The Secret of Pembrooke Park
Read The Secret of Pembrooke Park Online
Authors: Julie Klassen
Tags: #FIC042030, #FIC042040, #FIC027070, #Single women—England—Fiction
© 2014 by Julie Klassen
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6482-4
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations identified GNV are from the Geneva Bible, 1599 Edition. Published by Tolle Lege Press. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Author represented by Books & Such Literary Agency
With love
to my brothers,
Bud & Dan
For nothing is secret,
that shall not be evident:
neither anything hid,
that shall not be known,
and come to light.
—Luke 8:17
GNV
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND
M
AY
1817
I
sat across the table from the man I most admired, feeling self-conscious. How I wished I’d taken more time with my appearance. But my meeting with the housekeeper had run long, allowing me barely enough time to wash my face and repin my hair in a simple coil. I had planned to wear a new evening dress—golden satin with red roses embroidered throughout the bodice—but instead I’d slipped into the plain ivory gown I usually wore. It had far fewer fastenings.
I glanced over at my beautiful younger sister, her hair curled and styled by Mamma’s lady’s maid. Louisa wore the emerald necklace I had planned to wear, declaring it looked so well with her new dress. She’d said,
“You know you don’t
care a fig about fashion, Abigail, so don’t fuss.
You can wear my coral. It will look fine with
the gown you always wear.”
I reminded myself it didn’t really matter how well I looked. Gilbert Scott and I had known each other since we were children. He knew what I looked like without a hint of powder, skin clear or with eruptions, with hair up or down or in need of a good brushing. We grew up as friends and neighbors through the awkward stages
of adolescence and into adulthood. The time for first impressions had long past.
Even so, this was his going-away party. The last time I would see him for a year. And I’d wanted his final memory of me to be a good one. For I cherished a secret hope. Perhaps when Gilbert returned from studying abroad he would finally ask me to marry him.
For more than an hour, our two families enjoyed a lovely meal of several courses in the Scotts’ dining room. Warm and friendly conversation flowed easily around the table. But I barely noticed what I ate.
I turned to Gilbert’s sister and asked, “How goes the magazine?”
“Very well, I think.” Susan smiled, then looked at her brother. “Bertie, you ought to write an account of your travels while you’re away.”
“Capital notion, my love,” Susan’s husband said, adding his approval. “Send us a few sketches to accompany the piece and we’ll publish it.”
Gilbert shook his head. “I shall have my hands full with my studies, Edward, but thank you just the same. Susan’s the writer in the family, not I.”
Gilbert’s father spoke up from the head of the table. “But you will write to us, my boy, won’t you? You know I . . . your Mamma will worry otherwise.”
Humor shone in Mrs. Scott’s eyes. “That’s right, my dear.
I
shall worry. But not you?”
“Well, perhaps a bit. . . .” He gestured for the butler to refill his wine. Again.
Over my glass, I met Gilbert’s gaze, and we shared a private smile.
Mr. Scott addressed my father. “I say, Foster, did you not invest in that bank mentioned in the newspaper today—the one having some sort of trouble?”
“We . . . did, yes. My brother-in-law is one of the partners. But he assures us it’s only a minor setback. All will be well.”
Father sent me a guarded look, and I forced a reassuring smile.
This wasn’t the time or place to discuss finances. Nor did I wish to cast a pall over Gilbert’s send-off.
When the meal concluded, the men remained behind to smoke and sip port, while the ladies retired to the drawing room.
Gilbert, however, did not remain with the other gentlemen. Instead, he asked me to join him in the library.
I did so, my heart tripping a little faster with each step.
Alone with Gilbert inside the candlelit room, I reminded myself to breathe normally. We stood very near each other at the high library table, necks bent to study the measured drawing of a church façade in classical style. Gilbert had won the Royal Academy’s silver medal for the drawing. And a gold medal for his design of a guildhall. For his achievements, Gilbert had received a traveling scholarship from the academy to study architecture in Italy. I was so proud of him.
