The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Klassen, Julie

  Her father’s snobbish vanity made Abigail uneasy. Who were they to view themselves above others? It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that some people in the area had tied the name Foster to the banking scandal, knowing it would knock him down a peg or two. But looking at him now, in the fading evening sunlight slicing through the hall windows, her father suddenly looked older than his fifty years. Perhaps he had been knocked down enough already.

  The rumble of carriage wheels and the jingle of harnesses announced the arrival of the Morgans’ coach-and-four.

  Her father opened the door and she bid him good evening. Outside, a liveried groom hopped down off the rear board to open the coach door and let down the step. Mr. Chapman and Leah were already inside.

  Leah said, “You look beautiful, Miss Foster.”

  “Yes, she does,” Mr. Chapman agreed, eyes shining.

  “So do you,” Abigail said, admiring Leah’s curled hair and glowing complexion, the dress so becoming on her.

  “Which of us?” William joked.

  “The both of you.”

  He grinned. “Forgive me, Miss Foster. I did not mean to beg a compliment.”

  “Yes you did. And why not?” she teased. “It’s a pleasure to see you formally attired—and not in black forms or surplice.”

  “You think this is formal?” Mr. Chapman said. “You’ve never seen me in my university gown—then you would be truly impressed.” He winked at her.

  Mr. Chapman did indeed look handsome in his dark frock coat, striped waistcoat and elegant cravat, breeches and white stockings outlining muscular calves. The man obviously did more with his time than compose sermons.

  Noticing Leah’s nervous expression, Abigail reached over and squeezed her hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I shall be,” she replied, with a brave smile.

  They arrived at a Hunts Hall awash in light—torches lined the drive and candle lamps glowed in every window.

  “Time for our masks,” Abigail reminded them, pulling forth her own. “Though we probably won’t need to wear them all night.”

  “I don’t mind,” Leah said, tying on hers.

  William followed suit, his mask a thin strip of black silk with cut-out eyeholes.

  The groom helped Abigail and Leah down, and William escorted them to the door. Inside, liveried footmen took their wraps. Since it was a masked ball, no butler called out the names of those arriving, which would of course render the masks futile.

  In truth, masks did not disguise everyone’s identity. Abigail knew she would recognize Andrew Morgan with his curly dark hair and athletic build, mask or not. And there was no disguising William Chapman’s deep red hair. And the black mask framed his telltale blue eyes to great advantage.

  Leah, however, in a gown so much more elegant than her usual plain dress, and with her hair curled and arranged so beautifully atop her head, looked far different than her usual self. And with the large mask she’d chosen to wear, extending from forehead to mouth, she was nearly unrecognizable.

  Andrew, however, no doubt identifying William, lost no time in coming over to greet them.

  “Who are these mystery women?” he teased. “And how does such an ordinary ginger-haired fellow come to have two such enchanting ladies on his arm? It isn’t fair.” He gazed at Leah warmly. “Do me the honor of taking my arm, miss, whoever you may be.” He playfully offered his arm, and Leah took it with a faint smile, though Abigail did not miss the nervous tremor of her hands as she did so, nor her eyes darting around the room from behind her mask.

  “Will she be all right, do you think?” Abigail whispered after Andrew led Leah away.

  “I hope so,” Mr. Chapman said. But he looked worried as well.

  He and Abigail strolled slowly around the anteroom for a few minutes, Mr. Chapman greeting the people he recognized and performing introductions.

  From inside the ballroom, musicians struck up a minuet.

  “I don’t care for the minuet, Miss F . . . fair lady. But if you have your heart set on it, I will of course dance it with you.”

  “I don’t mind sitting it out.”

  “Then may I have the honor of the next set?”

  “You may indeed.”

  He bowed. “I am off to pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. If I can find them. But I shall be back to claim you.”

  She nodded and walked slowly into the ballroom, taking in the modest number of dancers opening the ball. Were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan among them? She thought not. But there was Andrew Morgan dancing the old-fashioned, formal minuet with a lady not Leah Chapman. Had he abandoned her already? Apparently, his mother had insisted he open the ball with a different young lady. Miss Padgett, she guessed, taking in the woman’s blond ringlets, low-cut heavily flounced gown, and tiny mask, no wider than a pair of spectacles.

