The Secret of Pembrooke Park(105)

Suddenly, the thought of seeing Gilbert again seemed more appealing than ever.

William Chapman jogged after her. “Miss Foster? Did you need something?”

She paused at the door, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious. “I . . . no.”

“Oh. I thought you might be coming over to speak to me.”

“I . . .” She hesitated, her thoughts a muddled blur. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

He touched her arm. “Tell me.”

She decided not to betray Harriet’s confidence about Miles. Instead she said, “I . . . only wished to ask what you would say to someone who said she wanted to redeem the wrongdoings of her family. To pay for the sins of her father?”

His brows furrowed in surprise, and he looked at her in sober concern. Did he think she was asking for herself?

Was she?

He inhaled deeply and looked up in thought. “I would say . . . while I agree it is good to make what restitution we can, we can never pay for the sins of others, let alone our own. That has already been done. God’s Son has already paid the price for your sin, your father’s, and mine, once and for all. If you will only ask him and trust him with your life, He will redeem the past, your future, and give you peace for today.”

Abigail’s heart ached at his words. If she longed for assurance that she was forgiven for her part in her father’s fall, how much more must Harriet Pembrooke long for forgiveness and peace?

She looked at him in reluctant admiration. “You said that very well.”

He shrugged. “Thank you. But remember no one is perfect. I have my own sins and mistakes to ask forgiveness for.”

Louisa approached them with a brittle smile. “Mr. Chapman, here are your gloves. You left them on the churchyard wall during our little . . . tête-à-tête.”

Her sister’s eyes glinted with what—flirtation, or irritation? Irritated at her, Abigail guessed, for interrupting their private talk.

Was the time Mr. Chapman spent with Louisa one of the mistakes he regretted? Abigail wondered. Or his time spent with her?



Since both Louisa and Leah declined to accompany her, Abigail planned to go to Hunts Hall on her own. She would have a long walk ahead of her, so she left the house early the next morning, glad the day had dawned warm and sunny. But she had barely crossed the drive when Mac Chapman clattered through the gate in his gig.

“Leah told me you were going out to the hall this morning.”

“That’s right.”

“Hop on, if you like.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugged and said, “I was going anyway.”

Maybe so, she thought, but she knew very well he would have ridden his horse and not bothered with the gig just for himself. She was touched but knew he didn’t want her to make a fuss.

They rode in relative silence for several minutes, and then he asked one terse question: “Miles Pembrooke back?”

“Yes.”

He set his jaw but said no more.

She asked, “What do you remember about him and his siblings?”

Mac sat silent for several moments, staring straight ahead. She’d decided he was not going to reply, when he surprised her.

“The eldest boy, Harold, was hot-tempered and rash, like his father,” Mac began. “Though he did what he could to protect his ma—I’ll give him that. Miles was harder to judge. A real charmer, yet manipulative as well. Knew when to sulk and when to smile to get his way.” He shook his head. “’Course, he was young and his character not fully developed. Perhaps he has improved since then. Or gone bad.” He shrugged. “Wish I knew . . .”

“And the girl?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Harriet.” Mac chewed his lip as he considered how best to reply. “She was a quiet girl, and no doubt lonely. Difficult enough to be the daughter of the manor when all the others in the parish are daughters of farmers or shopkeepers. But folks round here took against the entire family. When Leah came home from school, I forbade her to have anything to do with the girl. You will think me harsh. But I knew very well no good could come from such a friendship, and plenty of harm.”

Poor Harriet, Abigail thought. At least Leah had her family and a loving father.

She thought again about Eliza, but could not bring up the delicate subject of her father’s identity with Mac. Hopefully Leah had remembered to do so.

As they rumbled up the drive to Hunts Hall, Abigail saw Harriet Webb in the distance, strolling with a parasol across the front lawn. Seeing her arrive with Mac, Mrs. Webb turned abruptly and walked in the opposite direction. To avoid her . . . or Mac?

When Mac had gone off with the men, Abigail sought her out alone.

“Good morning, Mrs. Webb.”

She inclined her head. “Miss Foster.” She hesitated. “I thought you might bring Miss Chapman along.”

“I invited her, but she declined.”

“Ah.”

“She did, however, confide in me a closely held secret. She led me out to the walled garden and told me about a secret friend she used to meet there.”

Harriet’s eyes sparked with tentative hope. “Did she indeed?”

“I think she would consider meeting you again. But I have not suggested it. She has already chastised me for trying to play matchmaker with gentlemen, so I doubt my attempt to reunite old friends would meet with better success.”