“In the end, I altered the design to create a grander façade,” Gilbert explained. “With a Corinthian portico six columns wide, based on the Pantheon in Rome. And notice the steeple here? I designed its top stage to resemble a miniature temple. . . .”
He spoke with enthusiasm, but for once I wasn’t really listening. My interest had strayed from the drawing to the man himself. With his eyes on his prize-winning design, I felt at liberty to study his profile, to linger on his features—his jaw more defined than I had noticed before, his cheekbone framed by long, stylish side-whiskers, his lips thin but expressive as he spoke. I thought I might try to sketch him, though doubted my ability to do him justice. And he smelled good too. Bay rum cologne, I thought. And mint.
As he reached over to point to some detail of the drawing, his broad shoulder, elegant in evening wear, pressed against mine. I felt the warmth of it through my thin muslin and closed my eyes to savor the sensation.
“What do you think?”
“Hmm?” I opened my eyes, chagrined to be caught not listening.
“About the steeple?”
Personally I thought it a bit much but held my tongue. In the
past, I had often offered my opinion or a suggestion, but as the design had already won a medal from the Royal Academy, who was I to disagree?
“Lovely,” I murmured. It was an innocuous, uninformed, feminine remark. Something Louisa might have said. But in his flush of triumph, he did not seem to notice.
I glanced over my shoulder. Through the open library door, I could see into the Scotts’ drawing room. There Susan slipped her arm through her husband’s as they stood talking to my mother. My parents lived very separate lives—Father occupied with his club and investments. Mother with her social calls, charities, and husband hunting for Louisa. No, I didn’t want a marriage like my parents’. But a life like Susan’s, working side by side with the one you loved . . . Yes, that seemed ideal.
With that hope, I glanced up at Gilbert. He had followed my gaze toward his newly married sister. He briefly met my eyes, then looked down, his Adam’s apple convulsing, his fingers distractedly rolling the corner of his plan.
Noticing his nervous hesitation, my heart beat hard. Had the moment come? Was he about to propose?
He began, “You know you mean a great deal to me, Abby. And I realize you might be expecting . . .”
His words trailed away, and he swallowed. Had he guessed my presumptuous thoughts?
“No, no. I am not expecting anything,” I reassured him, adding to myself,
Not yet
.
He nodded but did not meet my eyes. “We have been friends a long time, you and I, but you need to know that I . . . That with all the chances involved in the coming year away, I don’t think either of us should shackle ourselves with promises.”
“Oh.” I blinked, stomach plummeting. Perhaps he was merely trying to protect me, I told myself. He no doubt had my best interests at heart. I forced a smile. “Yes, you are perfectly right, Gilbert. Very practical.”
Gilbert’s mother stepped into the room. “Thought I would find
the two of you in here,” she said. “Come through. We’re serving coffee, and your father needs a great deal of it.” Mrs. Scott patted her son’s arm. “He’s terribly proud . . . but so sorry to see you go.”
Me too,
I thought.
Later, when the evening began winding down and my parents were thanking Mr. and Mrs. Scott for dinner, I went in search of Gilbert, hoping to say my good-byes to him in private. Instead I found Gilbert and my sister ensconced in the vestibule, alone.
With sinking heart, I saw Louisa hand something to Gilbert. She said, “To remember me by.”
He slipped it into his pocketbook and tucked it away, his gaze lingering on her lovely face all the while. Then he smiled and squeezed Louisa’s hand.
Feeling light-headed, I turned away, not waiting to hear his reply.
What had Louisa given him? A miniature? A lover’s eye? A lock of hair set in a ring? I had not seen Gilbert place anything on his finger, only in his pocketbook. Surely it had been nothing of such import—nothing that indicated a courtship or engagement. Even if Louisa had developed a schoolgirl affection for our neighbor, that did not mean Gilbert returned her feelings. He was likely too polite to refuse her gift, whatever it was.
Even so, it was all I could do to smile and feign normalcy a short while later, when everyone gathered at the door to say farewell and wish Gilbert success and safe travels.
