“It’s like we’re all alone in the world,” she said. “Under a little canopy of our own.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes again lingering on those berry-stained lips.
“I like the rain, actually,” she said, looking across the pasture. “The way it makes the colors of the leaves and flowers more vibrant. The way it smells. The way it makes you feel thoughtful and yet more alive . . .”
“My goodness, Miss Foster. That is quite poetic. And here you call yourself a practical creature.”
“I am. Usually.”
“Well then, I am glad I’m here to share this rare moment with you.” He held her gaze a moment, then said, “Do you know, I have always thought of mulberries as bird feed.”
“You’ve really never eaten them?”
He shook his head.
“Then you must try one.” She reached out and plucked another from the tree.
“Oh no.” He held up his last pair of good gloves in defense.
“Allow me. My hands are already stained.”
Who could resist such an offer? He allowed her to feed him a berry, enjoying the intimate act of her delicate fingers near his lips, placing a berry in his mouth.
“Well?” she asked in eager anticipation.
He chewed, concentrating as though very serious. “Difficult to tell. A bit sour, and crunchy. Consistency of a grub.”
“That’s the seeds. But it shouldn’t be sour. I must have given you one that wasn’t quite ripe.” She searched until she found a deep purple berry. “Here, try this one. It will be delicious, I promise.”
He ate the berry. Then, unable to resist, he captured her upraised hand in his, bringing her purple fingers to his lips for a slow, lingering kiss.
She sucked in a little gasp of surprise, but not, he thought, displeasure.
“You’re perfectly right,” he said. “Delicious.”
Her voice thick, she whispered, “Would you like more?”
He looked into her wide brown eyes, innocent yet unknowingly alluring. His gaze dropped to her red lips. Oh yes, he wanted more. And knew her lips would be far more to his liking than even her fingertips had been. Instead he cleared his throat. “I never knew mulberries could be quite so tempting. But for now, you and the birds are welcome to them.”
He noticed her shiver again. “Here, take my coat. . . .”
“No, I couldn’t.”
He handed her the umbrella. “Hold this for me a moment.” He shrugged out of his long greatcoat, the cold air biting his bones even through his fitted wool coat. He whipped it around her and settled it over her, enjoying the excuse to allow his hands to linger on her shoulders.
“I don’t want to drag it on the ground,” she said plaintively, glancing down at her ankles. Being several inches shorter than he, it grazed her hem but remained above the damp ground.
“It’s fine,” he assured her.
“But we can’t have you catching cold. I have been here long enough to see how many people depend on you. I would never forgive myself if I caused you to fall ill.”
A small price to pay for one of your smiles, he thought.
Seeing the admiration shining in her deep brown eyes, satisfaction thrummed through him. His hand reached out of its own accord and stroked her cheek. “You had better take care or your words will quite go to my head and there will be no living with me after that.” Living with me? Where had that come from?
She chuckled awkwardly, ducking her head, but he noticed pink tinge her complexion.
“Only teasing, Miss Foster.”
“Yes. I have come to realize how much you enjoy teasing me.”
“It is quite bad of me, I know.” He swallowed. “But if we stay huddled out here alone much longer, I shall be tempted to do much more than tease you.”
She flashed a look up at him from beneath her lashes. What did he see there? Alarm, fear . . . hope?
He cleared his throat. “Come, Miss Foster. The rain has let up a little. Allow me to walk you home before I lose my head.” Or my heart.
Again, that nervous little chuckle. “I cannot imagine the respectable clergyman doing anything improper.”
“Your confidence is misplaced, Miss Foster. I daresay you are safe with me, yes. But though I may be a clergyman, I am still a man. And you, as I hope you know, are a very attractive young woman.”
She blushed and averted her gaze.
He grinned. “I shall never see a mulberry again without thinking of you.” He angled away and offered her his arm. “Come.”
With a wobbly smile, she put her arm through his, allowing him to escort her home.
When she returned, Molly greeted her at the door. Abigail wondered briefly where Duncan was.
