The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Abigail had originally thought the emerald necklace would look well with her own new gown but had given way when Louisa begged to wear it, trying on the gems with her new gown and enthusing over how elegant she looked, and somehow breaking the clasp in the bargain.

  “The emeralds would have looked well on Abigail too,” her father put in. And Abigail was touched by his loyalty.

  Her mother noticed her then.

  “Abigail! You’re not even dressed.”

  “Sorry. Mrs. Wilkins needed me. Some crisis belowstairs.”

  “I do hope everything is all right,” her father said.

  “Oh yes. Nothing to worry about. But I am sorry to hold you up.”

  “We shall go and then send the carriage back for you,” he suggested. “You can come over when you’re ready, all right?”

  “It won’t take Abigail long to slip into a dress and repin her hair,” Louisa said. “But . . . I suppose it would be rude if we were all late. You don’t mind, Abigail, do you?”

  Abigail hesitated, feeling herself snapping back into the old pattern like a missing mosaic tile from the floor. “No, of course not. You three go ahead.”

  “Thank you, Abigail.” Her mother’s smile shone with genuine gratitude.

  You see, Abigail told herself, you are appreciated. Useful . . . in your way. That was something.

  As her family left, Abigail took herself upstairs, passing Mary, the upper housemaid who usually helped her dress and pinned her hair.

  “I was just going down to my supper, miss,” she said. “But if you want me to do your hair, I can wait.”

  Abigail hesitated, torn. She forced a smile and said, “That’s all right. You go on. Don’t miss your supper on my account, I can repin my own hair. No need for anything special.”

  “Thank you, miss.” The girl smiled, bobbed a little curtsy, and hurried down the stairs.

  Abigail could arrange her own hair, but she could not get into her new gown on her own. Not with all the fastenings and seed-pearl buttons at the back of the bodice. She sighed. Perhaps she would just make do with her old ivory dress. She might even return the new gown, as she’d never worn it. Madame LeClair would have no trouble selling the beautiful thing, and they could put the credit toward Louisa’s large balance.

  Abigail went to her closet and regarded the ivory dress. Nothing special. Nothing wrong with it either.

  Leaving the gown where it was, Abigail walked to her dressing stool and sat down heavily upon it. Maybe she would simply claim fatigue and stay home. She was tired from all the tasks and supervision of the last few weeks. No one would blame her, and her family would make her excuses. . . .

  Then words William Chapman had said whispered on the edges of her mind. “You are every bit as beautiful as your sister. More so, to me. I treasure you. . . .”

  Oh, William . . . she thought fondly. How she missed him. Even if he exaggerated her charms. She had thought he might write to her, but he had apparently seen her move to London as an opportunity for a clean break. Leah had written a few times—at least their friendship would continue, even if her relationship with William would not. After all, nothing had changed between them.

  Marcel, her mother’s lady’s maid, scratched at the door and entered, her often stern face bright and a parcel in her hands. “Mademoiselle! Zee jeweler has returned your necklace just in time! You must wear eet tonight!”

  Abigail shook her head. “Louisa wanted to wear it, but . . . In any case, I’m thinking of staying home.”

  “No, mademoiselle. You should go.”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  Abigail opened the hinged case and looked at the sparkling emeralds within, winking at her.

  “I treasure you. . . .”

  Suddenly, Abigail stood. “You know what, Marcel. I will go. But I must ask you to help me. I know I have refused in the past, but Mary has gone to her dinner, and I shall make it worth your while.”

  “No, no, mademoiselle. No need. It will be my pleasure, I promise you. How long I have wished to get my hands on zat beautiful hair of yours! Sit, sit!”

  Dressed in uncomfortable evening clothes of his least favorite color, black, William Chapman surveyed the people mingling in the drawing room with sinking disappointment. Miss Foster was not among them. Perhaps he ought not to have come with Andrew. Maybe he could still bow out.

  Charles Foster saw him from across the room, and a sincere smile lit the older man’s handsome face as he made his way over. “Mr. Chapman! What a pleasure to see you again. I didn’t realize you were in Town.”