  Abigail looked this way and that for Leah but did not see her in the ballroom. So she returned to the anterooms—card room, vestibules, and then dining room, where servants were busy setting up an overflowing buffet table for the midnight supper.

  She asked a footman where the ladies’ lounge was located and found Leah inside, staring at her masked reflection in a cheval looking glass. Seeing Abigail, she quickly touched a hand to her coiffure.

  “Just checking my hair,” she said. But again Abigail noticed her hand tremble.

  Abigail stepped nearer. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly.

  Leah shook her head. “It’s nothing really. Mrs. Morgan has every right to ask her son to open the ball with the lady of her choosing. Who wasn’t, of course, me.”

  Abigail pressed her hand. “Come, let’s join the others,” she urged. “No doubt Andrew will want to dance with you as soon as his duty allows.”

  Leah forced a smile. “You go on. I’ll be there in two minutes, I promise.”

  “Very well. But if you’re not, I shall come back and drag you out.” Abigail winked, pressed Leah’s hand once more, and left the lounge.

  Crossing the hall, she was about to return to the ballroom, when a man’s profile caught her attention. She froze, heart pounding.

  “Gilbert . . . ?” she called. She would recognize him anywhere, ill-fitting mask or no.

  He turned to face her, eyes widening behind his mask. “Abby! I had no idea you knew the Morgans.”

  “Nor I you.”

  He walked nearer. Though not a tall man, he still cut an impressive figure in his evening coat, waistcoat, and cravat. He said, “I only recently met Mr. Morgan in Town. He hired my employer to design an expansion for Hunts Hall and invited us down for several days. A bit of a house party.”

  “I see. I was glad to hear you had returned from Italy safely.”

  “Thank you, yes. It was an excellent experience, but I’m glad to be back in England.”

  His eyes lingered on her face, masked though it was. “And I must say I am relieved to see you looking so well. I feared the move would be difficult for you.”

  “It has been a great deal of work, but I’ve enjoyed it. It’s a wonderful old house. You should come by and see it while you’re here. In fact I was thinking of you only last week, wishing you were here to help me decipher some old house plans I’d found.” She suddenly realized how forward she might sound. “Forgive me, I’m prattling on. I’m sure you shall be much too busy. . . .”

  “I would enjoy seeing your new home, Abby,” he quickly assured her. “In fact, I wouldn’t miss it. Susan would never forgive me if I came all this way without seeing our old neighbors.”

  “Susan . . .” The memory of his sister and her old friend squeezed her heart. “How is she?”

  “Excellent, last I saw her. And your father? He is in good health, I trust?”

  “He is—and will be glad to see you.”

  Gilbert reached out and gently lifted her mask from her eyes to her hairline, his touch sending nerves and warmth through her. Again his gaze roved her face—her eyes, her mouth, her hair. “I can’t get over how well you
look.” He smiled. “I’ve missed you, Abby.”

  She lowered her gaze from his admiring one. “Thank you,” she murmured, and an awkward silence followed. She forced herself to ask casually, “And how was Louisa when you saw her last?”

  It was his turn to look away self-consciously. “Oh . . . well. She seemed in good spirits at the Albrights’ ball. You and I danced at that a few years ago, you may recall.”

  “I do,” she managed in a choked little voice.

  He continued, “Louisa was sorry, but all her dances were spoken for save the final Boulanger by the time I arrived. She was greatly in demand and generally admired by the gentlemen, if not their mammas. But she seemed happy enough to see me. Full of apologies for not writing more often. You had all been quite busy with selling the house and the move and all, I understand.”

  “Ah . . .” Abigail murmured noncommittally, for in truth Louisa had done very little. She said gently, “Louisa is young and has had her head turned by all the attention. I’m sure when the fanfare has faded and the invitations dwindle, she’ll come back down to earth and remember her . . . friends.”

