The Secret of Pembrooke Park(106)

Harriet nodded and asked, “And the letter I gave you?”

The sunny day suddenly seemed less fair. A ragged cloud passed over, marring the otherwise blue sky. “I read it, of course,” Abigail said. “But I hope it doesn’t mean what you seem to think it means.”

“I hope so too.”

Abigail looked across the roped-off building site and saw Gilbert shaking Mr. Morgan’s hand and handing him a shovel to scoop the first token of earth. She waved to him, and he beamed across the distance at her. For a moment their gazes held, and much passed between them in that long look. Past disappointments. Dreams. Apologies. Hopes for the future.

Abigail said, “Let’s not talk about the past any longer. New beginnings are always exciting, are they not? So full of promise.”

“If you say so.”

On the opposite side of the site, a group of onlookers cheered politely. Then the group drifted over to the blankets and makeshift plank tables covered with fine linens, where a picnic feast awaited them.

Harriet and Abigail remained where they were, isolated by the noise of the laborers—the clank of pickaxes, the sharp cut of shovels, and the jingling tack of mules, hauling away loads of dirt.

She felt Mrs. Webb’s gaze on her profile and glanced over.

Disapproval tightened the woman’s lips, and she said tartly, “That little hat of yours may look smart, but it offers very little protection from the sun. Here.” She sidestepped closer and repositioned the lacy parasol over Abigail’s head as well.

Her brusque concern reminded Abigail of Mac’s cranky thoughtfulness and pierced her heart. Standing there shaded by Harriet’s parasol, Abigail was momentarily transported back to the idyllic moments she had shared under William Chapman’s umbrella. . . . She then recalled their more recent conversation.

She began, “I have been thinking about what you said about marriage. How it gave you a fresh start. That people no longer judged you by what your father did, because you had a new identity.”

“Yes . . . ?” Harriet agreed warily.

“But you also admitted it wasn’t enough. That you are still unhappy—guilty over the past . . . and frightened for the future.”

“What of it?”

Abigail’s heart burned within her. She had never spoken like this to anyone but felt compelled to do so now. “You long to redeem the wrongdoings of your family. But Mr. Chapman says we can never pay for the sins of others, let alone our own. That has already been done, once and for all.”

How Abigail wished William were there. He would have said it so much better than she could.

“God is merciful and ready to forgive,” she continued. “He gives us a new identity in Christ. That is the real second chance you long for.”

Abigail shook her head. “I am sorry. I am saying this very poorly, I know. And I don’t mean to give the impression I am a perfect Christian, for I am not. Far from it. But I see how unhappy you are. How much you long for peace. And that’s the one treasure I know how to find.” Steeling herself for rejection, she reached out and pressed the woman’s hand.

Harriet Pembrooke blinked in surprise. For a moment she allowed Abigail to hold her hand, as stiff and cool as marble, and then she gently extracted it.

“Thank you, Miss Foster,” she said flatly. “I know you mean well. I am not one for church myself, but I do know that some things are too big for religious niceties to overcome.”

Abigail inwardly groaned. Oh, she had made a muddle of it! “I am not talking about religion,” she insisted. “And there is nothing ‘nice’ about God’s Son dying a cruel death to pay for our sins. I am talking about forgiveness and freedom. True new life, whether you ever enter a church building or not.”

“Again, I thank you for your concern. And now, if you will excuse me.”

Mrs. Webb lifted the parasol and turned and walked away, disappearing into the house—not even joining the rest of the party or partaking of the picnic. Guilt swamped Abigail, and she heaved a dejected sigh.

Andrew Morgan waved Abigail over to join them, and she obliged, though with a heavy heart. She felt terrible for spoiling the day for Harriet. She had done herself no favors either, for the few bites she nibbled were like wood shavings in her mouth, though she smiled encouragement to Gilbert whenever he looked her way.

When the party began to break up later, Abigail was surprised to find Mrs. Webb standing beside her once again. “Will you do me a favor and give this note to Miss Chapman for me?”

Abigail hesitated. “Whom shall I say it’s from?”

“I sign it as Jane, but you may tell her who it’s really from—though it may mean she won’t accept my request to meet, especially if her father finds out. You are welcome to read it first and proceed as you think best.”

With that, Harriet turned and retreated into the house once more.

Abigail tucked the letter into her pelisse pocket to read later, just as Mac came and asked her if she was ready to head home.

Entering the hall of Pembrooke Park a short while later, Abigail distractedly laid aside her hat and gloves and pulled out the folded, unsealed note. The outside was blank but inside it was addressed to Lizzie:

Dear “Lizzie,”

You may well be shocked to receive a letter from me after all these years, but I hope it is not an unhappy surprise.