The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  “Don’t be. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Nervous?” he asked, offering her his arm.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “You?”

  “Not in the least. I likely would have been, had Leah been here. Nervous for her. But you, Miss Foster, can handle yourself in any situation, I think.”

  She raised her brows. “We shall see about that.”

  William liked the feel of Miss Foster’s hand on his arm. Her presence, he thought, would be sweet enough to compensate for the lukewarm reception he anticipated from Mrs. Morgan. Nor did he look forward to feeling like an outsider among the other guests, most of whom were from a higher social sphere. He was used to such snubs from his years at Oxford, but that didn’t mean he had learned to enjoy being looked down upon for his humble birth.

  Mr. and Mrs. Morgan stood inside the vestibule, receiving guests. Three women stood nearby, talking in low tones to one another.

  Mrs. Morgan welcomed him civilly, if coolly. “Ah, Mr. Chapman. Welcome.”

  At the sound of his name, one of the three women whirled, mouth parted in surprise and, if he was not mistaken, alarm. Did she know he was a clergyman and dread his presence? Assume he would spoil their fun? Some people thought so, he knew.

  The woman was handsome and dark haired, perhaps thirty or a little older. Her companions were a matronly looking woman in her forties and a young woman of about twenty—a mother and daughter, perhaps.

  William pulled his gaze from the stranger’s startled face and said to his hostess, “And this is Miss Foster.”

  “Yes, we met at church. A pity your father is unable to join us.”

  “Yes,” Miss Foster said. “Thank you for understanding.”

  Mrs. Morgan turned to the three women. “Ladies, if you will allow me, I shall make informal introductions.”

  The women turned.

  “Mr. Chapman is our curate and was at school with Andrew,” Mrs. Morgan began. “And Miss Foster is new to the area. But you know how Andrew is, all goodness. He invited her to join us.”

  “Very neighborly, I’m sure,” the youngest woman said.

  Mrs. Morgan gestured first toward the handsome dark-haired woman. “My late brother’s wife, Mrs. Webb. And beside her, my dear old friend, Mrs. Padgett, and her lovely daughter, Miss Padgett, who have come all the way from Winchester to be with us tonight.”

  “To welcome dear Andrew home, we would have traveled farther yet,” Miss Padgett said.

  “You are very kind.” Mrs. Morgan beamed, then turned to Abigail. “Miss Foster, you are from London, I understand?”

  “Yes, born and bred.”

  Mr. Morgan spoke up. “Miss Foster is living alone for all intents and purposes in Pembrooke Park, abandoned these eighteen years. Quite a singular young woman to attempt it.”

  “And . . . your family is . . . ?” Miss Padgett let the question dangle.

  “My father was here with me until recently, when matters of business necessitated his return to Town. He plans to return any day, and my mother and sister will be joining us at the end of the season.”

  Miss Padgett and her mother nodded and listened to Miss Foster politely, but William noticed the third woman, Mrs. Morgan’s sister-in-law, kept glancing his way. The woman did not wear mourning so was not a recent widow. Did he make her so uncomfortable? He hoped he had not the opposite effect on her. She was too old for him, and he was there with Miss Foster. . . . No, surely he was mistaken. He turned and met her gaze directly.

  A challenging glint shone in her grey-blue eyes. “Mr. Chapman, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me for staring. You . . . remind me of someone.”

  “Have we met before, Mrs. Webb?”

  She hesitated, lips parted. “I . . . don’t think so.” She turned to Miss Foster and held out her hand. “And a pleasure to meet you, Miss Foster. How are you getting on here? Missing London?”

  It was a relief when the woman’s keen gaze shifted to his companion.

  “Actually, I miss London far less than I imagined I would,” Miss Foster replied. “Although I miss my family, of course.”

  Mrs. Webb smiled thinly. “And how do you find living in the formidable Pembrooke Park?”

  “Oh, it’s quite something. A beautiful old house.”

  “But surely, after being uninhabited for so long . . . ?”

  “It was difficult at first, I own. A great deal of dust and the like. But we’ve an excellent staff and have slowly put the place to rights.”

  “I am glad to hear it. No evidence of break-ins or damage?”

