When they reached Pembrooke Park, Mr. Chapman tied off the reins and alighted from the gig. Coming around, he reached up, but instead of offering one hand to her, he lifted both. She hesitated, meeting his gaze with brows raised in question.
In a low voice, he said, “May I?”
His gloved hands hovered near her waist. In reality, she could have managed the step down with only a hand to assist her, but she pressed her lips together and silently nodded.
He grasped her waist and gently lifted, lowering her easily to the ground. For a moment longer, his hands remained, and he murmured, “You do have a tiny waist.”
His hands felt large, strong, and sure. She swallowed nervously. Uncomfortable standing there so close to him, yet in no hurry to step away.
Behind him, the front door opened, and he released her. Glancing over, she saw Duncan standing in the doorway, candle lamp in hand.
With a rueful smile, Mr. Chapman offered his arm. Abigail placed her gloved hand on his sleeve and he tucked it into the crook of his elbow. Together they walked to the house.
“You two were out late,” Duncan observed, his eyes narrowed. In suspicion, or disapproval?
“The dinner party was quite a long affair,” Mr. Chapman said, coming to her defense.
Abigail added, “I didn’t realize we would be back quite so late. Thank you for waiting up.”
“I am surprised a clergyman thinks it wise to be out so late. And without a chaperone yet. I seem to recall someone giving me a setdown for keeping a lady out after dark once upon a time.”
Insolent man, Abigail thought, torn between offense and curiosity. Who did he mean?
“That situation was entirely different, as you will recall,” Mr. Chapman replied. “The lady in question was out without her parents’ consent.”
Duncan rebutted, “As is Miss Foster, I believe.”
Mr. Chapman met the man’s challenging glare. “Your concern for your mistress is touching, Duncan. Take care your respect equals that concern.”
Aware of the mounting tension between the men, visible in their clenched jaws and taut postures, Abigail extracted herself from Mr. Chapman’s arm and said gently, “It is late, and I had better go in. Thank you again for the lovely evening, Mr. Chapman. And do give your sister my best.”
Chapter 10
In the morning, Abigail lay snug in bed for a time, thinking back to the dinner party the night before, and the carriage ride home with Mr. Chapman. Mr. William Chapman . . . She liked his name.
She had not liked Duncan’s reception when they’d arrived home. His sneering disapproval had spoiled an otherwise lovely evening. Had she done wrong, in spending so much time alone in the curate’s company? She hoped not.
She recalled a few other moments that had been less than idyllic as well. Mrs. Morgan asking her in front of all of those people if her seasons had resulted in any offers of marriage. And later, Mrs. Webb’s comment, “It is not the ghosts you need worry about, but human beings that are very much alive.” Abigail wondered if she referred to treasure hunters in general or some specific human.
She rose, wrapped her shawl around herself, and wandered over to her mother’s bedchamber. She stood at the window, looking toward the church. The grey day seemed as ambivalent as she—not sunny, but not raining. A fine mist hung in the air like a gauzy grey curtain. The window glass was foggy, and what lay beyond was as difficult to see as her future.
She tried to hold on to the happiness she had felt in the carriage the night before, but the quiet, lonely house drew it from her—her family so far away, Gilbert even farther . . .
Something caught her eye. A figure beyond the low churchyard wall. Abigail wiped a circle in the foggy glass and peered closer. Was it Eliza Smith again? Whoever it was wore a dark blue cape and hat with a heavy veil over her face. Her head bowed.
Perhaps it wasn’t Eliza. Perhaps it was a widow come to visit her recently deceased husband. Or a mother grieving her child. She would ask Mr. Chapman if a family in the parish had suffered a recent loss.
Whatever the case, the sight of the lone figure in the misty grey churchyard moved Abigail with pity.
Several days later, two letters arrived for Abigail—the first was from her mother.
Dear Abigail,
Your father is sorry the bankruptcy business has kept him in London for so long—far longer than he anticipated. We trust you are managing fine on your own, as usual. But do let us know if you are unhappy or need anything. I must say, it is a balm having your father here with us at this time. Things are not progressing quite as well as when last I wrote, and his company is a comfort.
Unfortunately, the details of the bank incident have become public and have begun to overshadow Louisa’s season—for otherwise I have no doubt she would be an absolute triumph. As it is, she has been overlooked by a few highly placed parties who would no doubt be clamoring for her attention if not for the banking scandal. A few gentlemen have continued to call in spite of these circumstances, which are of course quite beyond poor Louisa’s control. Their parents, however, do not share their enthusiasm. Regardless of these few setbacks and the occasional cut direct or spiteful comment, Louisa seems blithely and blessedly unaware and remains in good spirits.
Gilbert Scott continues to impress wherever he goes. It is a comfort to know that his regard has not been affected by the news of our change in circumstances.
Abigail’s heart plummeted, thoughts of William Chapman fading. Gilbert . . . how she missed him. And would go on missing him apparently. She sighed and set the letter aside.
Hoping for something diverting, she opened the second letter, another old page torn from a journal.