  He slowly shook his head. “I hope she does come back down to earth, as you say. And the sooner the better, for her sake. But I . . . But never mind that. I am so glad to see you. I—”

  Mr. Chapman appeared. “There you are, Miss Foster. I’ve come to claim you for our dance.”

  He looked from her to Gilbert and hesitated. “But if you are . . . otherwise engaged . . .”

  “Mr. Chapman, allow me to introduce an old friend from London, Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott, this is Mr. Chapman, our parson and neighbor.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Chapman?”

  “Well, I thank you.” The two men shook hands. “A pleasure to meet any friend of the Fosters.” Mr. Chapman sent Abigail a raised-brow look of question.

  Abigail said, “I had no idea Mr. Scott would be here tonight.”

  “A pleasant surprise, I hope,” Gilbert put in.

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Chapman smiled. “Well, if you wish to visit with your old friend, I shall release you from your obligation and leave the two of you to talk.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Chapman,” Abigail assured him. “I am looking forward to our dance. If you will excuse us, Gilbert?”

  Gilbert bowed. “Of course. Perhaps I may have the pleasure of a later dance?”

  “If you like.”

  Mr. Chapman offered his arm, but she noticed a subtle stiffness in his bearing.

  He looked down at her in concern and asked quietly, “Are you all right?”

  “I . . . think so. It was quite a shock seeing him here.”

  “Is he the architect who disappointed you in favor of your sister?”

  She pressed her eyes closed. “I wish now I’d never mentioned it.”

  He laid his free hand over hers. “Any man who would let you go for another woman isn’t worthy of you, Miss Foster.”

  “You have never met my sister.” And I wish you never would, she added wistfully to herself.

  He pursed his lip. “When I came upon the two of you, I was certain I saw admiration in his eyes. Nearly challenged him to a duel on the spot.”

  She managed a grin. “What you saw was fond affection between two old friends. That’s all.”

  He looked at her, eyes wide in compassion. “You are not very convincing. Are you sure you wish to dance?”

  “Yes. Quite sure.”

  “Shall I make passionate love to you to make him jealous?”

  Abigail felt her cheeks heat, and Mr. Chapman stopped in his tracks, stricken. “Forgive me, Miss Foster. What a cavalier thing to say. Have I shocked you terribly?”

  “A bit, yes. Not very parson-like of you, I will say. I admit the notion is not without appeal, but I shouldn’t like to use you in such a manner.”

  “I promise you, Miss Foster, it would take very little acting ability on my part.”

  She looked up at him and saw the sincerity shining in his blue eyes, and her heart squeezed. “Thank you, Mr. Chapman. You are very kind to restore my fragile feminine ego.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The musicians finished their introduction, and around them couples filled in, ladies and gentlemen facing one another in long columns. Across the ballroom, Abigail saw that Gilbert had been partnered with Miss Adah Morgan, Andrew’s younger sister. She forced her attention back to William. Unfortunately, he had noticed the direction of her gaze, but he smiled gamely and took her hand in his as the dance began.

  Together they danced their way up the line. As they waited their turn at the top of the dance, Abigail noticed a striking woman in a fine black ball gown looking their way. No mask marred her pretty face, and she appeared remarkably attractive for a woman in mourning. She was a very young widow, perhaps Abigail’s own age or even younger.

  “Who is that woman in black?” Abigail asked her partner.

  “Hm?” William turned to look and stumbled.

  “She is staring at us.” Abigail added, “As I have never met her, I assume she is looking at you.”

  “That is Rebek—er, Mrs. Garwood.”

  Her eyes flashed to his as he fumbled the words. She saw the sparkle leave his eyes, replaced by stoic acceptance.

  “Andrew’s elder sister. Recently married, and even more recently widowed.”

  “So young,” Abigail breathed.

  “Yes. Completely unexpected. I did not realize she would be attending. In mourning as she is.”

  “I see,” Abigail murmured. And with another glance at him, thought, Oh yes, I do see. . . .

  When their dance ended, Mr. Chapman excused himself and went to ask his sister for the next, dutiful brother that he was. His kindness warmed Abigail’s heart. Abigail went to the punch table and accepted a glass from a footman, then found a place along the wall to catch her breath.

