The Secret of Pembrooke Park (15 page)

Hands behind her back, Abigail stepped inside and glanced
around the room once more. “My mother shall have this room, when she arrives.”

“Yes,” Leah said quietly. “It is perfect for the lady of the house.”

Leah ran a hand over the original bedclothes, now aired and cleaned. Then she touched the recently repaired lace cover on the dressing table. She fingered the vanity set—perfume bottles, hand mirror, and hairbrushes, murmuring, “I cannot believe all of this is still here. . . .”

“I know. I can’t believe they took so little with them when they left.”

Leah turned, her gaze arrested by the portrait over the mantelpiece. The handsome gentleman in formal attire.

“Your brother believes that is Robert Pembrooke,” Abigail said. “I gather he has seen another portrait of the man. Though we haven’t asked your father to confirm that.”

Leah nodded. “William is right.”

“You met him?” Abigail asked.

“I did, yes. Though it was a long time ago.”

“The other portrait is missing,” Kitty said.

Leah dragged her eyes from the image to look at her sister. “Hm?”

“The portrait of the missus, to match this one. Come and see . . .”

Leah shook her head. “No, Kitty. That’s Mr. Foster’s room now.”

“Oh, he won’t mind,” Abigail assured her.

Kitty led the way along the galley and into the master bedroom. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, gesturing with a sweep of her arm. “See?”

Leah looked around at the masculine bedclothes, the heavy mahogany furniture, the desk and leather-padded chair near the window. She walked slowly over, ran her fingers over the blotter on the desk, and rested her hand on the arm of the chair. Finally, she turned, glancing up with interest over the mantelpiece.

“You can tell that was hung later,” Kitty insisted. “It should be a larger portrait, like the one in the other bedchamber. And I shall never believe that is Robert Pembrooke’s wife.”

“No,” Leah agreed. “I suppose it’s only natural that the new
family wanted to hang their own portraits. In fact, I am rather surprised the portrait of Robert Pembrooke still hangs in the lady’s bedchamber.”

“I wonder where they put the one of Robert’s wife,” Abigail mused.

“Are you simply guessing there was such a portrait, or has someone said so?” Leah asked.

Abigail shrugged, not wanting to mention the letter. “Guessing, I suppose.”

“It’s a mystery,” Kitty pronounced.

Leah slowly shook her head. “Not so mysterious, Kitty, surely. Someone new moves in and doesn’t want someone else’s wife or ancestor staring down at them in their beds? Doesn’t sound like a mystery to me.”

Kitty flicked a hand toward the portrait. “Who’d want that old biddy staring down at them instead?”

“Kitty . . .” Leah gently admonished. “That isn’t kind.”

“Mac said she might have been Robert Pembrooke’s old nurse,” Abigail commented. “Do you recognize her?”

Leah shook her head. “I have never seen her, that I recall.”

Abigail considered the portrait. “You have to admit she is a stern-looking woman of considerable years,” she said diplomatically. “And all that black crepe . . .”

“And those eyes . . .” Kitty shuddered.

“All right, you two—that’s enough,” Leah said. “You shall give yourself nightmares.” Leah gave one last glance at the portrait, and admitted, “And I might not be far behind.”

The gowns for the masked ball settled upon, Abigail’s thoughts moved next to the dancing. She spoke to William Chapman about the brush-up class he had suggested, and he in turn paid a call on Andrew Morgan, who eagerly agreed to join them. The dance practice was arranged for Saturday. Mrs. Chapman offered to ac
company them on the Pembrooke Park pianoforte. Abigail invited her father to join them, but he declined.

At the appointed hour, Abigail and Leah entered the salon together.

Inside, Mr. Chapman and Mr. Morgan rose as one. Mr. Chapman watched his sister’s face carefully, Abigail noticed, while Mr. Morgan bowed, looking confident and eager.

“Shall we begin?” Abigail suggested. “As there are only four of us, perhaps the Foursome Reel?”

Mrs. Chapman, already seated at the pianoforte, struck a few experimental notes. The old instrument was out of tune but would suffice.

The gentlemen stepped toward the center of the room, while Leah hovered near her mother.

Abigail and Mr. Morgan demonstrated the opening steps, while the Chapmans watched. Then, so that each couple had the benefit of an experienced partner, Abigail suggested Mr. Morgan dance with Miss Chapman, while she danced with Leah’s brother.

Leah reluctantly crossed the room to join them. Together, they walked through the dance the first time, then again up to tempo. Mr. Morgan, Abigail saw, gently whispered or gestured to Leah, or turned her in the right direction when she needed a reminder. Soon both William and Leah had mastered the steps and patterns.