The secret room. Apparently its location has been lost over generations and renovations. Does it even still exist? Did it ever? My father certainly thinks so. Why his sudden determination to find it now, when he lived in this very house as a boy? Has he some reason to believe something valuable has recently been hidden there?
The servants swear ignorance. The steward scoffs at the idea of hidden treasure. But that does not dissuade my father. He searches. He taps. He pokes. He pulls books from floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He looks behind portraits and up flues. He swears and curses and keeps looking. Occasionally in his frustration, he drinks himself into a stupor, and for a few days or a week he gives it up. But then another bill comes, or he sees a blood horse he wishes to buy, and he begins his frantic searching all over again.
A few days ago, he unearthed stacks of house plans and pored over them for hours. He hid them from the servants and even my brothers—not wanting to give anyone ideas. Not trusting anyone.
But he didn’t hide them from me. I don’t think he believes a mere girl capable of finding anything he cannot. He doesn’t see me as a threat. In fact, I think he barely sees me at all.
So I waited until he left the house and looked at those drawings myself. I admit I can make no sense of them. Cannot decipher which solid or dashed lines mean original vs. new walls vs. doors or windows. And in truth, I have no idea which of the plans has even been carried out. For the drawers of the library map table hold more house plans than actual maps, it seems to me.
But one thing did catch my eye. A detail in those plans that does not jibe with something I have seen in the house itself. Or am I not thinking of the actual house at all, but rather its scale model? I think I will compare the dolls’ house to the plans tomorrow. . . .
Abigail felt a thrill of anticipation skitter up the back of her neck. Perhaps she could see something in the house plans the writer had missed. It might be worth a try. At any rate, she would certainly find the search interesting.
She went down to the library, folded back the window shutters, and stepped to the large map desk near the center of the room. She pulled out the deep, shallow drawers in order, starting at the top left and working her way down. There were old maps of the world, the West Indies, Europe, England, London, Berkshire, the parish, and the estate
grounds.
Finally she found a sheaf of old drawings—building plans—yellowed with age. Were they the latest? Had the plans been implemented, or had they been passed over in favor of some other architect’s vision? She spread them atop the map table and flipped through them quickly, looking for dates. She found an old one marked with roman numerals from the 1600s. It showed a central manorial hall with side wings for stabling, a gate, and a porter’s lodge, which no longer existed. In fact someone had written Destroyed over it. By fire, most likely.
She flipped through several more pages until she found a plan that looked more recent. She saw no date, but the block handwriting seemed more modern and the ink less faded than the others. In this plan, a new addition had been built in the rear courtyard of the house, adding a drawing room below and a bedchamber above. That plan or at least one very like it had been carried out. The bedchamber above the drawing room was the newer one she planned to give Louisa. There were a few other details she was less sure of. If only Gilbert were there to help her understand everything she was looking at.
She retrieved a notebook and drawing pencil, donned bonnet, spencer, and gloves, and went outside on the temperate May afternoon. She slowly walked along the front of the house, surveying its exterior, noting the oriel windows, the gabled roof, and chimney stacks. She started toward the side of the house but paused at the sound of trotting horse hooves.
She turned and watched as a well-dressed gentleman on a dappled grey horse rode across the bridge. Andrew Morgan. He raised a hand in greeting and nudged his horse across the drive in her direction.
“Hello, Miss Foster.”
“Mr. Morgan. Nice to see you again.”
“I am out today issuing more invitations. Do you think I shall have better luck this time?”
With Leah Chapman, she guessed he meant. “I don’t know, but one can always hope.”
“Precisely. That is exactly what I am doing. How is Miss Chapman, by the way? Have you seen her?”
“I have. And she seems quite . . . recovered.”
“Excellent. I am just on my way over to pay a call. In the flush of success from her little dinner party, Mother has decided to outdo herself by hosting a masquerade ball at Hunts Hall, just as we used to do back home. You are invited, of course. I do hope you will join us.”
“Thank you. When is it to be?”
“The tenth of June. She is planning to invite friends from Town as well.” Parroting his mother, he said with exaggerated hauteur, “‘It is to be Easton’s social event of the year.’”
“Of the decade, by the sound of it,” Abigail amended.
“I shall tell her you said so. It will give her something to crow about to all her friends.”
Abigail grinned.
“Good day, Miss Foster.” Mr. Morgan tipped his hat.
“Good day, Mr. Morgan.”
Before Abigail could continue her study of the exterior, a carriage and horses rumbled over the bridge. Goodness. Today was her day for receiving callers, apparently. She waited near the door while the yellow post chaise crunched across the drive and halted in front of the house.
A groom hopped down, opened the door, and let down the step. Her father alighted—he had returned at long last! Abigail felt unaccustomed tears prick her eyes. She had not realized how lonely she had been until that moment. She blinked the tears away, put on a smile, and walked forward to greet him.
“Hello, Papa. Welcome back.”
She hesitated, not sure she should expect an embrace considering the rift between them, especially when he had spent the last several weeks dealing with tedious bankruptcy proceedings she might have prevented.
He gave her a weary smile and kissed her cheek. “Abigail. Good to see you looking so well. I have been worried about you, here all alone.”
