Abigail ate in the dining room as usual that evening, with her father and Mr. Pembrooke. When her father mentioned William Chapman was in residence, Miles surprised her by reacting with apparent approbation.
“You are all goodness, Mr. Foster,” he said. “I declare. I am quite proud to be related to you. First you invite me to stay and then our poor injured curate. Your generosity knows no bounds.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Mr. Foster said with a wry twist to his lips, but his eyes shone at his guest’s praise.
Miles looked at her with a knowing grin. “And wise to put him on the ground level, sir, away from the family bedchambers. A clergyman cannot be too careful—one’s reputation is not to be trifled with.”
Was that a barb directed at her? Abigail wondered. Her father had shown no such scruple about keeping Miles Pembrooke away from the family bedchambers. But then again, he considered him family and therefore harmless.
Abigail hoped he was right.
After dinner, Abigail gathered her courage, reminding herself it was perfectly acceptable for a hostess to check on her injured houseguest. The morning room door stood ajar, which made her feel more comfortable in approaching and knocking softly on the jamb.
“Come,” Mr. Chapman called in reply.
She pushed wide the door but remained in the threshold. William lay on the sofa, cocooned in bedclothes, his wrapped arm propped on a cushion. Hands, face, and hair scrubbed clean.
“Just checking to see if you have everything you need.”
“I do. Thank you.”
She glanced about the room. “Where is your father? I thought he was staying with you tonight?”
“He is. But he insisted on going to Mr. Brown’s for laudanum. He should be back shortly.”
She winced in empathy. “Is the pain very bad?”
“I’ve felt better,” he allowed.
“I . . . should leave you. If there is nothing I can do.”
“Stay and talk to me until he returns. Won’t be long. I could use a pleasant distraction.”
“Of course—if you like.” Leaving the door open behind her, she crossed the room and sat in an armchair facing the sofa.
Closer now, she noticed the tension in his jaw and mouth, as if gritting his teeth against the pain.
He asked, “How is Mr. Pembrooke taking the news?”
“Actually, he congratulated my father on his largesse.”
He chuckled. “I am sorry if I accused him unjustly. And I do hope you are . . . comfortable with my being here.”
“I don’t know if that is the word I would use, but I definitely approve of my father’s decision to ask you to stay.”
“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully, watching her with a measuring look.
For a few moments they sat in companionable silence.
Knowing he wished her to distract him, she said, “It was kind of Miles to go for the surgeon today.”
“I agree. Though perhaps shortsighted.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Mr. Brown told me something interesting about Mr. Pembrooke while he was tending my wounds. Granted, I was distracted by the pain, but I am fairly certain I heard correctly. Did not Miles say his limp was the result of an old war wound?”
“He mentioned that, yes. Though he might have been jesting to brush it off lightly.”
“Or to avoid uncomfortable questions, perhaps.”
She frowned, remembering Duncan’s doubts on the subject. “Why? What did Mr. Brown tell you?”
“He said he recalled Miles as a lad, when he lived here with his family. He was called in to set his leg—broken, apparently, during a fall down the stairs.”
“No . . .” Abigail breathed, her heart twisting at the thought of a young boy falling down those many stairs.
William nodded. “He also intimated that the family did not immediately call him. And by the time they did, he was unable to set the leg as well as he would have liked. Mr. Brown said he suggested they take the boy to the hospital in Bath, but as far as he knows, they never went. He said it disappointed him, seeing Miles limp after all these years, and wished he’d been able to do more for him.”
Abigail bit her lip as she considered, then asked, “Don’t tell anyone else, all right? I’d like to talk to him myself.”
“I won’t.” He reached across the distance and pressed her hand. “You have a compassionate heart, Abigail Foster.”
Or a foolish heart, she thought but did not say so.
Abigail left Mr. Chapman and joined Miles in the drawing room for coffee. She found him staring out the window at the twilight sky, idly rolling the handle of a spoon between his fingers. As usual her father had remained in the dining room to smoke after dinner.