Abigail realized this “class” was a good reminder for her as well, as she had not danced in nearly a year. “All right, Mrs. Chapman, I think we’re ready for music.”

Mrs. Chapman nodded, and Abigail said to the others, “I will call out the steps the first time through to remind you. Watch Mr. Morgan if you forget what to do.”

Mrs. Chapman launched into the jaunty introductory bars. Then Abigail said, “Ready, and . . . set to your partner.”

Leah and Mr. Morgan began the swishing side-to-side step, which Leah performed with lithe grace, looking more like a young debutante than a woman nearing thirty. Andrew Morgan danced with effortless skill, his eyes lingering on her appreciatively.

Leah glanced up and, finding Mr. Morgan looking at her so closely, ducked her head. But not before Abigail saw the blushing smile on her pretty face.

Would a man like Andrew Morgan—eldest son and heir of Hunts Hall—take a respectable interest in a steward’s daughter? Abigail hoped so. She prayed Andrew Morgan’s intentions were honorable—and extended well beyond fondness for a friend’s sister.

Mr. Chapman, meanwhile, danced quite competently beside her, step for step, their hands and sides occasionally brushing, as they moved through the dance. Abigail tentatively met his gaze, as etiquette dictated. In return, he smiled warmly down at her. When the dance called for the joining of hands, his long fingers enveloped hers, and Abigail felt their warmth spread through her.

Abigail realized she had missed dancing, especially with an attentive, handsome partner like William Chapman. She’d forgotten the pleasure of whirling hand in hand, or skipping down a line of friendly faces, and returning smiles of men and women alike. Of good company, good cheer, and good music. Perhaps she was not quite ready to put herself on the shelf after all.

Once more she glanced at Leah, who seemed to be enjoying herself as well. She wanted to say to her new friend,
“See? You
are here in Pembrooke Park, and nothing bad has happened.”
But she made do with catching Leah’s eye and sharing a smile.

William Chapman was enjoying the dance lesson more than he’d imagined he would. He could barely keep his eyes from Miss Foster, noticing the graceful sway of her slender figure in a becoming gown, the pink flush of happy exertion in her cheeks, the dark curls bouncing at her temples.

He enjoyed the feel of her smaller hands in his as they turned around each another, her lovely profile several inches below his. Her skin shone smooth and fair, her dark brows well-defined arches above her lovely brown eyes. She looked up at him and smiled into his face. His chest tightened, and he returned the gesture, though a little unsteadily.

Standing so near her, he smelled rose water and springtime in her hair, and longed to kiss her cheek right then and there. Knowing his mother was in the same room helped him overcome the urge.

He reminded himself that this young woman was a member of his congregation, his flock. But at that moment, he wished she were far more.

They went on to learn two newer country dances and another reel, then finished with a review of the customary last dance of many a ball, the Boulanger. When the final tune ended, everyone clapped for his mother.

She beamed at them. “Well done, one and all.” She glanced at the long-case clock and rose. “Good heavens, I had better get home and check on dinner or it shall be eggs and cold kippers.” She smiled good-naturedly and gathered her shawl.

“Thank you so much for playing for us,” Miss Foster said. “I for one enjoyed every minute of it.”

William and Morgan were quick to agree. Even Leah nodded shyly.

Miss Foster continued, “May I suggest one more class before the ball?”

Everyone assented, and they picked another day and time.

William left a short while later, relieved to know the skills he’d learned during his years at Oxford had not evaporated in the intervening months. He was also relieved to see Leah looking more relaxed and enjoying herself. He was not quite sure how he felt about his friend’s obvious interest in his sister, and again prayed Leah wouldn’t end up being hurt.

W
illiam glanced from the vestry into the nave, and his heart sank. Empty. Was no one coming? Would he be forced to read the annual prayers in honor of the King’s birthday to vacant pews? The ill monarch was still a popular figure—far more so than his son, the prince regent—though the regency and the weather had cast a pall over the day.

William could usually count on his family to attend prayers during the week, if no one else, but his mother and sister were spending the day with their grandmother, who had taken a fall. And his father had been called out early that morning to help a tenant repair a fence before all of his livestock escaped. In the absence of his parish clerk, William went into the entry porch and rang the bell himself, then returned to the vestry.

Resigned to the lonely task, William donned a white surplice, determined to do his duty—flock or not.

He reentered the unoccupied church and stepped to the reader’s desk with a sigh.

The outer door banged open, and a figure scuttled in beneath a dripping umbrella, slipping on the slick threshold. He glimpsed wet half boots and damp skirt hems. The umbrella lowered, revealing its bearer’s face.

William’s heart rose.
Miss Foster
.