Gilbert took my hand, the old brotherly tenderness coming back into his expression. “Abby. You won’t forget me, I know. And I shall never forget you. Your father has given me permission to correspond with you and your sister. Will you write to me?”
“If you like.”
He pressed my hand warmly and then turned to shake Father’s hand and made Mother blush by kissing her cheek. He hesitated when he came to Louisa, her head demurely bowed. He made do with a bow and a murmured, “Miss Louisa.”
She looked up at him from beneath long lashes, and I saw the telltale sparkle in her eye even if no one else did.
When did things change
between them?
I wondered. Louisa had always been the pesky little sister, someone to tease or avoid. Someone with a plait of hair to be tugged—not presented as a lover’s gift.
I had wanted Gilbert’s year away to fly quickly past. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I had looked forward to life after his return—a life in which he played a significant role.
Suddenly the future seemed far less certain.
10
MONTHS
LATER
M
ARCH
1818
T
he jewel case lay open on the desk between them, the evergreen emeralds glittering against the black velvet lining. The necklace and matching bracelet had been passed down through the Foster side of the family. Her mother’s family had no precious gems to pass down. And soon neither side would.
Her father snapped the case shut, and Abigail winced as though she’d been slapped.
“Say good-bye to the family jewels,” he said. “I suppose I shall have to sell these along with the house.”
Standing before her father’s desk, Abigail gripped her hands. “No, Papa, not the jewels. There must be another way. . . .”
Nearly a year had passed since Gilbert left England, and with it Abigail’s twenty-third birthday. When she had predicted an uncertain future on the eve of his departure, she’d been more accurate than she would have guessed.
What had she been thinking? Just because she could run a large home and staff did not mean she knew anything about investments. She was the type of person who usually considered things carefully, investigated thoroughly before acting—whether it was selecting a
new dressmaker or hiring a new housemaid. Abigail was the practical, behind-the-scenes daughter and had long prided herself on making sound, rational decisions. That was why her mother left much of the household management to her. Even her father had come to depend on her opinion.
Now they were facing financial ruin—and it was her fault. Little more than a year ago, she had encouraged her father to invest in Uncle Vincent’s new bank. Her mother’s brother was her only uncle, and Abigail had always been fond of him. He was charming, enthusiastic, and eternally optimistic. He and his partners, Mr. Austen and Mr. Gray, owned two country banks and had wished to open a third. Uncle Vincent had asked her father to post a large bond of guarantee, and under Abigail’s influence, he agreed.
The banks were at first successful. However, the partners made excessive, unwise loans, sometimes lending to each other. They sold one bank but struggled to keep the others afloat. The new bank had stopped business in November, and a week ago the original bank failed and the partners declared bankruptcy.
Abigail could still hardly believe it. Her uncle had been so sure the banks would thrive and had made Abigail believe it as well.
Seated at his desk, her father set aside the jewelry case and ran his finger down the accounts ledger.
Abigail awaited his verdict, palms damp, heart beating dully.
“How bad is it?” she asked, twisting her hands.
“Bad. We are not destitute, and you and Louisa still have your dowries. But the lion’s share of my capital is gone and with it the interest.”
Abigail’s stomach cramped. “Again, I am sorry, Papa. Truly,” she said. “I honestly thought Uncle Vincent and his partners would be successful.”
He ran a weary hand over his thin, handsome face. “I should not have allowed myself to be swayed by the two of you. I have seen his other ventures fail in the past. But you have always had a good head on your shoulders, Abigail. I thought I could trust your
judgment. No, now, I don’t say this is entirely your fault. I blame myself as well. And Vincent, of course.”
Seeing her father so deeply disappointed and disillusioned—with her and with life—left her feeling sick with guilt and regret. Uncle Vincent blamed his partners and their risky loans. But in the end, regardless of who was to blame, the fact was that Charles Foster had agreed to act as guarantor. He was not the only person who lost money when the banks failed, but he lost the most.
Her father shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips. “I don’t know how I shall break it to Louisa that she is not to have her season after all. She and her mother have their hearts set on it.”
