The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  “So did I. But he’s recently returned from abroad and says he just wanted to see the old place again. Father invited him to stay.”

  Her brows rose again. “Did he indeed? That is . . . unexpectedly gracious of your father, isn’t it? To invite a stranger to stay? With an unmarried daughter under the same roof?”

  Abigail shrugged. “He is family, after all. Though granted, we are only distantly related.”

  “It does not . . . worry you?”

  Abigail inhaled thoughtfully. “I confess the timing does give me pause. That he should happen to return just after we’ve opened up the house again—when it had been shut up for so long. But he seems harmless. Quite polite and charming, really.”

  “Be careful, Miss Foster. Appearances can be deceiving.”

  Abigail turned to look at the woman, surprised at her somber tone.

  Gilbert approached and bowed. “Miss Foster. It is time for our dance, I believe.”

  Abigail dragged her gaze from Mrs. Webb’s concerned face to Gilbert’s smiling one.

  “Oh, yes.” She lifted a hand and began introductions. “Mr. Scott, have you met Mrs. Webb, Andrew Morgan’s aunt?”

  “I have not had that pleasure. How do you do, ma’am?”

  “Very well. Thank you,” Mrs. Webb drew herself up, cool distance returning to her expression. “You two enjoy your dance.”

  Gilbert and Abigail joined the line of couples as the woman at the top of the set called for a country dance.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Abby?” he asked.

  “I am. And you?”

  “I hope you weren’t sorry to see me here.”

  “Surprised, yes, but not sorry.”

  “Good. You seem to have made many friends here already.”

  “I have been fortunate in that, yes.”

  “Mr. Chapman seems quite taken with you.”

  Abigail looked away from Gilbert’s inquisitive gaze. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, come. Even a thick-skulled male like me could instantly see he admires you. I would be jealous, if . . . I had any right to be.”

  “You, jealous?” Abigail forced a laugh. “Don’t talk foolishness. I’ve never seen you jealous in my life. Let’s talk of something else. I notice you have been quite in demand tonight.”

  “Only because there are many ladies in want of partners and Mrs. Morgan is determined to remedy that.”

  “I don’t know. . . . She is very exacting, and if she singled you out for the honor of dancing with her young daughter, you must have done something to earn her regard.”

  “It’s not her regard I’m concerned about.” He looked at her earnestly. “Are we all right, Abby, you and I? Susan boxed my ears after my going-away party. Charged me with being insensitive and selfish. You are very important to me, and I hope we are still . . . friends?”

  “Of course we are, Gilbert. Now hush and let’s dance.”

  After he danced with his sister, William offered to fetch her some punch, but when he returned with two glasses to where he’d left Leah minutes before, he could not find her. Looking all around the ballroom without success, he then went out to the hall. He finally found her in a quiet corner of the vestibule, still wearing her mask.

  “Leah, what are you doing back here? Come in with the others.”

  She shook her head. “I need a few minutes alone. So many people staring. Whether because they are trying to figure out who I am, or because they cannot figure out why Leah Chapman has been invited, I don’t know. But . . . I should never have come.”

  “Leah, you are too sensitive. You imagine stares and criticism, when there are only looks of curiosity or admiration for a beautiful woman. A moment later everyone has returned to his or her own thoughts—his empty glass, or unpaid bills, or gout . . . Not you, my dear, I promise.”

  She tried to chuckle, but it fell flat. “Did you see how Mrs. Morgan greeted me? She could not have expressed her disapproval any more clearly without saying the words aloud. Why did Andrew invite us? Why expose us to such mortification?”

  William took her hand. “I don’t think Andrew puts as much stock in birth and rank as others do. I am sure he had no intention of hurting you. He merely wished to spend time in your company.”

  Leah nodded and then looked at him with empathetic eyes. “Forgive me, William. Here I am feeling sorry for myself, while you . . .” She winced. “Is it difficult seeing Rebekah again?”

  “Not too bad.” He pulled a face, not wanting to talk about the painful past. “Now. Let’s go kick up our heels and show the world how resilient we Chapmans are.”