He felt comingled relief and embarrassment to have her witness his failure to draw a crowd.

She looked about her, uncertainty etched on her brow. “Did I mistake the time?”

“No. I was just about to begin.”

Shaking the rain from her umbrella, she said, “I am sorry I’m late. I thought if I waited, the rain might lessen. But quite the opposite, I’m afraid. No doubt that’s what has kept the others at home.”

How
kind of her.
“Thank you for braving the weather, Miss Foster.”

She shrugged, uncomfortable under his praise. “Easy for me. I live the closest. Save for you.” She hesitated. “My father . . . isn’t much of a churchgoer, I am afraid. I hope you aren’t offended.”

“Not at all. Won’t you be seated?”

“Oh yes, of course. Forgive me, I’m holding you up.” She left her wet umbrella and walked forward, her heels echoing across the nave.

She straightened her bonnet and took her customary seat. She looked charming with coils of dark hair made springy by the dampness framing her glistening face.

He cleared his throat and began, “Today we meet to honor our venerated sovereign, King George the Third. And to pray for divine healing and protection in his fragile state of health.”

He looked down at the official prayer he was meant to read but hesitated. He glanced up once more.

Miss Foster sat there, hands clasped in her lap in the posture of dutiful listener.

He admitted, “I feel silly standing here, pretending to talk to a crowd.”

Lips parted, she glanced to the side as though to verify he was talking to her. “You . . . don’t look silly.”

He stepped from behind the desk and walked toward her. “Would you mind if we made this less formal, since it is only the two of us?”

“Not at all.”

He placed a hand on the low door of the enclosed box. “May I?”

“Of course,” she said, but he did not miss the convulsion of her long white throat as she swallowed.

William sat beside her, several feet of space between them on the pew.

“Shall we pray?”

She nodded and solemnly closed her eyes. For a moment he sat there, taking advantage of her closed eyes and proximity to look at her, allowing his gaze to linger on the fan of long, dark lashes against her fair cheek, her sweet upturned nose, and delicate pink lips. Then he cleared his throat and shut his own eyes—not that he felt closed eyes were required to commune with his creator, but he knew he needed to block out this particular feminine distraction.

“Almighty God, we pray for King George, as you have instructed us to pray for the leaders you have placed in authority over us. We ask that you, Great Physician, touch his body and his mind and restore him to health. We pray for his son, the prince regent, who rules in his stead, and ask you to guide him. Oh, that he would seek to walk in your ways.

“Father, we are grateful that you are our perfect eternal King, sovereign forever, and that you love us and forgive us and adopt us as son and daughter. We are in reality unworthy peasants, but you see us as prince and princess, children of the King, through the sacrifice of your Son, Jesus, our savior and deliverer, and it is in His name we pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” she echoed.

They sat there a few moments in silence, William looking straight ahead, knowing he should move away but not wishing to.

She asked quietly, “Is that what you’d planned to say?”

He shrugged. “I prayed what was in my heart. If you would prefer I read the formal prayer, I will happily oblige. . . .”

“That’s not necessary. I was only curious. I like that you are less formal in your prayers and sermons. Less practiced.”

“Less practiced,” he repeated with a quick grin. “Now you sound like the parishioners who admonish me to practice more to make up for the deficiencies of my delivery.”

He felt her gaze on his profile and wondered what she saw.

She said, “I can hardly conceive of a more difficult profession. People can be nearly impossible to please, but you have to be polite and react with Christian forbearance and pretend to care about each and every grievance.”

“I hope I do more than
pretend
to care.”

“Yes, I think you do. I see that you care about your parishioners. In word and deed. You have my sincere admiration—you and your sister both.”

He looked at her, taken aback by her praise. His heart warmed, and he sat taller against the hard wooden pew. She gazed at the altar, with no coy or flirtatious looks or apparent awareness of the deep compliment she had paid him, nor her effect on him.

The candle on the reader’s desk guttered and swayed in the draughty nave. The rain tapped against the roof, and in the distance, thunder rumbled. His stomach grumbled in reply, and William felt his neck heat in mild embarrassment. He braved a sideways glance at her.

She grinned. “Hungry?”

“Very.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to invite her into the parsonage for something to eat, only a few feet beyond the vestry door. But he knew he should not. Not just the two of them alone in his rooms.

As if reading his mind, she said, “Would you like to come over to the manor and join me for tea? Do you think that would be all right, since my father is there?” She added, “I suppose you have to be very careful.”

Very careful indeed,
he thought.
The
eyes of God—and Mrs. Peterman—are everywhere.

“I have another idea,” he said. “We were to have cider today after the service, in honor of the occasion. Why don’t I fetch us two glasses?”

“If you like.”

