The Secret of Pembrooke Park(101)
“No coincidence about it,” he said. “My firm is handling a project nearby. I am here to oversee the work.”
“All the way out here?” Her eyebrows rose, and a playful grin lit her face. “What are you building—a hen house? A stable?”
“Very funny. No, a new wing to an ancestral home by the name of Hunts Hall.”
“Hunts Hall?” Louisa echoed, her teasing smile fading. “I have heard of it. . . .”
“Yes, I imagine you have,” Gilbert said dryly. “It’s where Andrew Morgan and his family live.”
Abigail felt compelled to add, “Gilbert has just invited me to watch the workmen break ground. But if you would like to join us . . .”
“I’m sure Louisa won’t wish to miss an opportunity to see Andrew Morgan. And the home to which he will someday be heir.”
Louisa lifted her chin. “You are quite wrong. I have no interest in seeing the place or the man.” She effected a casual smile and added, “But you two go ahead.”
Leah Chapman came through the gate on her way toward the church, a basket of flowers in her hands. Abigail waved her over and introduced her.
Louisa warmly thanked Miss Chapman for the welcome gifts she had sent over for her and Mamma, while Leah brushed off her praise and shifted credit to her mother. When she excused herself to continue on to the church with flowers for the altar, Louisa asked if she might accompany her. She probably hoped for a chance to see William Chapman again, Abigail realized, feeling queasy at the thought.
When the two had walked off together, Abigail returned her attention to Gilbert. “Can you stay and visit?” she asked. “My parents will wish to see you.”
“And I them. I would say that’s why I’m here, but the truth is, I came to see you.”
Abigail gave him a searching look. Was this more of his Italy-inspired flattery, or was he sincere?
His eyes held hers earnestly. “Abby, look. I did call on Louisa once or twice when I first returned to London. She’s a beautiful girl—I don’t deny it. But beyond that, she is . . . Well, she is not you, Abby. You are beautiful inside and out. Louisa is young and doesn’t know who she is or what she wants. I had already decided not to call on her again before I saw you at Hunts Hall. And now that I have seen you again, I know that I was right not to.”
Abigail felt her heart warm, and her stomach tingled as if she’d swallowed a caterpillar. Her practical mind whispered, But what about Louisa? And what about William Chapman? How torn she might have felt had she not seen the look on Mr. Chapman’s face when he laid eyes on her beautiful sister.
Later that evening, Leah Chapman sought out Abigail’s company, asking her to take a turn with her and talk. It was a lovely, mild summer evening. Frogs chirped along the riverbank and a dove called in the distance. The smell of roses perfumed the warm air. They walked across the bridge and down the tree-lined lane, arm in arm.
Leah began, “So tell me, Miss Foster. Gilbert Scott—is there something between you? I saw you dance together at the ball, and now he’s back. I saw how he looks at you.”
Abigail waved away the thought as though it were a hovering bee, afraid to let it land and sting her. “He’s here to build on to Hunts Hall, not merely to see me. Gilbert and I are old friends. We grew up next door to each another.”
“Only friends?”
Rare irritation prickled through Abigail. “Forgive me, Miss Chapman. But I am surprised you wish me to share all of my history with you when you have shared so little with me. You have been secretive about Duncan and your past and your fears and almost everything, and yet you expect me to share my most personal stories in embarrassing detail?”
“You’re right, Miss Foster. Please forgive me.” Miss Chapman turned away, but Abigail caught her arm.
“Don’t go. I only meant . . . if I am going to divulge all my secrets, could you not tell me just one of yours?” Abigail grinned, hoping to lighten the moment.
“My secrets are mine, yes, but they affect my entire family. My father would be upset if he knew I’d been talking about the past.”
Leah must have some awful secrets, Abigail thought, or a tendency to be overly dramatic.
She said, “I want you to know you can trust me, Leah. So I will go first.” Abigail sighed. “Yes, I have long hoped Gilbert and I would marry someday. I admired him and saw his potential long before he won awards at school or obtained a good position with a noted architect. And I thought he saw something of worth in me. I know I’m not especially beautiful, but in Gilbert’s eyes I saw genuine admiration and affection. My own London seasons were not successful, partly because I’m no great beauty, but I suppose the truth was I didn’t try very hard because I preferred Gilbert to any man I met.”
She took a deep breath, and continued, “I don’t think I was alone in my feelings. We never spoke of marriage directly, but we spoke of the future and of each other in it. We even . . . You will think me very foolish, but over the years Gilbert and I sketched many houses, sparring over which design, which style was best. We even designed what we called our ideal home.” Abigail felt her neck heat, but continued, “We debated the size and layout of rooms, and how to make the guest chamber commodious and yet not so comfortable that our families would be tempted to stay too long.”