The Secret of Pembrooke Park(108)
“Which did you want to see?” she blurted, pulling out a set of plans without really seeing them.
“Abby, I don’t really . . .” He hesitated beside her. “What’s this?” Gilbert picked up a drawing that had lain beneath the plans. With a start she recognized the drawing he was looking at. Her ideas for the parsonage.
His brow furrowed. “Have you shown these to Mr. Chapman?”
“No . . . not really. He saw me working on them, but I told him they were not for anyone else’s eyes.”
Expression cautious, he asked slowly, “Why . . . are you drawing plans for Mr. Chapman’s parsonage?”
“Because the old one was damaged, of course. And you know me. I couldn’t resist the challenge.”
He looked away as he considered, biting his lip. Then he turned to face her, and said soberly, “Do you know what I would think, if you drew a plan for my future house?”
So apparently he had forgotten the plans they had drawn together. To conceal the hurt, she jested, “That it was amateurish, no doubt.” She self-consciously tried to tug the drawing from his grasp, but he held tight.
“No. I would think you wished to live there with me. That you were designing those four snug bedchambers—one to share with me, perhaps, and the other three for our future children. At least, I hope you are the sort of woman who looks forward to sharing a bedroom with her husband, instead of insisting upon having a room of her own.”
Abigail felt herself flush, and mumbled, “I don’t think he would jump to that conclusion.”
He looked at her earnestly. “I even tried to find the house plans you and I drew up years ago, but I could not find them anywhere. I don’t know if Mamma cleaned out my things while I was gone, or if I misplaced them, or—”
“I have them. Upstairs in my room.”
He paused, expression brightening. “I should have known.” He dropped the drawing and grasped her hand. “I don’t want you to plan his house, Abby. I want you to share mine. I know I was a fool where you are concerned. And Louisa. A blind fool. Susan was right. But I am seeing clearly now, and what I see is the woman I want to share my life with.”
She stared at him, her heart beating like a fluttering bird, unsure whether to nest or to fly away. “Gilbert, I . . .” Words failed her. Her mind swam, struggling to navigate foreign waters, the waves too high, the undertow strong.
He grasped her other hand as well and squeezed both. “You must see it, Abby. Our growing up side by side as we did. Our common interests. We have always understood each another and been the best of friends. It can’t be for nothing. It must be for a reason.”
Releasing her hands, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “I know we should wait for a while before I begin courting you—allow time to pass since my calls on Louisa. But tell me it is not too late for us. Tell me I have not spoiled things between us forever. . . .”
Abigail hesitated in his embrace. Torn between relaxing into the arms of a friend, throwing her arms around him like a long-lost lover, or pulling away.
Over Gilbert’s shoulder, movement caught her eye. She glanced up and saw William Chapman stop abruptly in the library doorway. His dark expression sent her heart plummeting. Before she could react, he turned and left without a word.
With numb fatalism, William turned on his heel and stalked away. He’d been stunned to find Abigail in Mr. Scott’s embrace. But why should he be surprised? He knew Scott was the man she’d loved for years. It had only been a matter of time. Any man would have to be a blind fool not to realize Abigail Foster’s worth, her character, her heart, her beauty. And apparently Mr. Scott had at last done so, as William had feared he would.
He returned to the drawing room, heavy resignation descending over him. He suddenly felt exhausted, as though he’d not slept in days. What could he do? With Mr. Morris planning to do all in his power to assure the living of the parish went to his nephew when he retired or died, William might never be able to support a wife—not as long as he remained in Easton, near his family. At least, not a wife like Abigail Foster, who would expect—who deserved—a certain standard of living. There was no point in persisting and no point in staying.
He made his way to Mrs. Foster’s side and quietly thanked her and excused himself early. He didn’t want to be there if that embrace was soon to be followed by an engagement announcement. He wasn’t ready to see Abigail walk into the room on Gilbert Scott’s arm, her face aglow with love for another man. He was not comfortable in flirty Louisa’s company either. Even the thought of Rebekah’s renewed interest provided no comfort.
He would be happy for Abigail someday—he would, with God’s help—but it wouldn’t be today.
The look on William Chapman’s face when he’d stood in the library doorway stayed with Abigail for the rest of the night. What had she seen in his expression? Disapproval of their indiscreet embrace? Disappointment? Resignation? How could she guess his feelings, when she struggled to understand her own?
Gilbert had asked if he might court her, but she’d put him off, telling him she’d have to think about it. How would William Chapman react if she agreed? And how would Gilbert react when she confessed she had no dowry? She hadn’t been brave enough to tell him. Afraid he would withdraw his offer. Afraid he wouldn’t . . .