She sat across from him and began, “I understand Mr. Brown was called in to treat you here when you were a boy.”
Miles lowered his eyes, his long lashes fanning over his cheek. “Ah . . .” he murmured. He smiled a sad little smile and continued to roll the spoon in his hand. “And I suppose he told you I broke my leg in an accident?”
“Yes. A fall down the stairs. Though perhaps you reinjured it in battle . . . ?”
She waited, watching the curtain of thoughts and emotions shifting across his golden-brown eyes.
He looked at her, then away again. “I did fall, yes. Clumsy Miles. But with so many injured in the war, I find it easier to call it an old war wound. Better to be one of the honorable veterans, injured in a noble cause, than a cripple since boyhood, an object of pity or scorn.”
Abigail’s heart ached for him, and she wished she had kept her mouth shut.
He shrugged. “It was not a complete fabrication. I did serve in the navy. An attempt to follow in my father’s footsteps. To make up for all the other ways I had disappointed him. I bound my leg and hid my limp as best I could. It worked, for a time. I wasn’t the strongest sailor, but I was clever, and worked my way up. But in the end, I hadn’t the stomach for fighting. My father always told me I was too soft. And he was right.” His mouth twisted. “So far.”
“I understand, Miles,” Abigail said. “And I don’t blame you.”
He met her gaze. “And will you forgive me for not being completely honest with you?”
“Yes.”
He reached out and tapped a finger beneath her chin. “What a dear creature you are, fair cousin. If only everyone were half as understanding as you.”
Later that evening, laudanum administered and pain beginning to ease, William and his father sat companionably in the Pembrooke morning room.
Mac looked around him at the fine furnishings and old portraits on the paneled walls. “How strange to be here,” he murmured, “to have one of my children sleeping in Pembrooke Park. Never would I have believed it.”
William looked at his father’s pensive profile and said, “But I am not the first of your children to sleep here, am I?”
Mac looked away without answering.
William asked gently, “Were you ever going to tell me . . . if Miles Pembrooke hadn’t returned and forced your hand?”
His father shrugged. “You were so young when it happened. One doesn’t entrust important secrets like that to a four-year-old. Later, when the thing seemed to have been largely forgotten, it seemed risky to bring it out again, to open old wounds. Leah seemed to want to forget, to pretend it never happened. I suppose it made it easier to live day to day. And I certainly thought it the wisest, safest course, not to talk about it.”
William regarded the older man. Wondering what else he didn’t know about his family. About the past. “So many things I want to ask you . . .” he began, then winced his eyes shut, trying in vain to focus his laudanum-dulled thoughts. “Were you here that night?”
“Aye. That I was.” Mac slowly shook his head, his gaze straying to the door and the hall beyond.
“Show me where it happened,” William urged, pushing aside the bedclothes.
“No,” his father protested
. “Not after the day you’ve had. Stay in bed.”
“I don’t feel too bad, not with the laudanum taking effect.” William swung his legs over the side of the sofa and made to stand.
His father stepped quickly to his side and took his arm to steady him. “Oh, very well. But just for a moment.”
They went out into the hall. Mac’s gaze swung around the soaring room and trailed its way up the grand staircase. “There.” With his free hand, he pointed to the front door, then up the stairs. “The valet, Walter Kelly, rushed in with the news that Robert Pembrooke was dead. Murdered. And not long after, Walter himself died right there.” He pointed to the bottom of the stairs.
“An accident—a fall—as we’ve always been told?” William asked. “Or was he pushed?”
Mac grimaced. “He and Clive Pembrooke argued at the top of the stairs. I believe Clive struck him a mortal blow, perhaps with the butt of his gun or some other object, then pushed him down the stairs to make it appear an accident.”
“You didn’t actually see it happen?” William asked.
Mac shook his head. “No. But I heard it.”
