My Sweet Folly Read Online Free PDF Page A

Melinda announced. “I will not go without you, Mama.”
    The vehicle came to a halt before Bridgend House. Next door, a parlor window opened and the two Misses Nunney leaned out like a pair of capped and gray-headed puppets.
    “Of course you are going,” Folie said under her breath. She motioned to the baggage as the two footmen leaped down. “This is all.”
    One of them came up the steps and bowed to her. “Mrs. Hamilton?”
    “Yes,” Folie said, looking up at the burly young man. In spite of his polished bow, there was an air of toughness about him, as if he could turn his hand to dock work as well as a lady’s luggage. “Come, Sally, where is the small basket, the one I packed for inside the cab?’’
    “Here, ma’am.” The maid picked up the basket.
    “Put it in, then.” Folie turned to the footman, who had made no move to begin loading. She waved her hand toward the trunk. “No doubt that one should be put up first,” she said helpfully.
    “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “I’m to inquire if one of these cases is yours?”
    “No, I am afraid not. I’m not well enough to travel.”
    “Mama!”
    Folie gave her stepdaughter a pointed glare. “Do not make a scene, Melinda. Half the village is watching. Sally, do put that basket in the chaise!”
    “Beg pardon, ma’am.” The footman produced a letter from his pocket. Folie tried to hide the little twist of her heart as she saw the familiar lettering. She slipped the note into her apron pocket.
    The footman made another bow. “Mr. Cambourne sent instructions that you must read directly his letter that I put into your hands.”
    “Indeed!” Folie stood straight. “I don’t believe I am under any obligation to him to do so.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” the footman said. “Then I am not to do any loading, by Mr. Cambourne’s instructions.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Folie exclaimed.
    “Whatever has got into you, Mama?” Melinda hissed, waving cheerfully at the Misses Nunney. “Only read the gentleman’s note. Perhaps it is a change of plan!”
    Folie stepped back into the house, pulled the door closed and tore open the seal on his folded letter, scowling.
     
    My dear,
    You are digging in your heels, I see, if you are reading this. My sweet Folly, I know this is difficult for you. You need not forgive me, or even speak to me if you like, but muster your courage. You are no coward, of that I am certain. But if you do not come now, I shall not waste time about retrieving you in person.
    Robert
     
    She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall with a small sound of misery. “Oh, do not make me come. Don’t make me come.”
    All the shame of that moment when she had read his last letter washed over her again, the shattering realization of her foolishness, her loneliness, of her secret treason. She had never had a right to love him, never a claim to any truth from him, and yet the humiliation had burned as deep as if he had courted her like a rightful suitor. She had done it to herself, had never asked or wished to ask if he were free; had forgotten that she was not; had fallen insensibly, irrationally in love with an unthinkable dream.
    She looked down at his note again. “Don’t make me,” she whispered. “Oh, Robert, don’t.”
    But she knew as she spoke that she would go. He had chosen the words that compelled her. If she did not face him now, her own contempt would haunt her all her life.
     

     
    When Folie woke from a weary, bumpy drowse against a folded cloak, their post chaise was rolling along beside a red brick wall that seemed to go on endlessly in the twilight. Before her, the rumps of the horses jogged rhythmically as the team splashed through puddles. A rain shower had mercifully avoided them, though Folie could still see it moving off across the far hills, blue-gray vapor cut by the golden rays of the late sun.
    Melinda, her cheeks flushed pink from the wind, glanced at Folie over the maid who sat between them.