The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Or was she? Mrs. Peterman sidled up to Abigail, her disapproving gaze on the pair. “First you, then your sister, and now a recent widow.” She sniffed and shook her head. “I shall be glad when Mr. Morris’s nephew comes into possession of his uncle’s living. He’ll put an end to such ungodly flirtations.”

  “Oh, and what makes you think that?”

  “Look at him!” She gestured toward the gangly young man. “No girls will be fawning over him. And he, I daresay, will remain too busy writing good long sermons to have time for females for a year or two. And by then, the women of the parish will have found him a plain, practical wife.”

  “Yes,” Abigail murmured in wry wistfulness. “The practical ones are usually plain.”

  When the last of his parishioners had exited, William disappeared from the doorway. A few minutes later, he exited as well, having removed his vestments. He paused to help a fallen toddler who had scratched his knee, and reunited the scamp with his mother. Then, seeing her watching him, William raised a hand and walked her way.

  Abigail steeled herself, unsure what to expect.

  “Hello, Miss Foster.”

  She nodded. “Mr. Chapman.”

  “Mamma was just saying you haven’t been to our house in some time. I tried to tell her you’ve been busy, what with your family here now and . . . all. Even so, she has charged me with inviting you over again. Might you and your sister come over for tea this afternoon? Perhaps you might sing for Grandmamma and Miss Louisa might play. I understand she is very accomplished.”

  It was Louisa he wished to see most of all, she guessed. “Yes, well. Louisa might, but I don’t know that I will have the time.”

  He winced and asked tentatively, “Are you angry with me about something, Miss Foster?”

  “No.”

  “Have I done something to offend you or disappoint you?”

  Abigail didn’t want to lie, but nor did she want to tell him the truth. Besides, the truth was he’d done nothing wrong. It was her problem, not his.

  When she hesitated, he asked, “Is this about . . . your sister?”

  Taken aback, she darted a glance at him, then looked away, feeling her neck heat. How had he divined the answer? Were her feelings, her petty jealousy, so transparent?

  He added, “Or because of Mr. Scott?”

  She blinked in confusion. She would have thought he’d be relieved that Gilbert was showing interest in her. That it might assuage his guilt and give him the freedom to pursue Louisa or Rebekah Garwood, as he probably wanted to.

  Gilbert appeared at her elbow. “Hello, Abby.” He smiled at her and took her hand, tucking it under his arm. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Belatedly, he acknowledged Mr. Chapman. “Good sermon, Parson. Nice and short.”

  “Thank you. By the way, I saw the new wing at Hunts Hall. Well done. Nice and short.”

  Gilbert’s face colored. “They only wanted the one level—there’s to be a conservatory. But we are also adding a two-story addition to the rear and—”

  Abigail interrupted, “Mr. Chapman is only teasing you, Gilbert.”

  “Oh,” Gilbert said dully.

  She said in consolatory tones, “He isn’t used to your teasing yet, as I am.”

  Mr. Chapman pulled a face. “Sorry. It’s one of my persistent weaknesses, I’m afraid.” He looked at her. “But not the only one.”

  That night, Abigail sat on a large rock, a natural step down from the riverbank, and dangled her feet in the water, idly peeling the bark from a stick in her hands. The moon shone bright, glistening on the lazy current. The air was still, without a breath of wind. And only the chirring of frogs and the occasional flying insect kept her company. The summer night was warm. Too warm. She’d been unable to sleep in her stifling room, with her stifling thoughts and doubts about both Gilbert and William. Must every man she admired prefer her sister? Perhaps she should accept it, and be grateful any man would be interested in her at all, once Louisa made it clear she did not return his attentions. But the thought made her feel ill. Would she wonder at every family gathering for the rest of her life if her husband was eyeing Louisa wistfully, wishing he had married her instead?

  She tossed the stick upriver, with a satisfying plunk, wishing she could toss away her doubts as easily. But sure enough, the current brought it back to her.

  “Hello?”

  She sucked in a breath at the unexpected call, then turned her head and saw William approaching. “Oh, Mr. Chapman, you startled me.”

