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.
“Ther
e, 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.”
He looked at her with a sad smile but said nothing.
Leah cleared her throat and asked, “Your sister is in good health?”
“Yes. Last I saw her.”
“And will you be staying long in the area?”
“I have not yet decided.”
Abigail spoke up, “How interesting that you two knew each other as children. Has Miss Chapman changed a great deal in your estimation, Mr. Pembrooke?”
Miles smiled. “Well, you must remember I was only a boy of eleven or twelve at the time, and not really noticing girls. But I will say Miss Chapman has grown uncommonly pretty.”
Leah looked away, disconcerted by his admiring gaze.
William Chapman approached, hesitated at seeing the three of them talking together, then strode forward, face thunderous.
“Leah! What are you doing? Come with me. Now.”
Leah blinked up at her brother. “William?”
“Come.” He took her arm and turned cold eyes on Abigail. “Excuse us, Miss Foster.”
“Mr. Chapman, what is it? What have I done?”
He turned on Miles sharply. “Stay away from my sister, Mr. Pembrooke. Do you understand me?”
Miles’s mouth drooped open. He looked at Abigail, and she met his stunned, hurt expression with one of her own.
Abigail stayed Miles with a quick hand to his sleeve, then hurried after William and Leah.
She caught up with them outside their cottage. “Mr. Chapman, wait.”
He urged Leah inside, then whirled on Abigail. “What were you thinking? To introduce him to my sister? If my father had come upon them instead of me . . . I shudder to think what might have happened.”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“That’s right. You don’t. And it would be better for all involved if you stayed out of matters that don’t concern you.”
Tears stung her eyes. Never had she imagined William Chapman speaking to her in such a cutting tone. Or imagined seeing such anger in eyes that had previously regarded her with warm friendliness—even, she thought, admiration. But that look was now soundly replaced with disillusionment and betrayal. Did he feel betrayed on his friend Andrew’s behalf? Or was he so prejudiced against Miles? Even if the old rumors about Clive Pembrooke were true, it shocked her that he would blame the son for his father’s wrongdoing. Especially when Miles had been so young at the time. But perhaps he was not as compassionate as she’d believed him to be.
Even so, thoughts of losing his admiration and Leah’s friendship were like twin knives thrust into her heart. Tears filled her eyes. She turned away to hide them and returned to Pembrooke Park alone.
Miles was waiting for her in the hall. “My dear Miss Foster, are you quite all right? You look very ill indeed. I do hope Mr. Chapman has not overly upset you.”
“And I hope his rudeness has not offended you. I am quite at a loss to explain it. Usually he is perfectly amiable and polite. I have never seen him treat anyone so unkindly.”
Miles studied her face, his expression measuring and disappointed. “Oh dear. Apparently you admire the man a great deal. I am sorry to have caused strife between you.” He certainly appeared sorry. But she somehow doubted he would lose any sleep over it.
He added, “I had hoped the old prejudices would have faded after all this time. Against me and my sister, at any rate. I am the first, you see, to dip my toe back into this pond, to make known my presence. Harri is very reluctant to do so. She remembers all too well how people shunned us when we lived here. As I said, I don’t really blame anybody for those days. My father being the sort of man he was. But now? After all this time? I do not look forward to telling Harri she was right not to trumpet her presence.”
After Miss Foster turned away in retreat, William closed and latched the cottage door and turned to face Leah.
Expression pained, she asked, “Do you think that was wise?”
“Wise?” he echoed. “I find you in tête-à-tête with Miles Pembrooke, and you ask me if my actions were wise?”
“Hardly a tête-à-tête. Miss Foster was there as well, you remember. You should remember, having hurt her feelings in such a callous manner.”
He blinked away the image of Miss Foster’s wide, pained eyes. “But why were you even talking to him, considering . . . everything?”
“I was constrained by politeness. Miss Foster introduced us.”
He looked hea
venward, jaw clenched and biting back an oath.
“Why do you look so fierce? Remember she is not acquainted with our family history, as you have recently become. You were quite harsh with her. With them both.”
He shook his head, his emotions still in a tangle. “I didn’t think. Only reacted. My only thought was to protect you. To remove you from harm’s way.”
“Did you really think he would have harmed me—then and there? Do you not see that by your very noticeable overreaction you have brought me to the notice of Mr. Pembrooke, rendering my own attempts to appear civil and unaffected void? Have we now not raised questions in his mind? Made him think twice about my history with his family?”
“I hope not.” He pressed his eyes closed and sent up a prayer for mercy.
“I know this is hard for you,” Leah said. “I have had years—almost my whole life—to get used to the idea. To learn to hide my feelings.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I do understand, William. And I hope Miss Foster will as well. Eventually.”
Chapter 16
For the next few days, the entire Chapman family seemed to make a point of avoiding Abigail, and Pembrooke Park in general. Not even Kitty stopped by, and there was no invitation to dinner after the midweek prayer service for their rector, Mr. Morris, who had come down with a worrisome fever. During the service, William and Mac avoided meeting her eye, and Leah departed as soon as the service concluded without staying to chat. Abigail began to fear that she had lost Leah’s fledgling friendship and her brother’s admiration forever.
Abigail tossed and turned in her bed well past eleven that night but was unable to fall asleep. She rose and paced her room, then quietly crossed the gallery into her mother’s empty room. From its windows facing the churchyard she could see the parsonage. A light shone in the window.
Mr. Chapman was up late. Could he not sleep either? Oh, God, help me heal the rift between us.
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 23