whispered, “Any success, sir?”
Robert grinned. After the long evening of tension, the tonic of excitement ran high in his blood. He made a sign of triumph with his thumb. “It may work,” he said under his breath.
He hiked himself into the cab. Lander followed. Robert lay back on the seat with a great sigh, resting his head.
“God only knows, Lander, but it just may work,” he said. Suddenly his pulse was pounding painfully in his head and chest, as if he had taken Bellamy’s headache into his own body. “Provided my heart can stand the strain.”
Folie and Melinda were not allowed to be at home to any callers from the village. Folie supposed that they must be the topic of a deal of speculation, though Lander had assured them that the staff would suffer no dangerous intelligence to leak abroad. Folie could only too well imagine the effect such a circumstance would have on Toot—the occupation of the largest dwelling in the village, obviously built for a pretty sort of parsonage or dower house, by strangers who neither showed their faces nor let their servants talk!
The result seemed to be an unspoken understanding among the villagers that the new occupants must be nursing a grave illness, one requiring absolute peace and quiet. For Folie had noticed from her upstairs window that not long after their arrival, the noise of the traffic in the high street had been muted by a thick layer of straw put down on the cobbles, and once, walking in the garden, she had clearly heard a woman’s voice over the wall, silencing a little boy’s shouts with a fierce, “Hush now! There’s sad affliction here!”
Their hall table was often laden with a pie, or a clutch of tiny, speckled quail eggs, or an offering of tender asparagus shoots left to “tease the appetite of the invalid.” These gifts came with no caller or card, no way to identify the donors—just a simple village kindness that made Folie feel homesick for Toot-above-the-Batch.
She tried to read the improving novels and sermons from the well-stocked bookcase in the parlor, and every day there were newspapers from London and Norwich, but the sense of anxiety that sat at the center of her chest only seemed to grow. After supper they sat in the parlor, Melinda writing her never-ending letters—though she could not even mail them now—and Folie stroking the ferret in her lap, reading the papers. She began, out of pure tedium, to become an avid follower of Norwich city politics, annoying Melinda with informative tidbits about the guilds and the progress of the new paving on streets they had never heard of.
Just before bedtime, she put a tiny harness on Toot and took him for a stroll in the garden. At first, Melinda had objected to this as a perilous and unnecessary exposure to danger, but after joining the stroll for several nights, she admitted that the quiet garden was not quite so hazardous as the unlit, rogue-haunted paths of Vauxhall, and went back to her letters.
To Folie, it was the most bearable part of the long, somber days—she took no lamp, but learned her way along the simple garden path in the dark, Toot gamboling and sniffing, turning somersaults between the budding rose bushes. She had a daft notion that at these times, with the blue shawl close about her in the soft humid darkness, she could somehow feel Robert more clearly, know that he was safe and alive.
It had an old familiarity to it, this idea that she was connec
ted to him over vast distances. She labeled herself a silly noodle, and then went unrepentantly on with her absurdity. There seemed to be no other choice. Whatever invisible tie bound her to Robert Cambourne, it seemed to grow stronger with distance.
“What’s that?” a young voice whispered from somewhere ahead, making her heart leap with alarm.
Folie stared into the darkness. She gripped Toot’s leash and opened her mouth to scream or demand identification, she hardly knew what—but then another childish voice hissed, “Shush! Shush! You looby! Someone’s here!”
A quick thud of feet, a scramble on short legs, and Folie could just make out two small figures racing toward the wall, clambering up onto the garden bench. She hurried down the path, just in time to catch the pantaloons of the trailing culprit, who was hiking himself up off the bench, trying to drag himself over the top. She hauled him down.
He fell backwards at her feet and rolled over, coming face to face with an excited, inquisitive Toot. The little boy froze. “What’s that?” he yelped.
“It is a vicious guard-ferret,” Folie said calmly. “If you move one inch, it will tear your nose to ribbons. And don’t suppose you can get away, for once they bite down, they never let go.”