“Miss Foster. There you are. There’s a caller come. Your father asks that you join them in the drawing room as soon as may be.”
It reminded Abigail of a similar summons when Mr. Arbeau had first come to them in London. Had he returned?
“Who is it?”
Eyes wide and expectant, the girl lowered her voice and said, “A Mr. Pembrooke, miss.”
Abigail started and felt her pulse race as though a ghost had been announced or a man come back from the dead. Foolish girl, she chastised herself. Not Robert Pembrooke. Hopefully not his long lost brother either, but some other more distant relation.
She met the housemaid’s curious gaze as evenly as she could. “Mr. Pembrooke?” she repeated, needing to confirm the name.
The girl nodded almost frantically.
“Very well. Thank you, Molly.” She thought again of Mac’s warning, and the letter writer’s plea that she send away anyone named Pembrooke. But he had arrived while she was out. Was it too late?
Molly helped her remove her wet things and brought a cloth for her hands and face. Then Abigail stepped to the hall mirror and tidied her hair.
The drawing room door opened, and her father came out, flushed and harried looking.
“Abigail! There you are. Thank heavens.” He closed the door behind himself. “You won’t believe it. A Mr. Pembrooke is here. I fear he may be the rightful owner of the place and has come to tell us he wants his house back.”
Abigail’s heart pounded. Oh no . . . Had he really come to ask them to leave when they had barely settled in? After all the work to ready the place—was someone else to enjoy the fruit of their labors? But if he was the owner, whose estate funds had paid for the renovations and servants, who were they to complain? Would they have to begin their house search all over again? It would be a rude awakening indeed to have to move into some small cottage or townhouse after living in magnificent Pembrooke Park.
Abigail whispered, “Has he said that’s why he’s come?”
“No, he hasn’t stated his business, and I haven’t asked him, truth be told. Didn’t give him the chance to speak. I seated him, ordered tea, asked the housemaid to look for you, and then excused myself to see if you’d been found. I left him with the tea tray, no doubt set with his own china!”
“Calm yourself, Papa. We were offered this house, remember. Asked to agree to stay for a twelvemonth at least. Perhaps this isn’t Mr. Arbeau’s client at all. Which Mr. Pembrooke is it?”
“Said his name was Miles, I believe.”
The name meant nothing to her. At least it was not Clive Pembrooke—the brother Mac had warned her about.
“All right. Well, let’s not keep him waiting any longer or he will think us very rude indeed.”
“Right.” Her father opened the door and ushered her inside.
The gentleman seated at the tea table rose when she entered. He looked to be about thirty years old. He was of average height and impeccably dressed with brown hair swept over his forehead and sharply defined side-whiskers coming forward to a point, which emphasized his cheekbones. His eyes were dark and framed by long lashes. He was handsome, if a bit dandyish, with a quizzing glass hanging by a ribbon from his waistcoat, and a walking stick near at hand.
“
Mr. Pembrooke, may I introduce my daughter, Miss Foster.”
“Charmed, Miss Foster, charmed.” He bowed with gentlemanly address.
Abigail curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pembrooke. Please, be seated.”
He pulled out the chair beside him. “You will join us for tea, I hope.”
“Thank you.” Abigail sat in the proffered seat, Mr. Pembrooke reclaimed his seat next to hers, and her father sat across from them.
She asked, “Shall I pour?”
“If you would.” Mr. Pembrooke nodded. “Ladies always seem to do so with such impeccable grace.”
“Now that you have set such a high standard, Mr. Pembrooke, I shall no doubt spill it all over myself.”
“I doubt that. But if you do, it shall be our secret.” He smiled at her, revealing a narrow space between his front teeth. His smile lent his face a boyish quality she found disarming.
She finished pouring, handed round the plate of shortbread, and began, “You are the first Pembrooke we have had the pleasure of receiving. Is it you we have to thank for the opportunity to let this fine old house?”
“Not I, no. I have only recently returned from overseas.”