Abigail nodded in silent agreement. The London season was well-known hunting grounds for wealthy husbands. She hoped Louisa’s eagerness to participate meant she was not waiting for Gilbert Scott. If Louisa and Gilbert
did
have an understanding, Louisa had clearly kept it a secret from her mother, who was determined to give her youngest a spectacular season. At nineteen Louisa was at the peak of her beauty—or so their mother declared, insisting it was the perfect time to find her an advantageous match.
Her father leaned back in his chair with a defeated sigh. “If only we could avoid selling the house, but as much as we all love it, it is too large and too expensive. The price of being fashionable, I suppose.”
Not to mention the cost of maintaining a Grosvenor Square–style of living—behaving like nobility, though in reality they were only genteel, with no title or land. As a gentleman, her father had never in his life had to work. The family had lived on the interest from his inheritance. Money he had invested wisely—until now.
Once again, Gilbert’s suggestion that they not
“shackle ourselves with
promises”
echoed through Abigail’s mind, and she straightened her shoulders in resolve. “Yes, Papa. We shall have to sell the house, but not the family jewels. Not while there is another option. . . .”
A short while later, Father asked Mamma and Louisa to join them in the study, and attempted to explain the situation. He did not assign
any blame to her, Abigail noticed, but knowing he held her partially responsible for their predicament was enough to make her miserable.
When he had finished, Anne Foster protested, “Sell our house?”
“You know, Mamma, that might not be so bad,” Louisa said. Grosvenor Square isn’t as fashionable as it once was. I saw some lovely houses in Curzon Street that would do us very well.”
“Curzon Street?” Father echoed. “That will not be possible, my dear.”
“I think it would be wisest to retrench elsewhere,” Abigail said. “In a smaller city or even in the country, where the pressure to have an army of servants, large dinners, and the latest gowns would be far less.”
“The country?” Louisa’s pretty face puckered as though she’d found a mouse in her soup. “Unless you are talking about a great country estate, with house parties, and fox hunting, and hedge mazes . . .”
“No, Louisa, I am afraid not. Something smaller.”
“Oh, why did this have to happen?” Mamma moaned. “What about Louisa’s season? Her dowry? Is it all gone? Is our youngest daughter not to have her chance, after all?”
“I didn’t say that. No. Louisa is to have her season.” Father sent an uneasy glance toward Abigail, then quickly looked away. “We will muster enough for Louisa’s gowns and things. I trust your aunt Bess will allow us to stay with her for a few months?”
“Of course she will. But . . . I don’t understand. I thought you said there would not be enough money.”
With another glance at Abigail, Father began, “Abigail has kindly—”
But she interrupted him. “I have helped Papa find a few ways to economize. Some funds we had set aside for a . . . rainy day. And a few things we can sell—”
“Not your father’s emeralds!”
Abigail shook her head. “No, not the emeralds.”
Her mother firmly nodded. “Good. Louisa must have her chance to wear them, as you did.”
Abigail noticed with relief that her mother refrained from adding,
“for as
much good as it did you,”
or something of that sort.
Abigail forced a smile. “We shall scrape together enough to give Louisa a wonderful season. The season she deserves.”
For a moment her mother stared at her as if she spoke a foreign language. Abigail feared she would probe further into the source of the money—perhaps even suggest Abigail’s dowry could be used for additional funds, since
she
no longer needed one. It was one thing to offer it up quietly, willingly—as Abigail had done privately to her father—but quite a different, humiliating thing to be told a dowry was wasted on her.
Mollified, her mother only nodded. “As it should be.” She pressed Louisa’s hand. “You see, my dear, you are to have your season after all. What did I tell you? You shall meet the most handsome, best connected, and wealthiest young man this year. I just know it!”
And so, while Mrs. Foster and Louisa attended dress fittings, Abigail began helping her disillusioned and disappointed father find a more affordable place to live.
Abigail contacted a property agent and made inquiries for a suitable dwelling. But she heard of no situation that answered her mother’s notions of spacious comfort
and
suited Abigail’s prudence. She had rejected several houses as too large for their income.