  “Yes. Staying with Mr. Morgan for a few days. The Scotts were kind enough to extend their invitation to me as well.”

  “We heard Mr. Morris was coming, but not you.”

  “Mr. Morris? No, sir, he is not—”

  Mr. Foster interrupted, brow puckered. “But I am quite certain Mrs. Scott mentioned the rector of our former parish would be attending. . . .”

  “Ah, yes. You see, I have recently been granted the living. Mr. Morris, you may not have heard, passed on a fortnight ago.”

  “Oh, no. I had not heard. I’m sorry. But I thought his nephew was angling for the living.”

  “He was. But the owner of Pembrooke Park—in whose benefice the living lies—grants it to the man of her choosing. And Eleanor Pembrooke chose me.” He gave a self-deprecating grin. “I suppose you think it terribly unfair.”

  “Not at all—you mistake me. I think your sister an excellent woman and an excellent judge of character. She chose wisely and well. Allow me to offer my sincerest and heartiest congratulations.”

  Charles Foster offered his hand, and William shook it.

  “Thank you, sir. I plan to hire young Mr. Morris as my curate, to help conduct services in outlying churches of the parish and in visiting the sick.”

  “Well again, congratulations. The rest of my family will be happy to hear the news as well. Though I am afraid Abigail may not be joining us.”

  “Oh?” William hoped his disappointment wasn’t too obvious, especially with Gilbert Scott in attendance. Had she entered into an understanding with Mr. Scott during the intervening weeks? He’d not had leave to write to her but thought she would have mentioned it in one of her letters to his sister. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we’ve kept her quite busy arranging the housekeeping and things for the new place. Quite worn off her feet. Louisa wagers she will be too tired to come.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. I had hoped to see her before I left Town.” There was something he very much wished to say to her.

  Mr. Foster excused himself to go and find his wife.

  A few moments later Louisa Foster and Gilbert Scott approached.

  “Mr. Chapman!” Louisa beamed. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

  William bowed. “Miss Louisa. Mr. Scott.”

  “I’ve been talking to Andrew Morgan and hear congratulations are in order,” Gilbert said.

  “Thank you, yes. I am very grateful for the opportunity.”

  Louisa said, “Too bad Abigail isn’t here—she will be so sorry to have missed you.”

  “Yes, I am sorry to have missed her as well.” More sorry than you know.

  The door opened behind them, and a butler announced in an affected voice, “Miss Foster.”

  Heart leaping, William turned. The smile instantly lifting his mouth fell away. He blinked and stared again, his heart beating erratically. Here she was, Miss Abigail Foster. The girl of his fondest memories and fonder dreams, yet somehow altered. Head high, posture erect as she entered the room, her gaze slowly sweeping the assembled company. She met the varyingly pleased and surprised looks with a gentle smile and stopped to greet her host and hostess.

  She wore a luminous green-and-white gown with a beguiling neckline and a ribbon sash under her bosom which accentuated the fullness above and slenderness below. Her hair was piled in a high mound of soft curls, flattering her delicat
e features and making her eyes seem larger. Twin spirals danced along each cheek, emphasizing her fine cheekbones and the heart shape of her face. Her dark eyes shone like chocolate, her small lips pleasingly pink. He drew in a ragged breath. Had he actually kissed those lips once upon a time? His chest tightened at the memory.

  At her neck sparkled an emerald necklace which drew his attention to her long pale neck, the fine delicate collarbones he’d give anything to kiss . . .

  Stop it, he told himself. But his thoughts refused to yield. This was the woman he loved. The woman he wished to marry. To be one with. Such feelings were not wrong; they were a gift. But did she feel the same? He glanced at Gilbert Scott standing to his right. He, too, had stopped and stared, not dragging his gaze from Abigail for all her sister’s tugging on his arm.

  Did Abigail still nurture feelings for the man? William’s happiness dimmed at the thought.