  Leah managed a wobbly grin, then stilled, staring across the hall through the open door beyond. “That woman. I know her, don’t I?”

  William turned to look. He saw Mrs. Webb conversing with Andrew’s father, neither of them wearing masks. “That is one of Andrew’s aunts. We met her at his welcome home dinner. But I’m surprised you would know her, as you weren’t there.”

  His sister stared at the woman, frowning in concentration. “I’m not certain I do. But there’s something . . . familiar about her.”

  “Shall we go over and meet her?”

  Leah adamantly shook her head. “No.”

  “You could take off your mask now, you know,” William said gently. “Nearly everyone else has by now.”

  “That’s all right. I’m more comfortable this way. And we won’t be staying much longer, will we? Shall I see if Miss Foster is ready to leave? After this dance with her old friend?”

  After their dance, Gilbert escorted Abigail to the side of the room and excused himself to speak to Mr. Morgan senior, his host.

  Leah approached surreptitiously and whispered, “Miss Foster, will you be ready to leave soon?”

  Abigail looked at her in surprise and concern. “If you like. Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, I—”

  “Miss Chapman, there you are,” Andrew Morgan called, striding over to join them. “Tell me I am not too late to claim a dance. I have been dreadfully occupied with host duties all evening but am free at last. Please say you will dance with me?”

  “But . . .” Leah hesitated, looking at Abigail for help. “I think we are leaving. Are we not, Miss Foster?”

  Seeing Mr. Morgan’s crestfallen expression, Abigail hurried to say, “That’s all right. I can wait another set if you are engaged. In fact I shall enjoy watching you dance and seeing the fruits of our little lessons at Pembrooke Park.”

  Gilbert returned to her side. “No sitting out for you, Miss Abby. If no other man has been wise enough to snap you up, then I insist you dance again with me.”

  Abigail glanced quickly around the room and saw William Chapman speaking gravely to Andrew’s widowed sister. At that moment, Mrs. Morgan appeared with young Miss Padgett in tow and presented her to Mr. Chapman as a potential dance partner. She then took her daughter’s arm and led her away.

  Abigail returned her gaze to Gilbert. “All right,” she agreed.

  Mr. Morgan clapped Gilbert on the back. “Good man, Scott. Knew I liked you.”

  “Oranges and Lemons” was called, a square-set dance for four couples. Gilbert offered Abigail his arm and led her onto the floor. Around the ballroom, couples grouped together. Abigail and Gilbert found themselves with Andrew Morgan and Leah, William Chapman with Miss Padgett, and a fourth couple they did not know.

  The music began. Gilbert reached out and took Abigail’s hand, and around the square the other couples joined inside hands as well. She liked the feel of her gloved hand in his, his familiar smile, the comfortable way he held her gaze without awkwardness. As they danced and laughed with the others, she felt a thread of their old camaraderie vibrate to life, tighten, and pull. She had missed it. Missed him.

  The couples stepped forward and back twice, then released hands. Each honored his partner, then turned to honor his corner. The men joined hands and circled around before bowing to their partners, then their
corners once more. Then the ladies followed suit.

  “Lovely partner, Mr. Chapman,” Abigail said when the dance brought them together.

  He nodded. “I agree.” He held her hand a little longer than the dance required and looked into her eyes. “Though not as pretty as my first.”

  The pattern was then repeated in the opposite direction. When Gilbert reclaimed Abigail’s hand at last, he said, “I’d forgot what a good dancer you are.”

  She caught Mr. Chapman’s eye across the square. “I’ve had quite a bit of practice lately.”

  Gilbert smiled. “It shows.”

  Abigail now and again glanced at Andrew Morgan and Leah as they danced. The man couldn’t take his eyes off her, masked or not. Leah, for her part, tried in vain to suppress the smile on her pretty face. It was the happiest Abigail had ever seen her.

  Before they parted for the night, Gilbert asked Abigail to name a time for him to call the following day. They settled on two o’clock, though Abigail said she would be at her leisure all afternoon.