  “Nothing beyond the usual decay one might expect. Mr. Chapman’s father has taken it upon himself to guard the place, to keep out would-be thieves and vandals. Even repaired the roof himself, in his spare time.”

  “Did he indeed?” Mrs. Webb’s thin brows rose, clearly impressed.

  Hearing this, Mrs. Morgan said, “Well, he was once the Pembrookes’ steward, after all, and old ways die hard.”

  Mrs. Webb ignored her. “That was excessively good of your father, Mr. Chapman.”

  Miss Foster glanced at him shyly. “Yes, it was.”

  She did not, William noticed with relief, recount how Mac had met them at gunpoint.

  “Foster . . .” Mrs. Morgan echoed thoughtfully. “Your father wasn’t mixed up in that awful bank failure business, I trust?” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

  Miss Foster’s lip parted to reply, but she hesitated. “I . . .”

  Mrs. Webb interrupted, “No, the names were something else, I recall. Austen, Gray, and Vincent, I believe. I thought of investing in their first bank a few years ago—such charming men and so certain of their success. But in the end, Mr. Webb talked me out of it.”

  Mrs. Morgan nodded. “Sounds like Nicholas. He had a good head for business and always made excellent decisions.”

  “Except in his choice of spouse, I think you mean, sister dear?” Mrs. Webb said archly, leaving everyone listening to understand Mrs. Morgan had not approved of her brother’s choice of wife.

  The attention had been deflected from Miss Foster, but William did not miss her averted gaze and distracted manner. There was something to the bank story, he guessed. He felt grateful to Andrew’s aunt for diverting the conversation.

  “Has Mr. Webb been gone long?” William asked kindly. He did not recall hearing anything about the man’s death, which was understandable as the Webbs did not live in the area.

  “Two years,” she replied. “Hence you see me out of my widow’s weeds. Never cared for black.”

  “Nor I,” William said wryly, since clergymen stereotypically wore black, though he preferred not to.

  Humor sparked in the woman’s eyes, and she chuckled appreciatively.

  “I don’t see anything funny.” Mrs. Morgan sniffed.

  Mrs. Webb said, “Olive, do be a dear and allow me to sit by Mr. Chapman and Miss Foster. I think I shall enjoy their company.”

  “But . . . you are one of our honored guests, sister. I planned for you to sit on Mr. Morgan’s right.”

  “Oh, I can talk to him tomorrow. Humor me.”

  Mrs. Morgan sighed. “Very well.”

  Andrew, who had been cornered by several men clustered around the decanters, broke away from the group and strode over beaming. “Will, good to see you. And Miss Foster, thank you for coming.” He looked around. “But where is Miss Chapman?”

  William made her apologies.

  Andrew’s smile fell. “I am very sorry to hear it. I had been looking forward to seeing her again. Er, seeing all of you, of course. You will tell her she was missed, won’t you, ol’ boy?”

  “I shall.”

  “It’s no use trying to sit by either Mr. Chapman or Miss Foster,” Mrs. Webb teased. “For I have claimed them as my dinner companions.”

  Andrew smiled at the woman. “I knew you were an excellent judge of character, Aunt Webb.”

  “Yes, of course. Do tell Miss Chapman we
hope she feels better,” Mrs. Morgan interjected. Then she abruptly turned to Miss Foster and asked, “And how old is your sister, Miss Foster?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Ah yes, the perfect age to enjoy the season. Miss Padgett had a very successful season last year. Did you not, my dear? Yes, you see, Miss Padgett is not yet twenty. So young and full of life. I was married at eighteen, you know. It is so much better when the bride is young. Don’t you agree, sister?”

  Mrs. Webb shrugged. “I was very young when I married Nicholas, but we were not blessed with children even so.”

  “I already had three children by the time I was Miss Foster’s age. What about you, Mrs. Padgett?”

  Mrs. Padgett demurred, blushing and protesting that her hostess would not trick her into owning her age.

  Meanwhile Mrs. Webb sidled closer to William and whispered, “What is my sister-in-law going on about? Does Andrew admire an older woman I don’t know of?”

  William sighed. “Andrew did invite my sister to come tonight, but that doesn’t necessarily indicate a special regard.”

