Free My Sweet Folly by Laura Kinsale Page A

only water to clear his brain. He was safe when he did not eat or drink; safe, but slowly killing himself. He walked into the library with his blood pounding in his head, dizzy with tension.
    It was empty. He stood at the door, looking at the two writing desks, both abandoned with the pens and ink left unheeded to dry. A bolt of fear seized him, but he managed to think his way through it, remember that he had heard the two ladies go up the stairs, heard Folie’s voice through his father’s ringing in his ears.
    He stood in the silent library, thinking of her voice. It was lower and lazier than he had expected, soft even when she was annoyed. In her letters she had seemed breathless sometimes, excitable and happy. She was so much more a quiet gentlewoman in life—he wondered if she had changed, or if it was a misinterpretation he had made, seeing more than was real.
    On one of the writing desks, letters were stacked neatly, waiting to be folded. He did not read them, but he could see Miss Melinda’s signature on the top sheet. The other desk held only a stack of blank stationary, a pen and an inkwell. But a white curve of paper dangled out from under the lid.
    There was writing on the sheet. He looked down at his cuffs, at his hands, feeling oddly embarrassed.
    Of course he should not read it. She never wrote him anymore; he had told her not to write, and she had not. A wave of intense longing swept over him, a physical ache to be back in Calcutta on the hot verandah, the fan swinging with its slow squeak above him, her letter held between his palms as if it were a small bird.
    Just to see her handwriting again—the way the words slid up to the right even though she ruled her paper like a careful schoolgirl, the faint double period after each sentence—he only wished to see it.
    He lifted the lid of the desk. The paper swept to the floor, and he stooped to pick it up.
    Sweet knight.
    He made a faint sound as he straightened, a hungry laugh. He could not even look at the page again; he was afraid the words would be different. Folding it carefully, he slipped it inside his coat. Like a pi-dog that had snatched a morsel from the bazaar, he left the library quickly, retreating to safety with his prize.
     

     
    “There, that should do nicely.” Folie held her own garnets against the shimmering cream of Melinda’s overdress as it lay on the bed. “I’ll call Sally.”
    “No, I don’t want Sally,” Melinda said, fussing with her combs on the dressing table. “You help me dress, Mama.”  
    “Well, I mislaid something downstairs, I’ll just go and—’’  
    “No,” Melinda said anxiously. “Please don’t go down there.”
    “My dear, you heard the maid say that it was only a poor madman from the village. He is spending the night in the jail by now.”
    “Please, Mama!” Melinda turned a flushed face toward Folie. “I don’t feel well.”
    “Oh, come...”
    “No, truly.” Melinda stood up. “Does my forehead feel warm? And that tea had no taste. Truly, Mama, I’m not funning.”
    Folie touched her stepdaughter’s face. “Well...”  
    “I don’t feel hungry at all,” Melinda said. “I have such a headache.”
    “Perhaps you are a trifle warm,” Folie admitted. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but it cannot hurt you to lie down for a bit. I’ll go down and see the cook about a tisane.”
    “Cannot Sally do that?” Melinda said, pushing the dress aside and folding herself down across the pillows with a tragic air. “May I have a cold compress? Would you hold it for me, Mama?” Her voice grew faint as she closed her eyes. “I want you to do it.”
     

     
    Hours later, Folie sat bolt upright in her bed. That letter! She scrambled out from under the bedclothes, searching for the bedstool with her bare toe.
    How could she have forgotten it...even in the commotion about the housebreaker; left it there for any servant to find! But Melinda had been in such a strange temper, alternately petulant