  “And who else would you expect to find in my spot?”

  “Your spot? I didn’t know it was anyone’s spot. I shall leave you.” She scrambled to her feet and up the bank.

  He forestalled her, saying, “Miss Foster. I was only teasing. I am glad to find you here.”

  He was dressed in breeches and untucked shirt, she noticed. A towel in hand.

  “I did not come here with the design of meeting you,” she said, feeling defensive. “I was simply warm and thought the water would cool me.”

  “As did I.”

  “I only met you at the river once after all, and that was weeks ago. And not here but there under that tree . . .” She nodded vaguely a few yards ahead, then searched the ground. “Now, where did I put my shoes?”

  He laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. “Miss Foster . . . are you still angry with me?”

  “I am not angry.”

  He tucked his chin, and raised his eyebrows, giving her a doubtful look.

  “I am not angry,” she repeated. “But . . .”

  “But what? I realize that with Mr. Scott back in your life, you may wish to spend less time with me, but I don’t think there’s call for animosity.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Here,” he said, spreading his towel on the bank, fortunately larger than the last one he’d brought. “Sit, and let’s talk.”

  “But your swim . . .”

  “Can wait.”

  They sat on the bank, sharing the towel but not quite touching.

  He began, “You can’t deny you have changed toward me. I don’t know if it has something to do with your sister being here now. Or more likely, I suppose, Mr. Scott . . .”

  Abigail again recalled William Chapman’s dumbfounded expression when he’d first seen Louisa. And then seeing them together that day in the churchyard . . .

  “No,” she whispered. “Not Gilbert.” She shook her head, not able to meet his eyes. The moonlight would reveal too much. Her insecurity. Her jealousy.

  “Then . . . ?”

  She swallowed and quietly admitted, “I saw how you looked at Louisa when Mamma introduced her.”

  She felt his gaze on her profile. Then he sighed. “I am sorry. Truly. I tried to be as polite as possible to her then and since. Not to show anything else in my expression or in my words, to reveal what I knew, and how I felt.”

  How he felt? Lord, have mercy. Help me through this! He had fallen for Louisa. It was more than passing desire or admiration. He had feelings for her.

  “It was obvious,” Abigail said. “To me, at least.”

  “Hopefully not to her. I haven’t wanted to say anything. Even though I wondered if I should. For her sake. And yours. But I was afraid to offend you. You are her sister, after all.”

  “As I am very much aware.”

  “You must wonder how it began, how I even discovered who she was. . . .”

  No, not really, she thought. It likely began the way it always did. Men making complete cakes of themselves over Louisa.

  He went on, “You might remember Louisa asking if we had met before. Saying I looked familiar to her . . . ?”

  Abigail nodded, vaguely recalling the exchange.

  William continued, “I said we had not met, and that was true—we had not been introduced. But I had seen her before.”

  This was news to Abigail. “Oh? When?”

  “You remember that I spent several days with Andrew Morgan in London?”
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br />   Yes, Abigail did remember. And what long, lonely, tiresome days they had been.

  She nodded, and he continued.

  “Andrew insisted I needed a rest after the fire, so I went with him to Town, as I had done once or twice while we were at school together. Mr. Morris agreed to take my services for me while I was away, eager to show his nephew his future living, I imagine.

  “In London, Andrew dragged me to the most crowded, noisiest rout I had ever attended, held at some wealthy acquaintance’s home. While we were there, one of his highborn friends said something very cutting about a certain young woman in attendance. I did not hear her name over all the noise and music, but I did see her quite clearly, laughing loudly and flirting with an officer and a dandy at once. This man pointed her out and said, ‘Careful, gents, the minx may look an angel, but she is the biggest flirt in London, so determined to net a titled man that she is willing to do anything to trap him.’ The insinuation was perfectly clear.”

  Was he talking about Louisa? Surely not! Even so, Abigail’s stomach sickened as he spoke and her cheeks heated. Oh, the mortification! What a crude and cruel thing to say, if unsubstantiated. If true, well, heaven help them all.

