The Secret of Pembrooke Park (23 page)

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

William slanted her a telling glance. “I forget you don’t know my sister all that well yet. She doesn’t like to talk about herself. Or the past. Or the Pembrookes.”

Abigail nodded, recalling Leah’s reticence to enter Pembrooke Park, and again wondered if she’d had a bad experience there. Or if one of the Pembrookes had mistreated her. She couldn’t imagine charming Miles doing so. He’d only been a boy at the time. And Harriet had been so desperate for a friend.

The older brother? Or Clive Pembrooke himself? Abigail felt a little shiver pass over her. She prayed she was wrong.

T
he next day Gilbert sent over a note, letting Abigail know he was returning to London. He had not visited her again. Could he have not at least come and said good-bye? Drawing her shoulders back, she went and gave her father the news with feigned nonchalance.

Abigail left her father and Miles playing a game of backgammon and took herself out of doors. She walked to the garden and began pulling weeds again, to clear her mind, to think, and to avoid Miles for a while. Natty Mr. Pembrooke would not be offering to help her in this chore, she knew.

The day was sunny and mild, and her only company was the occasional bee and a pair of warblers flitting about a wild service tree, its white blooms garlanding the garden wall.

Sometime later, Kitty Chapman appeared and joined in the task without being asked.

Abigail paused to smile at the girl. “Thank you, Kitty. I would be happy to pay you something for your trouble.”

“That’s all right. I needed to get out of the house for a while anyway. Will and Papa were arguing about something.”

“Oh? I’m sorry to hear it.”

The girl shrugged, then brightened. “But I wouldn’t say no to some flowers, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not. Help yourself.”

They pulled weeds for a time, then Abigail walked over to the potting shed for shears. She hesitated, looking at the quiet corner between the potting shed and the walled garden with a pinch of sadness, thinking of the time the two secret friends had spent there. For a moment she closed her eyes and imagined them, could almost hear their young voices, reading lines from some play. She breathed deep, and found the air smelled deliciously of thyme and honeysuckle. She opened her eyes and was surprised to find two butterflies had alighted on her rose-colored sleeve—a garden white and an orange-tipped butterfly. So different, yet so alike. The sight stilled her for some reason. Then the two fluttered away in opposite directions.

Abigail rejoined Kitty in the garden and handed her the shears. She watched as the girl began selecting oxeye daisies, yellow irises, lilies, and wild roses.

“Who will you give the flowers to, Kitty?”

“My grandmother. She has come to stay with us.”

“Has she?”

The girl nodded, adding some greenery to her clutch of blooms. “She’s had another fall, and Mamma frets so. Grandmamma says she’ll be up and about in no time and wants to return to her own house as soon as may be, but . . . well, we’ll have to see.”

“It’s kind of you to bring her flowers.”

“I thought they might cheer her. We only have the three bedrooms, and I share with Leah. So we put her in Jacob’s room and set up a little bed for him in the back porch. William’s offered to have him in the parsonage, but Papa wants him at home. I thought the flowers would help decorate my brother’s room. And hopefully overcome the smell of his foul stockings.” Kitty grinned and winked. The expression reminded Abigail of William’s wry smiles and mischievous winks.

Abigail said, “I hate the thought of all of you being cramped
when we have so much room, but I don’t suppose your father would allow you or Jacob to stay at Pembrooke Park while your grandmother is recuperating?”

Kitty shook her head, an impish glint in her eye. “You suppose correctly.”

They finished their work, then Kitty said, “Come to the house, Miss Foster. Grandmamma would love to meet you.”

“And I her. But . . . what about the argument?”

“Oh, it’s sure to have blown over by now.” Kitty shielded her eyes. “In fact, there goes Will now.”

Abigail glanced over her shoulder and saw Mr. Chapman leaving the grove and striding toward the parsonage. She was surprised he did not stop to say hello, but perhaps he had not seen them there in the garden.

“See?” Kitty grinned at her. “Coast is clear.”

But first Abigail asked Kitty to follow her into the house and belowstairs, where they found a simple glass vase for the flowers and asked Mrs. Walsh for something to take as a welcome gift. When they explained who it was for, Mrs. Walsh’s reserve fell away and she bustled about, gathering a bottle of jugged hare and a small plum pudding to take to Mrs. Reynolds, apparently an old friend of hers.

