The Secret of Pembrooke Park(125)

Ahead she saw Leah entering the church, the greengrocer’s little girl hanging on one hand, the blacksmith’s youngest tugging on the other. Abigail thought of Leah’s gift baskets and her teaching, and her quiet, humble service, and felt tears prick her eyes. She wondered what Leah—Eleanor—would be like now had she grown up at Pembrooke Park in privilege her whole life. Would she have done so much, served so many regardless of her upbringing? Maybe, but somehow Abigail doubted it. Another benefit—another good thing from a bad situation. “Good from bad,” William had once said. “God excels at that.”

Yes, Abigail silently agreed. He does.

As usual, Louisa enjoyed all the attention that came her way, especially sitting in the front box. Gilbert sat with the Morgans across the aisle, as did Rebekah Garwood. The rector, Mr. Morris, was in church that morning as well, and assisted in officiating the service. He was accompanied by his nephew, who had just matriculated from Christ Church College. The rector introduced the young man with obvious fondness and pride.

After church Louisa made a beeline for Mr. Chapman, thanking him for his sermon. He smiled in reply, and Abigail’s stomach soured. He was perfectly polite to Abigail and her parents as they thanked him and passed through the door, but Abigail noticed he did not quite meet her gaze. She wondered why. Was he distancing himself because of Gilbert, or because he now preferred another woman? Did he fear he had given her the wrong impression during their foray into the secret room—worry she might think he was romantically interested in her again, assuming he ever had been?

In the churchyard, Abigail waited while Louisa spoke sweetly with two adolescent girls who gaped in awe at her beauty and fashionable attire. Behind them the Morgans exited, Andrew and his father talking earnestly to William, while Mrs. Morgan gave him a brittle smile and remained aloof. Beside her, Rebekah Garwood looked striking in her fitted morning gown and smart black hat, her figure already remarkably good for having recently borne a child. She smiled up into Mr. Chapman’s face, asking him about some verse he had quoted. He answered, and she thanked him, briefly laying her gloved hand on his sleeve. Abigail was probably the only person who noticed.

Or was she? Mrs. Peterman sidled up to Abigail, her disapproving gaze on the pair. “First you, then your sister, and now a recent widow.” She sniffed and shook her head. “I shall be glad when Mr. Morris’s nephew comes into possession of his uncle’s living. He’ll put an end to such ungodly flirtations.”

“Oh, and what makes you think that?”

“Look at him!” She gestured toward the gangly young man. “No girls will be fawning over him. And he, I daresay, will remain too busy writing good long sermons to have time for females for a year or two. And by then, the women of the parish will have found him a plain, practical wife.”

“Yes,” Abigail murmured in wry wistfulness. “The practical ones are usually plain.”

When the last of his parishioners had exited, William disappeared from the doorway. A few minutes later, he exited as well, having removed his vestments. He paused to help a fallen toddler who had scratched his knee, and reunited the scamp with his mother. Then, seeing her watching him, William raised a hand and walked her way.

Abigail steeled herself, unsure what to expect.

“Hello, Miss Foster.”

She nodded. “Mr. Chapman.”

“Mamma was just saying you haven’t been to our house in some time. I tried to tell her you’ve been busy, what with your family here now and . . . all. Even so, she has charged me with inviting you over again. Might you and your sister come over for tea this afternoon? Perhaps you might sing for Grandmamma and Miss Louisa might play. I understand she is very accomplished.”

It was Louisa he wished to see most of all, she guessed. “Yes, well. Louisa might, but I don’t know that I will have the time.”

He winced and asked tentatively, “Are you angry with me about something, Miss Foster?”

“No.”

“Have I done something to offend you or disappoint you?”

Abigail didn’t want to lie, but nor did she want to tell him the truth. Besides, the truth was he’d done nothing wrong. It was her problem, not his.

When she hesitated, he asked, “Is this about . . . your sister?”

Taken aback, she darted a glance at him, then looked away, feeling her neck heat. How had he divined the answer? Were her feelings, her petty jealousy, so transparent?

He added, “Or because of Mr. Scott?”

She blinked in confusion. She would have thought he’d be relieved that Gilbert was showing interest in her. That it might assuage his guilt and give him the freedom to pursue Louisa or Rebekah Garwood, as he probably wanted to.

Gilbert appeared at her elbow. “Hello, Abby.” He smiled at her and took her hand, tucking it under his arm. “I’ll walk you home.”

Belatedly, he acknowledged Mr. Chapman. “Good sermon, Parson. Nice and short.”

“Thank you. By the way, I saw the new wing at Hunts Hall. Well done. Nice and short.”

Gilbert’s face colored. “They only wanted the one level—there’s to be a conservatory. But we are also adding a two-story addition to the rear and—”

Abigail interrupted, “Mr. Chapman is only teasing you, Gilbert.”

“Oh,” Gilbert said dully.