Her heart squeezed. “I am well, Papa, as you see.”
“You weren’t too lonely without us?”
“I . . . no, I managed just fine. Though I am of course glad you’re here now.”
“Well. Good. Good.”
“Come inside, Papa. I shall call for tea.”
“I confess I could drink a whole pot and eat half a loaf after that journey.”
“That I can manage as well.” She took his arm, and together they walked inside, Pembrooke Park immediately feeling more like home.
Her study of the house and building plans would wait.
William sat sipping tea with his mother and sister in their cottage when Andrew Morgan stopped by to invite him and Leah to a ball. His sister received his friend’s invitation with cool reserve, saying only that she would think about it. William had not pressed her at the time, not wishing to embarrass her in front of his friend. Though he didn’t miss their mother’s look of concern.
Once Andrew left, Kate Chapman said gently, “You might have at least thanked Mr. Morgan for the invitation.”
“But I don’t wish to go,” Leah said.
Their mother’s face clouded. “My dear, you’ve had so little entertainment in your life, enjoyed such limited society.”
“By design,” Leah said, then added quickly, “and by preference.”
“Whose preference?” William asked. “Yours or Papa’s?”
“William . . .” His mother frowned.
“I mean no disrespect, Mamma,” he said. “But Leah is not a little girl any longer. I don’t know why Papa insists on sheltering her so.”
His father entered the house at that moment, pulling off his hat. He paused in the doorway, looking from one guilty face to the next. “What’s all this, then?”
“Mac,” his mother began, choosing each word carefully, “Mr. Morgan called to invite Leah . . . and William . . . to attend a ball at Hunts Hall. Isn’t that nice? Wouldn’t it be nice for our Leah, who’s never had the opportunity to attend anything so grand?”
“I don’t want to go, Papa,” Leah said quickly. “It’s all right.”
“But, Leah,” his mother insisted, “you ought to go to a ball. Every girl should, at least once in her life.”
His father dropped his hat on the sideboard. “She doesn’t want to go, Kate. Why push her?”
“Why don’t you want to go, Leah?” William asked. “What are you afraid of?”
His sister did not deny the charge. She ducked her head, twisting her hands before her.
“Leave your sister alone, Will. You don’t understand—that’s all.”
“Nor have I ever understood why you are so overprotective.”
His father’s eyes flashed. “That’s right. You don’t understand. So keep out of it.”
“Mac . . .” Kate breathed.
William, too, was taken aback by his father’s sharp reprimand. He prayed for wisdom, took a deep breath, and tried again. “The Morgans are a perfectly respectable family.”
“That may be,” his father allowed, “but we don’t have any idea who else might be attending this soiree of theirs.” He spit out the word as if it were burnt gristle.
“I am sure they are inviting other respectable people. What are you worried about?”
“It’s all right,” Leah repeated. “I haven’t a proper gown anyway, and would no doubt make a fool of myself.”
“But you love to dance, Leah,” William insisted. “And so rarely have opportunity, beyond our little family Christmas parties. You learnt at school, I remember. And forced me to master every dance you knew.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Perhaps Miss Foster might give us a refresher course. She no doubt knows the newer dances. And I’m sure Andrew Morgan would be happy to assist.” He attempted a teasing grin, but Leah did not return it.
He added, “And if we embarrass ourselves by turning left when we are supposed to turn right, we shall have our masks on, remember, so no one shall know who we are.”
“Masks?” their father asked.
“Yes, it’s to be a masquerade ball.”
“Is it?” Their father considered
, chewing his lip. “And you would be there with her all the while?”
“I would,” William assured him. “I would make certain no man made inappropriate advances to Leah, if that is what you are worried about.”
Leah reddened, protesting, “I hardly think we need worry about that—at my age.”
Their father looked at Leah. “Perhaps they are right, my dear. Perhaps it is time you enjoyed yourself. Started living.”
She threw up her hands. “And what do you call what I’ve been doing?”
“Waiting.” He flicked a look at William and said no more.
Leah sighed and excused herself, saying she would consider what her family had said.
After they taught Sunday school the following Sabbath, Abigail led the children in two hymns, then helped Leah pick up supplies and tidy the church.
Adding another slate to the stack in her arms, Abigail asked quietly, “So, are you going to the masquerade ball?”
“I don’t know. I told my family I would think about it. But I am not familiar with the new dances and haven’t a proper costume, so . . .” She allowed her words to trail off on a shrug.
“The invitation simply read, ‘Masks required.’ So I think we may wear traditional ball gowns and masks. You are welcome to one of my gowns. And I would be happy to teach you the popular dances, though I’m no dancing master.”
“William suggested you might be willing to do so. But I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“You are not asking; I am offering. And I have several ball gowns. Not this year’s style, but you might find one to suit you. We are not so different in size. If not, I shan’t be offended.”
“I am sure they’re lovely, but—”
“Please. Come over and at least look. All right?”
“Go to Pembrooke Park . . . ?”
“It isn’t haunted, I promise. And my father is back, so we shan’t be alone in the house. Or I could bring a few gowns over to your house, if you prefer.”
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 14
