My Sweet Folly Read Free Page B

with friends in Surry; I am told that his passing was brief and painless.
    Mrs. Charles Hamilton
     

     
    Bridgend House
    Herefordshire  
    17 May, 1807
     
    Dear Robert,
    I have received no letter from you for a long time; perhaps it was lost. Life is much as usual here. You will know of course that your father was named Melinda’s guardian in Mr. Hamilton’s will—at first I was concerned that communication to India would make this very awkward, but Mssrs. Hawkridge and James seem to have all necessary authority to act in his place. Mr. Hamilton left both myself and his daughter comfortably off, although Melinda’s marriage portion is by no means as well-endowed as one could hope. She is, however, growing so beautiful that I have no doubt of her future. She returned from the young ladies’ academy to live at home after her father’s death, and I am pleased that we have become better friends lately.
    I watched the cattle drinking in the river this morning and thought of you, sweet knight. I hope you will write again soon. If you do not, I feel that perhaps I shall do something wild and absurd, such as traveling out to Delhi to view this homing elephant for myself.
    Your Folly
     

     
    Red Fort
    Shajahanabad, Delhi  
    10 October, 1807
     
    My dear sweet Folly,
    I am sorry. You received no letter because I have not written. I am married. All along, I have been married. Folie—I am sorry. You must not think of coming here.
    Robert
     
     

 
     
    ONE

     
    Herefordshire
    1812
     
    “He is a disgrace!” Mrs. Couch said. “A disgrace to the country, I say!”
    Folie, her mind having drifted to the wind-whipped apple blossoms outside the window, thought for an instant that her caller was referring to the disreputable object at which Mrs. Couch was staring in indignation. Folie sought vainly for an appropriate reply—certainly Master George Couch was a disgrace, but to agree with his vehement mother on this point seemed a trifle hazardous. Mrs. Couch was no feeble dame.
    George, uncowed by his mother’s fury, turned to Folie and said confidingly, “Yes, ma’am, and his water is purple!”
    “George!” Mrs. Couch gasped, turning an interesting shade of that color herself. “You must not— Oh!”
    Folie realized that the topic was rather to do with mad old King George than His Majesty’s untidy namesake regaling himself on lemon cakes in her parlor. “That is not drawing room talk, you know, George,” she said, with a sidelong glance at the boy. “We shall all swoon.”
    “Oh, I say! I should like that!” George asserted.
    “Yes, and Mama would adore it, so pray do not encourage her!” Melinda said, tossing her bright honey curls back.
    “I thought Mrs. Hamilton would like to know,” George said. “She’s interested in that sort of—”
    “George!” Mrs. Couch snapped.
    Folie smiled. “You may tell me later, George, out behind the dustbins.”
    “Mama!” Melinda said, in much the same warning tone that Mrs. Couch had used with her son.
    Folie merely replied with a superior smirk. For a full ten seconds Melinda, having matured to a beautiful and demure maiden of eighteen, managed to maintain a disapproving expression. Then her perfectly straight Grecian nose twitched, and she dropped her eyes to her lap. Several faint tremors disturbed her otherwise modest bosom.
    Fortunately Mrs. Couch, their primary hope for entree into Society for Melinda’s debut season, did not appear to notice this fall from grace. “It was the Prince Regent to whom I referred, George,” Mrs. Couch said firmly, and then lowered her voice to a heroic whisper. “If he should go mad like his father, I know not what we shall do!”
    “The first thing,” Folie mused, “if they do lock him up, would be to make sure our Ladies’ Committee gets supervision of the church bazaar. He owns such a number of extravagant objects, I vow we could rebuild the steeple this very year on a single estate sale.”
    Melinda properly