Armed with gifts, Abigail walked back to the Chapman cottage with Kitty. She met Mrs. Reynolds ensconced in the small bedchamber, bound leg raised on a cushion. The pleasant-looking old woman, in face very similar to Kate Chapman, accepted the flowers and gifts with smiling gratitude. Abigail talked with her for several minutes before wishing her a speedy recovery and excusing herself.

Leah was waiting for her outside and seemed happy to see her. “Can you stay and talk for a few minutes?” she invited, offering her a glass of lemonade.

“I would like that. Thank you.”

The two women sat on a bench in the little garden in front of the house, since it was a beautiful day, and because the house was quite crowded at the moment. They talked about everyday things for a
few minutes—Leah’s grandmother coming to stay, the upcoming Sunday school lessons, and the glorious weather.

Then Abigail said tentatively, “We have an unexpected houseguest as well. Have you heard?”

“Yes. Papa told me.”

Abigail hesitated. “Kitty mentioned your father and brother had a row earlier. I hope that’s not what they argued about?”

“No. Not . . . directly.” Leah avoided her eyes and asked, “How is it going with him there?”

“Fine, I suppose,” Abigail said. “Miles is quite charming, really. Though I do wonder how long he plans to stay.”

She noticed Leah begin to fidget, her grip tightening on her glass.

“But let’s not talk about that,” Abigail said quickly. “I haven’t seen you in several days. Tell me what has been happening since I saw you last. Any word from Andrew Morgan?”

Leah’s pretty face fell, and Abigail knew she had wandered from one sore topic to another.

Leah looked off in the distance and said flatly, “I don’t think I will be seeing Mr. Morgan again.”

“Why do you say that? I am certain he admires you.”

Leah nodded slightly. “Admiration is one thing. But he is too honorable to do anything about it. I overheard his mother, you see, chastising him for even inviting me to the ball. Apparently, William has sufficient respectability as a clergyman and former schoolmate of Andrew’s. But his parents cannot overlook the fact that my mother had been in service. And my father, as their agent and a former steward, is little higher.”

“But certainly Andrew will persuade them.”

She shook her head. “I am older than you, Miss Foster, and a little wiser in the ways of the world, so don’t be offended if I disagree. When a woman marries a man she also marries his family, for better or for worse. And that is how it should be. I shouldn’t want a man who would have to extricate himself from his family in order to be my husband, nor a man who would alienate himself from my family in order to please his. And his parents clearly want
him to marry someone else. You saw Miss Padgett—young and wealthy. It is not as though I ever stood a chance, objections to my parentage or not.”

Abigail reached over and pressed her hand, feeling a painful twinge of empathy. For a moment the two sat in companionable silence.

Then Leah added, “The Morgans are new to the parish, you see. They only visited the area a few times before inheriting Hunts Hall. They don’t know . . . can’t be expected to understand . . .”

When her words trailed off, Abigail prompted, “To understand what?”

“How . . . well respected Mac Chapman is, and—”

At that moment, Kitty ran out of the house, waving a piece of paper over her head like a flag. “Jacob has a love letter. Jacob has a love letter. . . .”

Jacob came barreling after her, long arms pumping. “Give that back! It’s mine!”

Leah sent Abigail a wry glance. “And how very genteel my family truly is.”

On Sunday morning, Abigail glanced at her father, intently slicing his sausages, then looked across the breakfast table at Miles.

“Mr. Pembrooke,” she began, “I . . . don’t suppose you’d want to go to church with us?”

Miles opened his mouth. Closed it again. And then smiled at her fondly. “Thank you for inviting me, Miss Foster, however equivocally done.”

“I did not mean to—”

He held up a hand to forestall her protests. “I understand. And don’t worry—I am not offended. I did not plan to go in any case. I could not stand to face him.”

Her father spoke up. “To face Mac Chapman, do you mean? Come, Miles. I hope you don’t mind, but Abigail mentioned the
rumors about your father all those years ago. Stuff and nonsense the lot of it, I imagine. But you cannot let a few small-minded busybodies keep you from living your life and going where you will.” He laid down his knife and fork with a clank.

