My Sweet Folly by Laura Kinsale Page B

voice took on a piercing note that was all too familiar. “Are we to go or not?”
    “Melinda—” Folie’s voice faded.
    “We are not!” Melinda’s eyes grew wide and wild as Folie hesitated. “We are not to go!”
    “Now, my love—”
    “I don’t believe it!” Melinda gasped. She pushed her chair back from the table. “I cannot—you have let him convince you, haven’t you?”
    “We will discuss it later,” Folie said firmly.
    “Discuss what? Discuss that we are not to go?”
    Folie tilted her head meaningfully toward Sir Howard. But Melinda seemed oblivious.
    “Ohhh, I knew it!” her stepdaughter hissed. “You have let him ruin everything! And I know why! For that forty thousand pounds!’’
    “Melinda!” Folie said sharply, her voice trembling.
    “I don’t care! I don’t care what everyone thinks! It is not fair! It is monstrous! I hate you—”
    “It is my decision,’’ Robert said, keeping his voice cold and steady. “Not your mother’s.”
    Melinda turned on him with a look in her eyes that he knew too well, that touched a well of dread deep inside him. “You!’’ she cried. “Why should you have anything to say to it? Where have you been? Away off in India, living in a palace! You don’t care what happens to me! You don’t care for anyone but yourself—” She stood up, flinging her hand wide. Her fingers hit her wineglass. It shattered like an explosion as it struck the candelabra, spilling a wave of red across the cloth, glass fragments flying in all directions.
    Robert found himself on his feet. He felt a sting on his hand, but his body seemed to slow down, immovable. His hands froze in fists.
    “There!” the girl cried, “There! I don’t care! See what you’ve made me do! Oh, I hate you all!” Her shrill voice broke into a sob.
    “Melinda!” Folie pleaded. “Sit down!”
    “I won’t!” Melinda held the back of the chair and banged it against the floor. “I hate you, I hate you!” She glared at Robert with a furious venom, filling the room with wooden thumps. “I don’t want your horrid money! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you all! Oh, I want to die!” she wailed. “I’m going to—”  
    “That will do, miss!”
    It was Sir Howard’s deep voice, filling the room like a resonant bell, startling everyone silent.
    Melinda looked at him, holding the chair poised. Then she gave a choked sob. The mask of rage seemed to collapse and turn to a child’s tragic plea. “Oh,” she whimpered. “Oh. But we aren’t to go.”
    “Curtsy to your mother and Mr. Cambourne and beg their pardon,” Sir Howard commanded in a tone that brooked no disobedience. “And sit down.”
    Melinda blinked rapidly, her mouth in a pinched bow. Then suddenly the pinch relaxed into a helpless tremor. She bowed her head, weeping, but more calmly.
    “Make your apologies,” Sir Howard said.
    “Yes, sir.” Melinda bit her lower lip. She started to move toward Robert. He felt struck into stone. He could barely breathe and hardly see her; it took all of his focus simply to contain the flinch when she came close enough to touch him. Through Phillippa’s silent clamor in his head he heard Melinda make her apology as if she were speaking through a thick blanket.
    He said nothing in reply. Speech was beyond him.
    She moved away, curtsied to her mother. As she tried to beg pardon, falling into a deep curtsy, her voice caught on uncontrollable sobs. Folie shook her head mutely and drew Melinda to her feet, pulling her into a deep hug.
    “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mama,” Melinda moaned. “I didn’t mean it.”
    “Never mind,” Folie murmured, stroking her hair. “Never mind. It will be all right. I promise. It will be all right, darling.” Over her stepdaughter’s head, she looked at Robert. Her eyes glistened with tears, but there was pure rancor in them for him. He stood numbly. Some distant part of his reason told him to speak, to say she might go, that he did not mean to