The small figure lay obediently limp, panting.
“Now, who are you?” she asked.
“Neddie, mum,” he squeaked, while Toot patted his hair and cheek, nuzzling him in a friendly way. “We was on a dare! Don’t let it bite me!”
“What sort of dare?”
“To touch—to touch that rain barrel, mum, on the back stoop. That’s all!”
“That’s all?” Folie asked. “What a piffling dare! How can you prove you did it?”
“Yoike!” Toot was crawling over his throat. “Don’t let it bite my neck!”
“I have him under control,” she said. “Barely.”
“Wer’n to bring out a cup to drink! To prove it.” He held up a tin cup timidly. “That’s all mum, that’s all.”
Folie had her doubts as to whether that was quite all that had been intended, but the child seemed harmless enough. Still, it was disturbing that their fortress could be breached so easily by such small boys. “Where did you get in over the wall?” she demanded, reaching down to retrieve Toot from the child’s heaving chest. “Show me.”
The boy scrambled to his feet. She could not see him very clearly, but thought he could be no more than six years old. She caught his collar before he sprinted away.
“Show me,” she commanded. “Or I shall put this ferret down your back.”
“Yes, mum!” he said, pulling her along. He led her to a section of the wall that divided it from the old churchyard. “Here, mum!”
“You could not climb that!”
“Me n’ Nic—hmmmmnh—” He loyally mumbled over his cohort’s name. “We got a ladder over t’other side.”
“Well,” Folie said, “You should know that I am a frightfully genteel widow—indeed, trampled flowerbeds give me an alarming case of the vapors—”
“Oh no, mum! We didn’t touch ‘em! Not one bloom!”
“But what I cannot bear—what gives me hysterics of no mean order, is ladders leaning up against my walls. You cannot conceive of how I should screech if I were to come across one in the daylight.”
“I’ll move it, mum! I’ll remove it directly!”
She shook her head ominously. “I must confiscate it, I fear. Otherwise, how will I know that some other boy— who doesn’t know about the ferret, or how it patrols the grounds at night—will not lean that very same ladder up against my wall?’’
“I’ll push it over to you, mum! That I will.”
“Excellent. Come, I’ll help you over.”
They returned to the bench. She lifted him by one arm as he jumped up, and then with an excess of pointless pushing got him to the top of the wall. As he tottered there, she held him back by his wrist and said ruthlessly, “Of course you know that the ferret has your scent now. If you don’t do as you promised, put the ladder over to this side, this animal can find you in any room in any house, and sneak through the walls and cracks, and crawl into bed with you as you sleep, and—”
“I’ll do it!” He yelped as he slid off the wall, landing with an audible thump. Folie stood back. She could see little, but she heard him, following his panting and his scrabbling progress along the outside. At one point he stopped, right over the primrose bed. With a great deal of huffing and chuntering and scraping, the top rungs of the ladder appeared over the wall. It teetered, the wall much too tall for the boy to heave the ladder completely over. Folie tied Toot to the wire staked for climbing vines, reached up and grabbed the top rung, dragging it toward her. It fell to the ground, doing she knew not what damage to the primroses.
She heard the child scoot away. Folie sighed. She almost wished she could slip away with him, freed from this comfortable prison.
The lights in the parlor had been extinguished. She could break the news about the primroses to the housekeeper tomorrow. With a little cluck to Toot, she turned and went inside.
It was as she was pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl to wash her face that the memory struck her. The recollection came from nowhere, simply appeared in her mind as she looked at herself in the mirror, the candlelight gleaming on her loose hair.
She remembered talking to Sir Howard.
Folie stared into the mirror, turning it over in her mind, her heart beating swiftly. She had written him a note to meet her at Vauxhall, on Lady Dingley’s behalf. And she had sent it to him at Limmer’s Hotel by one of their own footmen.