“You are kind, Mr. Foster. But I don’t stay home to avoid Mac or any one particular person. I meant that I dare not face God.” He added in apparent good humor, “It is His house, after all. And I am definitely not an invited guest, if you know what I mean. I don’t belong there.”

“Of course you do.” Abigail’s heart twisted to see the wounded vulnerability on the man’s face, beneath his humorous façade. “Church is for everyone,” she said. “And so is God. Did Jesus himself not eat with sinners and tax collectors?”

“You flatter me, Miss Foster.”

“I don’t mean that you—”

“Heavens, you are fun to tease.” He patted her arm. “No, no. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and shall consider what you say. But for now I will stay here. I will not interrupt the worship of all those good souls, and you can’t pretend my attendance wouldn’t do so. It is not as though I could sneak into the place, what with a mere two dozen parishioners?”

“Give or take,” Abigail allowed.

“There, you see. But I shall wait here for you. And . . . if you thought to include me in your prayers, I should not mind.”

“I shall indeed,” Abigail earnestly assured him.

After Sunday school that day, Abigail took Leah’s arm, planning to walk her home and hoping for a private chat on the way. She began, “If you are determined not to see Andrew Morgan, then I should like you to meet Miles. I know you don’t like strangers, but he isn’t—not really. He is a distant relative of my father’s and your former neighbor. And yes, he is a Pembrooke, but he’s very agreeable—and quite handsome.”

Leah protested, “Miss Foster, I don’t—”

Abigail looked up and paused, surprised to see the very man in
question on the path. “There he is now. Come, let me introduce you.”

She tugged, but Leah froze like a statue, her arm as yielding as a stout branch.

Seeing them, Miles Pembrooke smiled and walked over, his limp less noticeable. Perhaps he made more effort to conceal it when meeting new people, or at least when meeting pretty ladies.

“We were just talking about you,” Abigail said and turned to Leah. “Miss Leah Chapman, may I introduce Mr. Miles Pembrooke.”

Abigail watched Miles for his reaction. Saw his eyes widen slightly and his expression soften as his gaze roved Leah’s gentle features, her large pretty eyes and honey-brown hair. His head tilted to one side as he regarded her in apparent admiration and . . . something else—curiosity, or perhaps recognition.

He bowed low to her. “Miss Chapman, what a pleasure.”

Leah stared at him. Dipped a stiff curtsy without removing her gaze from his face. Dare Abigail hope she was as taken by his handsome face and polite address as he obviously was with her beauty?

“Mr. . . . Pembrooke?” Leah echoed in a high, pinched voice.

“Yes. Miles,” he clarified, tilting his head to the other side. “I believe we have met before, Miss Chapman. When we were children. I don’t flatter myself you would recall.”

“Did we?” Leah asked almost timidly.

“Soon after you came home from school, I believe it was. Of course that was years ago. I no doubt made a nuisance of myself, mischievous boy that I was. At least, my sister always thought so.”

“Ah. Yes. Perhaps. Well. As you say, it was a long time ago.” Leah tried to extract her arm from Abigail’s, but Abigail held fast.

Leah swallowed and asked, “So . . . what are you doing here now, Mr. Pembrooke?”

“I wished to see my old home again—that’s all.”

“And where is the rest of your family?”

“My mother died last year, God rest her soul. My brother died not long after we left here.”

“I am—” it seemed as if the word stuck in Leah Chapman’s usually polite mouth—“sorry to hear it.”

“Are you? Or are you glad there are a few less Pembrookes in the world?” Miles’s grin did not reach his eyes.

Leah’s mouth slackened. “Of course I am not glad—”

“We are the last of a dying breed, you know,” Miles continued amiably. “My brother died young. My sister has had no children. And I have not been blessed with a spouse to shower with love as I have long wished for. And you, Miss Chapman? Dare I hope you are not yet attached?”

She paled. “I am not attached, nor have I plans to become so, especially . . .” She let her words trail away.

Hurt shone in his round eyes. “Especially to a man like me?”

“That’s not what I meant. But no, I could never become attached to a Pembrooke. No offense.”