  He bowed over her hand, then looked up at her, eyes sparkling. Abigail’s heart squeezed to see such warmth and fondness in Gilbert’s eyes. It had been too long.

  Don’t be a simpleton. He is just being friendly. She reminded herself that she was the only person Gilbert really knew there, so of course he would seek her out. They were comfortable with each other. They had history. Their families were old friends. She told herself all this with her practical sensible mind, but her foolish heart still beat a little too hard.

  While they waited for the Morgans’ coach-and-four to be brought around, William stood companionably with Miss Foster. His sister stood a few yards away, talking to Andrew. They had already bid him and his parents farewell, but Andrew had insisted on escorting Leah out, clearly reluctant to let her go.

  He felt Miss Foster’s gaze on his profile. She asked quietly, “Was it awkward for you? With Andrew’s sister there?”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  “I hope you don’t mind. But Mrs. Webb mentioned you once courted her.”

  “Ah.” He lifted his chin in understanding. “Actually, it was not as bad as I would have guessed. I confess having you there with me was quite a balm.”

  She looked up at him sharply.

  Concern filling him, he said, “Forgive me. I don’t mean to presume anything about our . . . friendship. But even if you think me an absolute dunderhead, the fact that Rebekah Garwood saw me enjoying myself with a beautiful woman eased the sting. Not to mention nipping in the bud any supposition that I hope to wrangle another chance with her, now that she is widowed.”

  Miss Foster pressed her lips together, then asked, “You don’t wish another chance with her?”

  He looked at her, surprised at her boldness. He inhaled and looked up at the night sky as he considered the question. Then he met her gaze and said quietly, “Not anymore.”

  William watched her face. Did she believe him? Was she relieved? He hesitated to ask the same question of her. He had seen her with Mr. Scott. Seen the way the young man looked at her, his proprietary air as he escorted her across the room. The easy familiarity in which he held her hand and smiled into her face as they danced and laughed together.

  The sight had filled William with an uncomfortably sickly feeling he recognized as jealousy—stronger even than what he had felt when Rebekah broke things off with him in favor of Mr. Garwood. He didn’t like it—knew it to be an unworthy emotion. But heaven help him, he felt it all the same.

  The carriage arrived, and the groom opened the door for them, giving a hand up to both Miss Foster and Leah. Then William climbed in after them and, after vacillating for a second, sat beside his sister. Andrew stood at the window and gave them all a final farewell.

  William glanced at Leah, saw the contented smile there, and hoped it would remain, even as he doubted it.

  As the coach rumbled away, something William saw outside the window drew him upright. There, through the throng of waiting carriages and horses, passed a figure in a full-length green cloak, like those worn by naval officers on deck during storms. Why would anyone wear a deep hood on such a fine night, unless he meant to conceal his identity? Was it the same person he and Miss Foster had seen crossing the bridge near Pembrooke Park?

  William’s pulse rate accelerated. He glanced in concern at his sister, fearing she would see the figure as well, but was relieved to see her gazing idly out the opposite window, a dreamy smile still hovering on her lips. He would not be the one to send it flying by drawing her attention to a sight that would surely frighten her. So he said nothing.

  Perhaps he was wrong. It had been a masquerade ball, after all. Perhaps the cloak was part of some man’s costume. He hoped that’s all it was. Even so, he would have to tell his father. Just in case.

  Chapter 13

  Even though Abigail was tired from being up late the night before, she resisted the urge to sleep in, rising only an hour past her usual time. She summoned Polly by a pull of the bell cord, when the kind young woman no doubt intended to let her sleep, not even tiptoeing inside to turn back the shutters. Abigail went to the washstand, resigned to the notion of washing her face in last night’s cold water, but was surprised and pleased to find it warm. Polly had snuck in without waking her. The housemaid was certainly skilled. Thoughtful in the bargain.

  While she waited, Abigail washed for the day and began brushing out her hair, extra full and curly from the night before. She thought back to Polly’s eager questions when she had helped her undress after the ball. Her maid had wanted every detail, and Abigail did her best to supply them, assuring her she had enjoyed herself and that everyone had admired her hair. Polly had beamed.