  “I left soon after, much to Andrew’s disappointment. I confess I thought very little about it, or about the girl, not praying for her or her family as I should have done. But when I saw her here, I recognized her instantly. And to learn she is your sister . . . Well, I was stunned speechless.

  “I still don’t know what I said at the time, hopefully something polite and coherent. And I hope you will forgive me for repeating the scurrilous accusations now, to you. But if Louisa has acted in a manner to expose herself to such talk, it could very well damage her reputation and yours, so perhaps it is better that you know.

  “She did seek me out in the churchyard once, and I tried to offer a word of counsel, but I don’t think I got through to her. I suppose I should have gone right to your father with the report and offered a gentle warning. But I would hate to rouse his wrath against Louisa or the men in question if it might be addressed another way, with less damage to . . . everyone.”

  For several moments, Abigail said nothing, her mind struggling to reconfigure what she thought she had seen, with this new information. She was relieved and upset all at once. Her heart felt sick and exalted in turns. Oh, Louisa! Foolish, foolish girl. Abigail could very well believe her sister capable of such flirtatious behavior, thinking her beauty and charm made her immune to the normal rules of propriety.

  William looked at her in concern, and grimaced. “Apparently I judged wrong in telling you. Please believe my motives good even if my decision poor.”

  She turned to face him. “No. You were right to tell me. It explains several things . . . things she has said about Andrew Morgan and her reluctance to visit Hunts Hall, so apparently some unpleasantness along these lines passed between them. I will speak to her. Perhaps she is unaware of the extent of her breach of propriety. Hopefully her reputation is not damaged beyond repair.”

  “Likely she didn’t realize,” William agreed kindly. “She is very young, after all.”

  “Yes. She did write in one of her letters that all the attention from gentlemen had gone quite to her head.”

  “Understandable. And you were not there to guide her. Along with your mother, of course.”

  “I don’t know that I would have been an effective guide, even had I been there. I am no great expert in deflecting the admiration of multiple suitors.”

  He lifted one auburn eyebrow. “Are you not? For I can count at least three admirers at present. And that is only here in tiny Easton.”

  Abigail ducked her head, her cheeks now heating for a far different reason. “Careful, Parson, you don’t want all that flattery to go to my head.”

  “I don’t fear that for a moment, Abigail Foster. You are far too modest for that, sensible, lovely girl.”

  Pleasure and relief washed over her.

  Even as concern for her sister nipped at her breastbone, Abigail’s thoughts whirled now on a far happier axis. William Chapman did not admire Louisa. And even if he thought her sister pretty, which was undeniable, he was not smitten with her. In fact he saw her as a wayward young girl to be set upon the right course, not as a woman to court or love or marry. Thank you, God! Abigail thought, not bothering to stifle the smile that curved her lips.

  “What’s made you smile, Miss Foster? I am relieved you are not angry with me, but what have I said to so amuse you?”

  Dare she tell him the truth? Would his respect for her dim if she revealed her insecurity? Besides, it didn’t change the fact that she had no dowry and didn’t deserve an educated, devoted, handsome clergyman paid far less than he was worth.

  He sat up straight and looked at her in bewilderment. “Wait a minute . . . Don’t tell me you feared I’d fallen under her spell?”

  Abigail shrugged. “It had crossed my mind. You should have seen your face when you saw her! Gaping like a hooked fish, all wide-eyed and tongue-tied.”

  He shook his head. “And here I thought you’d guessed the truth of my dismay, or had somehow wrongly heard that I had been among those speaking ill of her.”

  Abigail was embarrassed to recall her earlier words about how obvious his reaction had been when he’d laid eyes on Louisa. She had been completely wrong! She had seen what she’d feared—no, what she’d expected to see.

  “So that’s why you’ve been, shall we say, chilly of late,” he said. “I was afraid it had something to do with Mr. Scott. I saw him embrace you in the library and assumed, well . . .” His sentence trailed away on a shrug.