  Unaccustomed to having so many people looking at her, Abigail took a deep breath and reminded herself she was among friends. She glimpsed Louisa leaving Gilbert’s side to talk with Andrew Morgan. And there were her parents, and Susan and Edward Lloyd. She did not yet see Mr. Morris but, then, wasn’t all that eager to do so.

  Her mother and father walked forward to welcome her.

  He took her hands. “My dear, you look beautiful.”

  Abigail smiled, self-conscious but pleased at his praise. “Thank you, Papa.”

  “I am glad you decided to come,” her mother said. “I began to fear you had worn yourself out and would stay home. I am sorry I left all of that to you. It is only that you are so capable. But I shall endeavor not to shift my responsibilities to you in future. It isn’t fair to you.”

  “Thank you, Mamma.”

  Her mother’s eyes fastened on the gemstones. “I see the jeweler delivered the necklace at last.”

  “Yes, Marcel brought it up to me not long after you left.”

  “Louisa will be disappointed.”

  Abigail met her mother’s look with a gentle one of her own but made no offer to remove the necklace. And no apology.

  Her sister would have many other chances to wear it, Abigail knew. Tonight was her turn.

  Louisa approached, gaze riveted on the necklace. “You are wearing it?”

  “Yes. The jeweler delivered it after you left. Marcel brought it up to me.”

  “And did your hair as well, I see.”

  “Yes,” Abigail acknowledged, calmly holding her sister’s gaze and ignoring the slight irritation glittering in her fair eyes.

  “Well . . .” Louisa seemed torn between vexation and reluctant admiration. “It looks very well with your new dress, I own.”

  “Thank you, Louisa.”

  “In fact, I don’t mind saying you look very pretty tonight, Abigail.”

  “Thank you. That means a great deal, coming from the most beautiful girl in the room.”

  The two sisters shared a tentative smile, and then Louisa pressed her hand. “I’d best not keep Mr. Morgan waiting. He says he has news to share.”

  Yes, Abigail thought. But not the news her sister probably hoped for.

  When Louisa walked away, William took a deep breath and approached Abigail. How elegant the well-dressed creature looked. It made him miss the bedraggled girl in mud-spattered wool cape with damp hair falling from its pins. But he couldn’t deny she looked beautiful.

  “Miss Foster. How pleased I am to see you. I began to fear I’d begged an invitation in vain.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Mr. Chapman. William. I am pleased to see you as well. I’d heard someone from Easton was attending, but I dared not hope it was you.” She gave him a soft smile. “Had I known, I would have come sooner.”

  His heart warmed. “Then I am very glad indeed I begged that invitation.”

  Her smile widened. “Andrew Morgan is here as well, I see.”

  “Yes. I am in Town as his guest. He is here purchasing wedding clothes.”

  “Wedding clothes?”

  “Yes. He and Leah—excuse me, I shall never grow accustomed to calling her Eleanor—are recently engaged and soon to be married. I thought you knew.”

  “I hoped, but I had not yet heard the news.”

  “No doubt my sister has written to you and I have stolen her surprise. She shall box my ears when I get home.”

  “I think she would forgive you anything.” She added, “Have his parents come round to the idea, now that they know who Leah is?”

  “Yes. Though, after Leah’s brush with death, I don’t think anything would have stopped Andrew from making his feelings known—and making up for lost time.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Miss Foster, speaking of making up for lost time, I wonder if I might have a private word . . . ?”

  Her dark brows rose. “Of . . . course.”

  Gilbert Scott suddenly appeared between them. “Abby, how beautiful you look. I almost didn’t recognize you when you came in.”

  “Thank you, Gilbert.”

  “And Mr. Chapman. When Miss Pembrooke is ready to discuss refurbishments for Pembrooke Park, tell her I would be honored to offer my services.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Scott. But I believe my sister hopes to gather Miss Foster’s ideas first, before proceeding and hiring a builder. We also plan to implement her scheme for the parsonage.”

  William noticed her quick look of surprise and pleasure.

  “Ah. Well. Of course.” Scott conceded, “Abby has always had an excellent eye.”