“Oh . . . I see,” Abigail faltered. “Then, may I ask your connection to the family? My father is keen on genealogy, but I confess, I am not as familiar with my father’s Pembrooke relations.”
“Are we related? Delightful!” He beamed at her. “I am so pleased to hear the old place has family living in it again. About time, I’d say.”
She exchanged a quick glance with her father and felt her anxiety release a bit, like air from a balloon.
Mr. Pembrooke sipped his tea, pinky finger lifted, then set down his cup in its saucer with impeccable manners. “Forgive me. You asked about my family. My parents were Clive and Hester Pembrooke. My father was born and raised here. And later, we lived here for a time when I was a boy. I haven’t been back since.”
Then why are you back now? Abigail wanted to ask, but instead she gently inquired, “And where, if I may ask, are your parents living now?”
“In the ever after, Miss Foster. In the ever after. At least my mother, God rest her soul. She left us last year.”
“I am sorry.”
“Yes, as was I. Especially as I had been out of the country for so long. The war and all, you understand.” He looked about him once more. “Thought I’d like to see the old place again, now I’ve returned. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You are welcome, of course.” Abigail considered her next question, then asked tentatively, “I am surprised Mr. Arbeau didn’t write to let us know to expect you.”
“Mr. Arbeau? Who’s that?” he asked, his expression open and politely curious.
“Oh. I . . . assumed you would know him. Sorry. He’s the solicitor who arranged for us to let Pembrooke Park on behalf of its owner. I thought—”
“Owner?” he asked, looking mildly concerned.
“Ah. Well, he didn’t say owner specifically, now I think of it. Rather the executor of the estate, I believe he said.”
“Ah, yes.” He raised his chin. “That would be Harry. Well good. About time, as I said. None of us has ever wanted to live here. But it would be a pity to let the place fall to ruin.”
“I agree.” Abigail felt the remaining anxiety seep away. Easygoing, friendly Miles Pembrooke had put them at their ease. She supposed Harry was his brother but didn’t ask. She decided she had pried quite enough for their first meeting.
“You say you have been out of the country, Mr. Pembrooke,” her father said, crossing his legs. “May I ask where?”
“Indeed you may. Gibraltar. Have you ever been?”
“No. But I have heard of it.”
“It’s twice as beautiful as they say, and twice as dangerous.”
Mr. Pembrooke went on to entertain them for a quarter of an hour with tales of his time in Gibraltar.
When he finished, her father said, “You must join us for dinner, Mr. Pembrooke. How long are you planning to visit the area?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Well then. You must stay here with us.”
Miles Pembrooke held up his hand. “No, now, I didn’t come to beg an invitation. I only wanted to see the old place again.”
“Well, it’s too late to start a journey now. You must at least stay the night. I insist. The servants have recently finished readying the guest room. Is that not so, Abigail?”
Abigail hesitated. Again the letter writer’s admonition flashed through her mind: “If anyone named Pembrooke comes to the house . . . send him on his way.” Yet she found herself liking the man, and though she was not sure how she felt about him staying in the house with them, she found herself unable to politely decline. The estate was likely still in his family. Might even be his one day. She rose. “Yes. If you will give us a few minutes, I will see that all is in order.”
“That is very kind. Excessively kind, I must say. But I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“No trouble at all,” her father said. “You are family, after all.”
Miles Pembrooke offered his charming, boyish smile. “We are indeed. Happy thought. Well then, I accept. And gratefully.”
Abigail thought of the masquerade ball that evening. She couldn’t very well extend an invitation to this man. It wasn’t her place to do so. How awkward. “I am afraid, Mr. Pembrooke, that I have a prior engagement tonight. I hate to be rude and desert you, but—”
“Don’t give it another thought, Miss Foster. You go and enjoy yourself. I shall be perfectly fine here on my own. I may poke about just a bit—see my old room, that sort of thing—if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. Make yourself at home,” Abigail said, hoping she would not come to regret those words.