William watched him, unsettled by the eerie glint in his father’s eyes. Then he looked around the open two-story hall for possible places of concealment. Seeing only a hall cupboard, he asked, “Where were you?”
For a moment, Mac didn’t answer, his expression distant in memory. Then he whispered, “In the secret room.”
Abigail was about to blow out her bedside candle when she heard someone pounding on the front door below. She tied on her dressing gown over her nightdress and left her room, pushing her long hair back over her shoulder. Who would be calling at this late hour? She hoped Mr. Chapman was all right.
She descended the stairs and reached the hall in time to see Mac standing at the open front door, talking in a low voice to an adolescent male caller. Mac nodded and shut the door.
Concerned, Abigail asked, “Is everything all right?”
He turned, wearing a grimace. “Nothing to alarm you, Miss Foster. It’s only that Mr. Morgan’s favorite hound has gone missing. Like a second son to the man he is. And as I am his land agent . . .”
Abigail shook her head. “Don’t tell me you’ve been asked to go out and find the man’s dog . . . at this hour?”
“I’m afraid so. William is sound asleep or I wouldn’t go. I think he’ll sleep through the night, especially after the hefty dose of laudanum Dr. Brown sent over. Still I hate to leave him, should he waken . . .”
“I will ask my father to look in on him. Or Duncan.”
“Thank you, Miss Foster. Don’t disturb your father, but if Duncan will check on him, I think it will be all right to leave for an hour or two.” He retrieved his overcoat from the hall cupboard.
Abigail hesitated. “I’m curious, Mac. Why did you hire Duncan? No offense, but he clearly isn’t fond of working here. If he didn’t treat my father so well, I likely would have dismissed him before now.”
Mac bit his lip, then said, “I was afraid of that. It’s a bitter pill to find himself a house servant. He’d hoped for more. Please be patient with him, lass.”
Abigail studied his earnest face. “Very well.”
“Thank you.” He picked up his hat and turned to the door. “Well, I’m off. Hopefully, the dog will have shown up at Hunts Hall by now.”
“I agree. But don’t worry, we shall look after William until you return.”
“Much obliged, Miss Foster.”
Abigail went belowstairs to talk to Duncan but discovered his room empty. Where was he at this hour? Out drinking at the public house? Meeting Eliza?
Drawn by Abigail’s knocking, Mrs. Walsh peeped out of her own room across the passage, her hair in paper wrappers. Abigail asked if she knew where Duncan was, but the housekeeper said she thought he’d gone to bed and was surprised to learn his room was empty.
Abigail borrowed paper and ink from Mrs. Walsh and left a note for Duncan, asking him to check on Mr. Chapman when he returned, and to take him fresh water in the morning. The note would also serve to let the man know she was aware of—and not pleased with—his late-night absence.
She sighed, resigned to go upstairs and ask her father to look in on William. Remembering Miles’s comment about reputations, she doubted it would be proper for her to do so. Crossing the hall, she paused outside the morning room door, to assure herself William Chapman slept on, undisturbed. If so, she would let her father sleep awhile longer. Perhaps Duncan would return soon and she wouldn’t have to wake her father. His “lord of the manor” condescension might not extend to middle-of-the-night visits to his houseguest’s sickbed.
She pressed her ear to the closed door, but a groan broke the silence she’d hoped for. Her heart banged against her ribs, and her stomach plummeted. All thoughts of propriety fled.
She inched open the door and peered in. Mac had left a candle lamp glowing on a side table, which illuminated William’s form on the makeshift bed. Seeing he was dressed in nightshirt and covered by bedclothes, she opened the door wider and tiptoed inside. Again she heard a pitiful groan.
She cautiously approached. His eyes were closed, but his face was bunched up in a grimace of pain, or anxiety.
“Noooo,” he moaned. “Leah . . .”
She was startled to hear him calling for his sister. He must be having a nightmare.