  The housemaid entered a few minutes later. “You’re up early, miss. Thought you’d sleep till noon after all the doings last night.”

  “We have a guest, so I thought it best to rise and be hospitable.”

  “He and your father are already eating breakfast, so no hurry. Mrs. Walsh is in a tizzy, having a gen-u-ine Pembrooke to cook for, and Duncan is in a foul mood at having another to tote and carry for, as you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I can well imagine.” In fact, her father was the only person Duncan didn’t seem to mind serving. He served him cheerfully, and in turn her father thought highly of him.

  “How’s that blister this mornin’?” Polly asked.

  Abigail regarded her little toe. She had danced quite a bit last night—more than she had in a year’s time—and her dancing slippers had rubbed a tender spot.

  “Oh, it’s fine.”

  “The price you pay for bein’ the belle of the ball.”

  A small price, indeed, and well worth the minor discomfort, Abigail thought. She had enjoyed being sought after as a dancing partner. A new experience.

  Polly stepped to her closet. “Your buff day dress and cap today, miss?”

  “Em, no,” Abigail said. “I was thinking of my blue walking dress.”

  The maid turned in surprise. “Going out again?”

  “I am expecting a caller this afternoon.”

  “Oh? One of the gentlemen you danced with last night, paying a call? How romantic! I’ll do your hair up nice again.”

  “It is only an old friend of mine from London.”

  “A gentleman friend?” Polly’s eyes glinted mischievously.

  “Don’t go seeing romance where there is only friendship,” Abigail said to the maid, silently reminding herself to heed her own advice.

  When Abigail went down to breakfast twenty minutes later, she found her father and Mr. Pembrooke seated in the dining room lingering over coffee, tea, and conversation.

  Her father saw her first. “Good morning, Abigail.”

  Miles Pembrooke rose abruptly. “Good morning, Miss Foster. A pleasure to see you again.”

  She dipped her head. “Good morning, Mr. Pembrooke. I hope you slept well?”

  “For the most part, yes. Except for the ghosts
I heard rumbling about all night.”

  Abigail drew up short. “Ghosts?”

  He smiled playfully. “Only in my mind, I assure you. No need to be alarmed. Being here has stirred many memories.”

  She helped herself to tea and toast from the sideboard, and then took a chair across from his.

  He sipped his tea, eyeing her with amusement over his cup brim. “Don’t tell me I frightened you, Miss Foster. You do not strike me as the sort of female to believe in ghosts or gothic tales.”

  “I . . . don’t. But this old place makes many noises that might be mistaken for nighttime visitors of some sort. I do hope you were able to sleep, considering.”

  “The first night in a new bed is always a struggle. I’m sure I shall sleep better tonight.”

  Abigail shot a quick look at her father.

  Miles apprehended her surprise and said, “Your kind father has invited me to stay on longer. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, I . . . Of course not,” Abigail faltered, but she felt suspicion trickle through her mind and pinch her stomach.

  She nibbled her toast and collected her thoughts. “Have you . . . specific plans while you are here? Former acquaintances you wish to visit?”

  At that moment, Molly knocked softly on the open door and entered, bobbing a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, miss, sir. But a messenger from Hunts Hall delivered this for Mr. Pembrooke. He’s outside, awaitin’ his answer.”

  “For me?” Miles asked in surprise. He accepted the folded note and read it. His dark eyebrows rose. “I’ve been invited to call at Hunts Hall at my earliest convenience.”

  He looked up at Abigail. “You must have mentioned me to your hosts.”

  “I don’t recall mentioning you to the Morgans, though I may have done. I hope that doesn’t pose a problem?”

  “Not at all.”

  Abigail said, “I did not realize you were acquainted with the Morgans.”

  “Neither did I.” He smiled and rose to leave. “If you will excuse me, I shall let my horse remain in the stable and go directly with the messenger. That way I can pay my respects without delay.”