  “Not always,” Abigail allowed. “But I think I recognize excellence now when I see it.” She looked at William with shining eyes.

  Mr. Scott looked from one to the other. “Abby, Louisa insists we have dancing after dinner. Do say you’ll dance with me. For old times’ sake.”

  She smiled at her old friend, but then she lifted her gaze to William, her dark eyes meeting, melding with his.

  “Actually, I fear I may be engaged,” she said. “Is that not right, Mr. Chapman?”

  William felt his chest expand with hope and pleasure. “You are engaged for the entire evening,” he said earnestly. “And for every evening after that, if I have my way.”

  At his words, Abigail’s whole body thrummed in anticipation. She tucked her hand under his arm. “Then indeed you shall.”

  Without removing his gaze from hers, William Chapman said, “If you will excuse us, Mr. Scott?”

  Not waiting to hear Gilbert’s reply, William led her out of the drawing room and into the quiet vestibule, her heart beating hard with each step. She fleetingly recalled coming upon Louisa and Gilbert in this very vestibule last year. And now it was her turn to stand there in a private tête-à-tête.

  William turned and solemnly faced her. “Miss Foster. Abigail. I know I said I was in no position to marry. That it would be wrong to ask you to wait until my situation improved—”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Abigail interrupted. “But I don’t care about the living. I care about you.”

  He stepped nearer. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.” His blue eyes shone. “But then I gather you haven’t heard . . .”

  “Heard what?”

  “Mr. Morris has passed on.”

  She felt her smile falter. “I am sorry to hear it. And his nephew?”

  “Leah—Eleanor—has granted the living to me.”

  “Ohhh . . .” Abigail breathed, thoughts whirling. Perhaps she should have foreseen that possibility, but she had not.

  He took her hand in his. “Will you marry me, dearest loveliest Abigail?”

  The question sent a thrill of pleasure through Abigail, and she gazed at him in wonder. “Of course I shall. Nothing would make me happier. For I love you with all my heart.”

  Flushed with happiness, she wished she had some token of her love to give him. A miniature, a lover’s eye, a lock of hair set in a ring. She had none of these things, so she took his face in her hands and drew his head down, pressing her
mouth to his in a passionate kiss.

  And judging from his reaction, the gift was very much appreciated.

  A short while later, they caught their breaths and rejoined the others for dinner. Abigail barely tasted her food, but she enjoyed the company, and the warm congratulations that flowed around them. That evening, she danced every dance and, if her future husband could be believed, outshone every woman there.

  She had said yes to William Chapman even before she learned he had a valuable living. She had said yes to a life of working alongside the man she loved. A life different than the one she’d once imagined—but oh so right. Together they would serve the parish, and God, and each other. Together they would build a practical, happy life.

  Abigail realized anew she had never needed a treasure to make herself worthy. How thankful she was to be treasured by God, and the man who loved her.

  Epilogue

  William and I stood, hand in hand, watching as the foundation was laid for a large addition to the parsonage. The rebuilding has also begun on Pembrooke Park. True to her word, Leah asked for my opinion on what should be done to the manor house during the refurbishment. She had thought about pulling the place down and being done with it. Washing her hands forever of her childhood home. But she decided in the end that to truly make peace with her past, she had to first embrace it, embrace her role as heiress of Pembrooke Park and lady of the manor. I think she will do credit to the role and be a wonderful patroness of the village and church.

  She and Andrew talked at length about what was best to do. He is to have Hunts Hall one day, after all, and the two could reside there instead. But as his parents are sure to remain there as long as they live, Andrew and Leah have decided they will rebuild Pembrooke Park and live in it together as husband and wife for the time being.

  Even though Mrs. Morgan seems to approve of “dear Eleanor” now that her true origins are known, Leah prefers to live nearer her family. She says the Chapmans will always be the family of her heart—Mac, Kate, Kitty, and Jacob. And William of course. Her family feeling and affection now extend to me as well, I’m pleased to say. And I treasure our friendship. It is such a joy to see her well and truly happy. The fears of the past gone. The secrets and hiding with it.