Abigail bent near. “Mr. Chapman?” she whispered. “William?” When he didn’t respond, she gently touched his arm. “You’re all right. Just a dream.”
She had heard laudanum could give people horrid nightmares, sometimes even hallucinations. She hoped the surgeon hadn’t prescribed too great a dose.
“You’re all right,” she repeated, gently shaking his arm.
Slowly, groggily, he opened his eyes. He looked at her with a bleary gaze.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said quietly, kneeling on the footstool. “I only came in to wake you. Are you all right?”
“Leah?” He looked past her, toward the door.
“She is at home in bed. Sound asleep, no doubt. You are here in Pembrooke Park—do you remember?”
“Leah was here too,” he murmured. His expression tightened in alarm. “Hiding in the secret room. He was coming for her.”
Leah, in the secret room? Abigail thought. Someone coming for her? What a dream for him to have.
“Only a nightmare,” she repeated.
“Was it? It seemed so real.” He sighed. “What a relief.”
His expression relaxed, and he took a slow, deep breath.
“Are you all right now?” she asked. “Are you in pain?”
He lifted one corner of his mouth in a lopsided grin. “The pain is a distant thing—off shore. I feel . . . good.” His gaze roamed her face. “Abigail Foster is at my bedside . . .” His eyes twinkled. “How can I not feel good? In fact, I feel very . . . warm.”
His hand found hers, and he entwined his long fingers around her shorter ones. “Like . . . warm jelly that hasn’t set. My bones are soft. Your skin is soft. So soft . . .” He looked down at her pale wrist as though it were an awe-inspiring sight, and ran a thumb over it.
It sent a thrill of pleasure up her arm.
She supposed she now knew how William Chapman would behave were he ever foxed. And considering he stayed away from liquor, this was likely as close as he would ever come. She hoped he wouldn’t feel the worse for it when the laudanum wore off. She wondered if he would even remember this conversation in the morning.
His voice thick, he said, “I’ve never seen you with your hair down.” He reached out and captured the end of a dark curl and caressed it between his thumb and fingers.
She bowed her head, embarrassed and self-conscious, yet at the same time supremely aware of her femininity, her long dark hair falling on either side of her face and over her shoulders like a veil.
“Sorry. I had already dressed for bed.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s beautiful. Y
ou’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to meet his earnest gaze.
He continued to hold her hand, and she continued to let him. His eyes took on that dazed quality once more. He said languidly, “Abigail Foster in my bedchamber at night. I must be dreaming . . .”
He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a slow kiss to one fingertip after another. “Mulberries . . .” he murmured. “I find I like them after all.”
He gave her a roguish grin.
“You are feeling very pleased with yourself,” she observed.
“Of course I am. You are with me, so I am on top of the world . . . yet strangely numb to the world at the same time.”
She gently extracted her hand from his. “I think you are quite well enough for me to leave you. In fact, far too well for me to stay.” She rose.
His head snapped toward the door, and his brows furrowed. “Who’s that?”
Startled, she turned toward the door she had left open, but saw nothing. “Where?”
“Who’s there?” he called.
“I don’t see anyone. Probably only a trick of the shadows.” And the laudanum, she added to herself.
He shook his head. “I saw someone—someone in a hooded cloak.”
Abigail walked to the door, her heart beating a little too hard, first from William’s touch and now this scare. If anyone was there, it was likely only Duncan, coming to heed her summons at last. Or perhaps her father. Or even Miles Pembrooke. She hoped not the latter. He would certainly not like finding her in William Chapman’s bedchamber, sickroom or not.
But she saw no one in the hall, even though the moonlight leaking in through the windows left plenty of shadows and dark corners.
She returned to his bedside. “I didn’t see anyone.”
But William had already nodded back to sleep.
Had there been someone there? Abigail wondered. Someone in a hooded cloak? A shiver snaked up her neck at the thought.
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 26