  Mr. Scott. Odd that she had barely thought of him during their entire conversation. No wonder Gilbert had been irritated with and cold toward Louisa—if she had acted the wanton flirt with multiple gentlemen at every event of the season.

  “And here all along you assumed I admired your sister.” He tsked and took her hand in his. “My dear Abigail, I thought you knew me better than that.”

  She managed a wobbly smile and said quietly, “I once thought I knew Gilbert Scott better than that as well.”

  He looked at her, suddenly serious. “I thought the scales had fallen from his eyes at last where you and Louisa were concerned. That he had become disillusioned with Louisa and . . . enamored with you.”

  Yes, Gilbert had certainly changed toward her. But would his feelings for her last once his disillusionment and anger with Louisa faded? She said, “He’s asked to court me, but I’m not certain how I feel.”

  William squeezed her hand. “Well, I am quite certain how I feel about—”

  She met his gaze, hope rising in her breast, but William winced and looked away. “But unfortunately, I am not in a position to do anything about those feelings.” He expelled a ragged breath. “You are so appealing, Miss Foster, every bit as beautiful as your sister—more so, to me—that I almost lost my head. I want nothing more than to let this romantic current sweep us along. This chance meeting. This moonlit night. Your tantalizing bare toes . . .”

  He managed a grin, but it fell away nearly as soon as it formed. He shook his head. “But that would be unfair to you. Dishonest even. For the truth is, my current income barely supports me. And with Mr. Morris’s nephew waiting in the wings, I cannot realistically hope my situation will improve anytime soon. If ever. It would be wrong of me to ask you to wait without a clear hope of a future. Especially with Mr. Scott in your life once again—waiting in the wings as well.”

  Her hope plummeted. Yes. How much better for him to marry a wealthy widow like Rebekah Garwood. And she could marry Gilbert. That should make everyone happy. Then why did she feel like crying instead?

  His eyes widened as he watched her. “You look so sad.”

  “Do I? That’s . . . silly. I’m fine.” She forced a smile, which only served to push a hot tear from each eye.

  “I’m fine too,” he whispered. He leaned near and touched a finger to her cheekb
one, tracing the tear. Then he leaned nearer yet and brushed his lips against her cheek.

  Abigail’s heart pounded. Her chest tightened until she found it painful to breathe. Every particle of her being longed to reach for him. To lift her face. To press her mouth to his. Dare she? Was this her last chance? Would she regret not doing so for the rest of her life?

  She turned toward him. He stilled, inches away. She slowly raised her eyes to his, willing him to see all she felt but could not say aloud.

  “Abigail . . .” he breathed, his eyes lowering to her mouth.

  She reached up a shaky hand and laid her palm against his face, her finger brushing his earlobe. The skin smooth above his cheekbone and beginning to bristle near his jaw. She lifted her thumb, caressing the groove along his mouth, then traced his upper lip.

  He half sighed, half groaned.

  “William,” she whispered, liking the feel of his given name on her tongue.

  He stared at her. “Say it again,” he whispered back, voice tight.

  “Wi—” But she had no more puckered her lips to form the W than his mouth pressed to hers. Firmly, warmly, deliciously. She tentatively returned the pressure, and he angled his head to kiss her more deeply.

  Her pulse raced, every nerve quivering to life. Her first kiss. Not with Gilbert Scott, as she’d always dreamed and hoped. But with William Chapman, a man who had just said he could not marry her.

  He broke the kiss as if reading her thoughts, and rested his forehead against hers, catching his breath.

  “Miss Foster, forgive me. I—”

  “Shh . . . I know.”

  She heard distant footsteps crunching on gravel and sucked in a breath, afraid to be discovered alone with a man at night. She looked past his shoulder, and what she saw frightened her even more.

  A figure in a long hooded cloak furtively crossed the drive carrying a lantern, its flame turned down low.

  William turned to follow her gaze and instantly stiffened. He began to rise, but Abigail grasped his arm. She didn’t want him to go rushing headlong into danger, to confront whomever it was without a weapon, not to mention without shoes or coat.