Folie tilted her head, frowning at herself. But Robert had said that he had come to Vauxhall because he had received the note.
That made no sense.
She pressed her hands over her eyes. The house was silent around her. Still, she could recall no more of Vauxhall itself than the bursting fireworks, the bright pinwheels like the colors and patterns behind her eyelids. But she had sent the note to Sir Howard, not to Robert. Of that she was absolutely certain.
She picked up her washcloth, drawing it across her cheeks. And another strange recollection came into her mind—seeing Sir Howard in a London street with a girl, her eyes puffy and red from weeping.
Folie sucked in her breath. Her washcloth fell from her limp fingers, splashing gently into the basin.
She had seen that girl at Solinger Abbey. Slipping the warming pan under the sheets in Folie’s bedchamber at Solinger. They had caught one another’s eye in the mirror as Folie washed her face, just as she was doing now.
The same girl. And Robert thought she was horribly murdered.
Mattie.
A chill coursed through her. It was as if a ghost had materialized in the mirror. Folie turned about, her flesh rising.
There was nothing there. But the idea of Sir Howard with that girl seized her mind. Folie liked Sir Howard; she loved his daughters and even felt an odd affection for Lady Dingley. She could not imagine that he was in league with the men who had abducted her, who had put them aboard the prison ship, who had murdered a country maid.
And yet—she had sent that note to him, and Robert had received it.
Slowly, Folie sank into her chair. Robert must be told what she remembered. Perhaps it meant nothing. But perhaps it meant everything. He had been suspicious of Sir Howard. She picked up her hairbrush and then sat with it in her lap, staring blindly.
She could wait until Lander returned, and send him back with a message. Doubtless that was what Melinda would insist upon. And yet—when would that be? They had no notion what was passing in London. What if Folie knew even more than she thought? What if she had memories that seemed insignificant to her, but carried important clues? What if more recollections came as her mind grew sharper...what if she should remember how she came to be with Sir Howard at Vauxhall? She could not depend on anyone else to convey everything.
And what if—any night, even this very night, in the midst of their
absurdly shaky scheme—Robert was in grave danger, because Folie had not recognized the menacing signs in Sir Howard’s behavior?
She lay down, pulling the bedclothes over her. But she could not sleep. She squeezed her pillow up under her head and buried her face in it. She must go to London; she could not wait for Lander to return. And yet she knew that if she announced that she was leaving, Melinda and Lander’s household staff would try to prevent her. Not that they could. If she wished to go, she could go. But then, like as not, Melinda would insist on accompanying her. Which was out of the question. Folie would not allow Melinda to place herself in the remotest danger. There would be a great scene. Folie hated scenes.
Her thoughts went round and round in her head. She did not close her eyes all night—she heard the pendulum clock at the foot of the staircase mark every hour. And when it struck 3 a.m., she rose and lit the candle. By its wavering light, she packed a small valise, dressed as warmly as a runaway child, and sat down to write a note.
My love,
I must go back to town to warn Mr. Cambourne of something very significant that has come into my mind. I know you will disapprove, but I must do this directly, and depart as soon as I can. I will send you word the moment I arrive—if the Royal Mail will take me up as a passenger this morning, I shall be in London by ten A.M.
All my love,
Your affectionate Mama
P.S. I am sorry about the primrose beds. The ladder is the property of a nefarious character discovered lurking in the garden last night. He is a desperate fellow, by the name of “Neddie,” but you will find that a mention of the ferret, in a suitably ominous tone, should suffice to keep him strictly within bounds. Take care, do not worry, I promise I shall return to you soon.
She slipped into Melinda’s room and left the note propped on her washbasin, leaning over her stepdaughter to blow a butterfly kiss. Melinda would be quite wild, but Folie saw no help for it. As she let herself out of the house, the deep, thick scent of predawn, laden with damp soil and spring foliage, filled her lungs like a new perfume. The night was still fully dark, starlight and a late half-moon the only natural illumination.