  “Ah. And how old is your sister?”

  “Eight and twenty.”

  One dark brow rose. “So that is what we are calling old these days, is it? Then I am quite ancient, for I am even older than that. No doubt your sister was wise to stay home and avoid all this. Though I don’t like to think of anyone cowering before my sister-in-law. Not if Andrew truly admires her.”

  “Again, I do not presume to guess where his affections lie.”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Chapman.” She patted his arm. “You are all discretion, never fear.”

  The butler announced that dinner was served, and people lined up according to precedence, with Mrs. Webb breaking social ranks to wait to enter the dining room with her chosen companions. Andrew, William saw, was nudged to lead in Miss Padgett. William offered an arm to Mrs. Webb, who accepted with a conspiratorial wink. Then he offered his other arm to Miss Foster.

  The guests made their way into the dining room lit with candelabras and decorated with centerpieces of fruits and flowers. Footmen in livery and powdered wigs stood at attention, waiting to lay second, third, and fourth courses to a table already crowded with silver serving dishes, domed platters, and a massive soup tureen.

  William held a chair for Mrs. Webb, but a footman reached Miss Foster’s chair before he could do so. They sat down, and William counted himself fortunate to be seated between two lovely, intelligent women who initiated meaningful conversation and, more importantly, appreciated his sense of humor.

  Abigail enjoyed Mr. Chapman’s and Mrs. Webb’s company as much as she enjoyed the meal: a first course of spring soup and crimped salmon, followed by duck with orange sauce and peas, braised tongue, beetroot and cucumber salad, and strawberry tartlets. Dishes were passed and savored for more than an hour. Around her, Abigail heard snatches of other conversations in progress, most of it vague pleasantries—the weather, betrothals from earlier in the season, upcoming shoots, races, and house parties.

  Mrs. Morgan, a third of the way down the table, leaned forward suddenly and addressed her. “And why are you not in London, enjoying the season with your sister, Miss Foster?”

  Mr. Chapman, she noticed, glanced over and watched her carefully, awaiting her response.

  She said easily, “I have had my season. Two, actually. It is Louisa’s turn.”

  “Did you enjoy your seasons?”

  She shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose.”

  “But no offers of marriage came of it?”

  “Um . . .” Abigail paused awkwardly. “Evidently not.”

  “Mamma!” Andrew Morgan gently chided. “Don’t interrogate our guests. Besides, you are all supposed to be fawning over me and asking about my time abroad and all my adventures.”

  “Had you any adventures?” Mrs. Webb asked gamely.

  “Give me another glass of this excellent claret and I shall tell you tales to make your ears burn.”

  “Hear, hear,” Mrs. Webb said, lifting her glass.

  “Andrew . . .” his mother warned.

  “Oh, let the boy talk, my dear,” Mr. Morgan senior urged. “It is why we are here after all.”

  And Andrew happily obliged.

  Abigail silently thanked the man for coming to her rescue.

  Later, as dinner was winding down and conversation quieted to small duets and trios around the long table, Abigail finally began to relax.

  Mrs. Webb turned to William and asked, “I hope you don’t think I am interrogating you, Mr. Chapman. But I would like to hear about your family. They all . . . live nearby . . . ?”

  “Yes. My mother and father live not far from Pembrooke Park. Father is Mr. Morgan’s land agent now, so that may explain why your sister-in-law takes exception to her son’s choice of guests.”

  “Ah,” she murmured noncommittally.

  “I have two sisters, Leah and Kitty,” William continued. “And a brother, Jacob.”

  “And, are they all ginger haired like you?”

  “Ginger? I wouldn’t go that far . . .”

  He sounded almost affronted, Abigail thought, biting back a grin.

  “My hair isn’t as red as my father’s, or my brother’s for that matter,” he explained. “And the girls have light brown hair, like our mother.”

  “I see. And they are all in good health?”

  “Yes. Thank God.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “And your family, Mrs. Webb?” Abigail asked. “Have you brothers or sisters?”

  “I always wanted a sister,” she said. “Here both of you have sisters, but I never did.”

  “I have one to spare if you’d like,” William teased.