Her father spoke up, “I was not planning to attend anyway, Mr. Pembr—”
The man interrupted pleasantly. “Miles, please.”
“Very well . . . Miles.”
She noticed her father did not offer the use of his Christian name in return, but then again, he was quite a bit older than his guest.
Her father continued, “I was included in the invitation, but as I have never even met the family, I declined. I was in London on business when Abigail made their acquaintance. The Morgan family—perhaps you know them?”
“I’m afraid I have not had that pleasure, that I recall.”
“They are new to the area,” Abigail explained. “Mr. Morgan inherited Hunts Hall from his cousin.”
“I do recall the name Hunt, yes.”
Her father said, “You and I shall dine together then, Miles. If that suits you.”
“Very well, sir. I look forward to it. And I shall look forward to improving my acquaintance with your lovely daughter as well. Perhaps tomorrow?”
Abigail smiled. “Tomorrow it is, Mr. Pembrooke. Do let us know if there is anything you need while you’re here.”
“I shall. Thank you. You are generosity itself, and I am ever in your debt.” He bowed.
Abigail excused herself to inform Mrs. Walsh of their guest and to ask Polly to put fresh bedclothes on the guest bed and carry up hot water. But even as she did so, she couldn’t help but wonder if inviting Miles to stay would land them all in hot water.
Chapter 12
With the upper housemaid’s help, Abigail dressed for the ball. She tied silk stockings over her knees and stepped into shift and underslip. Polly cinched long bone stays over her shift, and helped her on with the white gown, doing up the lacing and the tiny decorative pearl buttons at the back of the bodice. The maid curled her hair with hot irons, pinning up the majority with soft height, but leaving bouncy ringlets on either side of her face. She pinned tiny white roses amid the curls, to match her shimmering muslin gown.
While Polly made the final touches to her hair, Abigail powdered her nose and brushed just a hint of blush on her cheeks and lips. Then she touched dainty dabs of rose water to her neck and wris
ts. Finally she pulled on long white leather gloves, and Polly helped her tie them with ribbons above her elbows.
“You’ll be the prettiest girl there,” Polly assured her.
“I doubt that, but you are kind to say so.” Abigail gave her reflection in the glass a final look. She did look pretty, she admitted to herself. And without Louisa in attendance, she felt she just might hold her own with the likes of Miss Padgett from Winchester.
Taking her reticule, mask, and a colorful India shawl with her, Abigail went downstairs and was surprised but pleased to see her father waiting in the hall.
He rose from the sofa, his eyes widening. “You look beautiful, my dear.”
The endearment sounded a bit stilted, stiff from lack of use since their falling-out, but she was happy to hear it nonetheless.
“Thank you, Papa.”
Perhaps this was a taste of the favor Louisa was accustomed to receiving—people ready to forgive her anything because of her beauty. It felt strange. Good and somehow deflating at once. Was she only to be treated well when she put such efforts into her appearance? She felt weary at the thought.
“Mr. Pembrooke will be down for dinner shortly, no doubt, but I wanted to be here to see you off.”
He helped her settle her shawl around her and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Have a good time, Abigail. Mr. Morgan is sending his carriage?”
“Yes. For the Chapmans as well. It should be here any time.”
“Very thoughtful of Mr. Morgan. Is there something I should know? Shall I expect a call from him sometime soon?” His eyes twinkled.
Confusion flared, followed quickly by comprehension. “Oh. No, Papa! Mr. Morgan doesn’t admire me. Not in that way. He may admire Miss Chapman, I think, though his kindness extends to me as well, as her friend.”
Frown lines creased his brow. “But you are a lady, Abigail. A gentleman’s daughter. I don’t know that I like you being reduced to the same level as Mac Chapman’s daughter. . . .”
“Father, don’t say that. Miss Chapman is everything good and ladylike.”
“Well.” He drew back his shoulders. “Don’t hide in her shadow, Abigail. Our circumstances may be reduced, but you are a Foster—kin to the Pembrookes. Remember that, and do us proud.”
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 17