  A woman joined her in the out-of-the-way corner. Her gaze flickered over Abigail’s hair and mask. “Miss Foster, I presume?”

  Abigail turned to the thirtyish woman in a peacock-blue ball gown. She wore no mask, and Abigail easily recognized her thin dark brows, blue-green eyes, and sharp nose. “Yes. It is good to see you again, Mrs. Webb.”

  The woman nodded. “My sister-in-law is in quite a pique, I can tell you, over so few of her guests embracing the spirit of the masquerade.”

  “And where is your mask?” Abigail asked.

  Mrs. Webb arched one thin brow. “Oh, disguise of every sort is my abhorrence,”

  Abigail grinned. “Ah! That is from Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy says it to Elizabeth Bennet.”

  Again the woman nodded. “I am impressed, but not surprised. I had already pegged you as a kindred spirit.” She lifted a hand. “Look about you. Most of the guests have already removed their masks. Except that woman dancing with your Mr. Chapman. Who is she? Do you know?”

  Abigail turned and saw William Chapman dancing a reel with Leah, still masked.

  “That is Leah Chapman, his sister.”

  “Ah, the dastardly ‘older woman’ Mrs. Morgan wants Andrew to pass over for young Miss Padgett?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately.”

  The woman’s keen eyes fastened on hers. “Are you well acquainted with Miss Chapman?”

  “Fairly well, though she is a rather private person. Even so, I can say unequivocally that she is a genteel, accomplished woman of good character.”

  “Yes, yes. But has she anything more interesting to recommend her? Is she good company, able to laugh at herself, or a witty conversationalist? Has she any intelligence in her pretty head?”

  “Yes, definitely. All of the above,” Abigail replied. “And she has read Pride and Prejudice three times, Sense and Sensibility twice, and Mansfield Park only once.”

  The woman’s eyes glinted with wry humor. “That is in her favor, indeed. I can tell you are an excellent judge of character, Miss Foster, and I shall put in a good word for her with the Morgans, based on your
high opinion.”

  “I would be happy to introduce her, if you like, and you may decide for yourself.”

  “Perhaps another time. But first, tell me. Does your high regard extend to her brother? Are the two of you . . . ?” She let the question dangle, but her arched brow and her meaning were clear.

  Abigail’s cheeks heated. “Oh, I . . . No. We have only recently met.”

  “But you admire him,” she suggested, eyes alight.

  “Well, yes, I suppose I do. But . . . that is, we are not . . . courting.”

  “Pity.” Mrs. Webb turned to look at Mr. Chapman once more. “I would like to see him happy, since my sister-in-law disappointed his hopes once before.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “I overheard her talking to one of her cronies. Congratulating herself on putting a stop to a courtship between Mr. Chapman and her daughter Rebekah a few years ago. Olive was very pleased with herself when Rebekah married rich Mr. Garwood instead. And now that he is gone, she fears the lowly curate will try once again to woo the wealthy widow. Her words, mind, not mine.”

  Abigail suddenly felt queasy. “And would Mrs. Garwood welcome his attentions?”

  “I don’t claim a close acquaintance with my elder niece, living distantly as we do. I gather her previous regard for Mr. Chapman was genuine, but she is only recently widowed, so . . .” She shrugged. “Time will tell.”

  “Yes,” Abigail murmured. “I suppose it will.”

  Mrs. Webb sent her a sidelong glance. “So, how goes life at Pembrooke Park since I saw you last?”

  “Very well. My father has rejoined me from London. I confess I feel more at ease with him there. And we have a houseguest.”

  “Oh?”

  “He just turned up today, without warning. Used to live there, I gather.”

  Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. Who is it?”

  “Miles Pembrooke—son of the previous occupant.”

  “Miles . . . Pembrooke?” She blinked. “I am surprised.”

  “As were we. We feared he’d come to reclaim the house for himself and cut short our lease.”

  Mrs. Webb looked into her empty glass. “I thought everyone in that family was long gone from the area.”