  She smiled. “I doubt your parents would approve of that.”

  “Where do you live, Mrs. Webb?” Abigail added, “If you don’t mind my asking. Not too far from your relatives here, I hope?”

  “I have lived in several places, what with Mr. Webb being with the East India Company for many years. So no, not close to Easton, I’m afraid. In fact, I have not been here in years.”

  “How good of you to come for Andrew’s homecoming, then.”

  “I was happy to come. He is a dear boy, and my husband was quite fond of him.”

  She looked closely at Abigail. “I do hope things have been . . . peaceful . . . since you’ve moved in to Pembrooke Park? No trouble?”

  “Oh yes. For the most part. Very peaceful.”

  “For the most part? What does that mean, I wonder?”

  “Oh, you know how old houses are. They creak and groan and make all sorts of odd noises. I understand the village children claim the place is haunted. But I’ve yet to see any evidence of that.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. Nothing . . . unsettling . . . since you’ve been there? No one where they ought not be?”

  Abigail thought of the footsteps in the dust, the mislaid candle lamp, and the figure in the cloak. “I have seen no ghosts, I assure you, Mrs. Webb. And all I’ve heard is an old house complaining of its years and neglect, nothing more.” To herself she added, I hope.

  Candlelight glinted in Mrs. Webb’s blue-grey eyes. “It is not the ghosts you need worry about, Miss Foster, but human beings that are very much alive.”

  Later, Abigail and Mr. Chapman rode home in the gig. Abigail was very aware of being alone with a man—a man she found increasingly attractive. Though she wondered if she would have found him quite so attractive had Gilbert not disappointed her.

  It was late, but the moon shone brightly, and she could see Mr. Chapman’s profile quite clearly. His straight nose, his firm, fair cheek. The waves of auburn hair falling over his ear, and his long, sculpted side-whiskers.

  Perhaps sensing her scrutiny, he glanced over at her. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.

  “I did. And you?”

  “Yes. More than I dared hope.”

  She wasn’t certain what he meant but wished he would keep
his eyes on the road so she could study him unobserved.

  He turned the horse back toward Easton. As they passed through the sleepy hamlet, he slowed the horse to a walking pace. Candles flickered in the public house and a few other windows, but otherwise the street was quiet, shops closed, people abed for the night.

  Leaving the hamlet, he clicked the horse to a trot, but the wheels hit a deep rut. The gig lurched and she swayed, knocking into his arm. Instinctively, he slid the reins into one hand and threw his other around her shoulders to steady her. “All right?”

  She swallowed, self-conscious in his embrace. Self-conscious about how much she liked the warm security of his arm around her, her side pressed firmly to his. “Ye-yes. Fine.”

  He removed his arm and she shivered, whether from his nearness or the night air, she wasn’t certain.

  “You’re cold,” he observed. He halted the horse right there on the road and tied off the reins. He dug under the seat and pulled forth a folded wool blanket.

  “I’m fine, really,” she insisted. “I have my shawl.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re shivering. You females and your thin muslins. It’s a wonder you don’t all freeze to death.”

  He draped the blanket around her and settled it on her shoulders, his hands lingering. “Better?”

  “Yes, except now I feel guilty that you are freezing.”

  “Then sit close to me and I shan’t notice anything else.”

  Her gaze flew to his—saw his crooked grin, the playful sparkle in his eye. Sitting close as they were, their faces were very near. His breath was warm and smelled of cinnamon. Or perhaps that was his cologne. Whatever it was, it was spicy and masculine and made her want to lean nearer yet.

  The horse stamped his hoof impatiently, no doubt eager to return to his stall and feed bucket.

  She did not purposely move closer to him, but as the rock and sway of the carriage brought them nearer together, their shoulders brushing and occasionally their knees, she did not pull away, nor attempt to keep a proper distance between them. She did not want him to freeze, after all, she told herself, knowing all the while it was schoolgirl logic Louisa might have used to justify flirting with a man, but at the moment, not caring. It was dark, and they were alone, and dash it, it was cold. She liked the man, and she trusted him enough to know he would not take advantage of any of those factors. At least, not inappropriate advantage.