One afternoon, among the correspondence about properties, Abigail received a letter from Gilbert Scott, postmarked
Roma
. Her heart gave a little foolish leap, as it always did when seeing her name in his neat hand. Over the preceding months, Gilbert had sent letters to both her and Louisa. Abigail always read his descriptions of his studies and the architecture of Italy—sometimes with sketches in the margins—with absorption and dutifully wrote back. She did not know what sort of letters Gilbert wrote to Louisa. Abigail feared they might be of a more romantic nature than those she received but hoped she was wrong.
She retreated to her bedchamber to read Gilbert’s letter in private.
My dear Abby,
Hello, old friend. How is life in London? I imagine you are bored without me there to tease you and drag you about the city to see St. Paul’s, or the construction at Bethlehem Hospital, or to hear some lecture or other. Italy is amazing, and you would love it. But I shan’t overwhelm you with details in this letter, for fear of making you jealous and risk your not writing back.
You have been very good about answering my letters, Abby. I appreciate it more than you know. As much as I enjoy Italy and my studies, I don’t mind confessing to you—since you know me so well—that I do feel lonely now and again. How I would love to walk with you along the Piazza Venezia and show you the Roman Forum!
I have not heard from Louisa in some time. Like you, she was prompt in writing back when I first began my travels. But her letters have trickled off of late. I hope she is in good health—as well as you and your parents, of course. Perhaps I have done something to vex her. If I have, it was unintentional. Please tell her I said so. If only all women were as easygoing and forgiving as you, Abby.
You asked in your last letter which building I most admired here. I seem to find a new favorite every day. Which reminds me, I had better sign off for now. We’re soon to leave to visit the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. Perhaps I shall find a new favorite.
Fondly,
Gilbert
Abigail folded the letter and for a moment held it to her chest, imagining Gilbert’s handsome, earnest face as he wrote it, the ink on his fingers, and the tip of his tongue protruding as it always did
when he concentrated on a task. Then she imagined walking arm in arm with him through Rome. . . .
“What has you smiling?” Louisa asked, pausing in her bedchamber doorway.
“Only a letter from Gilbert.”
“And what has he to say this time? More lengthy descriptions of columns and cupolas, I suppose?”
“You may read it if you like,” Abigail held it forth to show she had nothing to hide, hoping Louisa might return the favor. Not that Louisa ever exhibited any sign of being jealous of her older sister.
Louisa waved away the offer. “Maybe later.”
“He asks why you have not written to him lately,” Abigail said. “He’s afraid he has vexed you.”
Louisa lifted a delicate shrug. “Oh, nothing of that sort. I’ve just been so busy answering invitations and attending fittings and the like. And now that Easter is over and the season has begun . . . Well, you remember how it is. Up late every night, sleeping in every morning, and every afternoon given to calls. . . .”
Abigail had never told Louisa that she had witnessed her private tête-à-tête with Gilbert, nor asked what she had given him as a parting gift. Perhaps it was time she did.
“Louisa, I know you gave Gilbert something before he left. Is it a secret, or . . . ?”
Louisa blinked at her in surprise. “Did Gilbert tell you that, in his letter? I . . . gave him a lock of my hair. You don’t mind, do you? For you’ve always insisted you and Gilbert were just friends.”
Had she? Abigail swallowed. “Well, yes. Good friends.”
Had Gilbert
asked
for a lock of Louisa’s hair? Did he even now wear it in a ring? Her stomach cramped at the thought, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Instead, she made do with a sisterly “It’s impolite not to answer letters promptly, Louisa. Surely you might manage a few lines at least? To assure him all is well and you are still . . . friends?”
Louisa flopped into an armchair, her usual concern for posture and poise neglected in only her sister’s presence. “Oh, very well.”
Then she grinned sweetly at Abigail, a teasing light in her fair eyes. “Or might you not tell him so for me when you write back? For I know your reply shall be in tomorrow’s post.”