He rose. “I’ll be right back.” Making haste into the vestry, he replaced white gown with coat and hat and dashed across the
rain-slashed path to the parsonage. He returned a few minutes later with a basket.

She met him in the vestry. “You’re dripping wet!”

“Not too bad.” He handed her the basket and shed his long coat and hat.

“You might have borrowed my umbrella.”

“
Now
you offer,” he teased. He pulled a chair from the corner of the room toward the small desk and chair against the office wall. He wished for the hundredth time the old place had heating—a simple hearth or even a stove.

He poured two glasses of cider and prised up the lid from a tin of biscuits his mother had brought over the day before.

He handed Miss Foster a glass and lifted his own. “Will you drink King George’s health with me?”

“I shall indeed.” She lifted her glass, and they both sipped.

He offered her the tin.

She eyed the biscuits in surprise. “Don’t tell me you made these.”

“What do you take me for—useful?” he quipped. “No, Mamma is the baker in the family.”

Miss Foster took a bite. “And very accomplished she is.”

But William’s mind was not on cider or biscuits. He found his gaze lingering on Miss Foster’s beguiling mouth and lovely white teeth as she nibbled dainty bites of ginger biscuit. He swallowed.

In the small room, she sat very near, their knees only inches apart, and he could smell something flowery and feminine—perfume or floral soap. He noticed a crumb on her lower lip, and watched in fascination as her pink tongue licked it away. He felt a stab of longing and took a deep, shaky breath.
Steady on, Parson. Steady on.

“Miss Foster,” he said, his voice low and not perfectly even. “I am very glad you came.”

“To church?” she asked.

“To Pembrooke.”

She smiled. “So am I.”

The damp weather persisted. From the morning-room window, Abigail looked out across the drive toward the church, remembering fondly her time there with Mr. Chapman. She had seen him again during the second dance class, which Abigail thought went even better than the first. She had been so pleased to see Leah looking relaxed—and enjoying Mr. Morgan’s company.

From beyond the rain-spotted glass, movement caught her eye. It was the woman in the dark blue cape and veiled hat again, walking into the churchyard, something bright yellow in her hands. Was it Eliza Smith? She had seen a small veiled hat on a peg in Mrs. Hayes’s cottage, though it hadn’t been a full, heavy veil like this one. And there was something about the woman’s posture that suggested wealth and breeding.

Molly came in with fresh coffee and the newspaper.

“Molly, do you know who that is . . . in the churchyard?”

The lower housemaid walked over to stand beside her at the window. “No, miss. Don’t recall seeing a woman in a veil like that round here before.”

Abigail thanked the girl. She sat back down, took a sip of coffee, and read the headlines, but she soon found her attention returning to the churchyard. She went to the hall cupboard, pulled on a hooded mantle and gloves, and stepped outside. But by the time she crossed the drive, the woman was gone.

Abigail entered the churchyard anyway, and walked to the spot where she thought the woman had stood—if she was not mistaken, also very near the place Eliza Smith had stood not so long ago. She saw no fresh graves, no temporary crosses or sparse grass yet to grow in. By appearances this plot of graves had lain undisturbed for decades. She looked closer at the trio of headstones and read the names:
Robert Pembrooke, Elizabeth Pembrooke
, and
Eleanor Pembrooke, Beloved Daughter
, surrounded by many other Pembrookes of generations past. She supposed it wasn’t so surprising that the grave of the well-liked lord of the manor should receive visits from not one but two women in as many weeks. Though this time flowers—a bouquet
of yellow daffodils—had been left on Eleanor Pembrooke’s grave rather than Robert’s.

She looked at the death dates. Robert Pembrooke died twenty years ago, as Mr. Chapman had said. Killed in London, she now knew from the newspaper clipping. His wife and daughter had died only a few days apart the year before. Typhus, Mac had said. Poor Mr. Pembrooke, to lose his wife and child at the same time like that. How sad. His final year could not have been a happy one. And then to die so violently himself. . . .

She stood there a moment longer, missing her own mother and sister, and then returned to the house. Her father would be coming down to breakfast soon and she wanted to be there to greet him.

Another letter arrived three days later, and when Abigail read its first line, hair rose on the back of her neck, and she experienced that prickly sensation one sometimes feels when being watched. She looked at the date—the letter had been sent the day after she had visited the churchyard. How eerie and fascinating that she should receive this particular journal page after so recently visiting those particular graves.

I visited their graves today. Robert Pembrooke. Elizabeth Pembrooke. Eleanor Pembrooke. As well as my grandparents and great-grandparents. But I felt little connection to them. Only guilt. I don’t feel I have any right to claim kinship with these people, nor any right to live in their house.