The Secret of Pembrooke Park(126)

She said in consolatory tones, “He isn’t used to your teasing yet, as I am.”

Mr. Chapman pulled a face. “Sorry. It’s one of my persistent weaknesses, I’m afraid.” He looked at her. “But not the only one.”



That night, Abigail sat on a large rock, a natural step down from the riverbank, and dangled her feet in the water, idly peeling the bark from a stick in her hands. The moon shone bright, glistening on the lazy current. The air was still, without a breath of wind. And only the chirring of frogs and the occasional flying insect kept her company. The summer night was warm. Too warm. She’d been unable to sleep in her stifling room, with her stifling thoughts and doubts about both Gilbert and William. Must every man she admired prefer her sister? Perhaps she should accept it, and be grateful any man would be interested in her at all, once Louisa made it clear she did not return his attentions. But the thought made her feel ill. Would she wonder at every family gathering for the rest of her life if her husband was eyeing Louisa wistfully, wishing he had married her instead?

She tossed the stick upriver, with a satisfying plunk, wishing she could toss away her doubts as easily. But sure enough, the current brought it back to her.

“Hello?”

She sucked in a breath at the unexpected call, then turned her head and saw William approaching. “Oh, Mr. Chapman, you startled me.”

“And who else would you expect to find in my spot?”

“Your spot? I didn’t know it was anyone’s spot. I shall leave you.” She scrambled to her feet and up the bank.

He forestalled her, saying, “Miss Foster. I was only teasing. I am glad to find you here.”

He was dressed in breeches and untucked shirt, she noticed. A towel in hand.

“I did not come here with the design of meeting you,” she said, feeling defensive. “I was simply warm and thought the water would cool me.”

“As did I.”

“I only met you at the river once after all, and that was weeks ago. And not here but there under that tree . . .” She nodded vaguely a few yards ahead, then searched the ground. “Now, where did I put my shoes?”

He laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. “Miss Foster . . . are you still angry with me?”

“I am not angry.”

He tucked his chin, and raised his eyebrows, giving her a doubtful look.

“I am not angry,” she repeated. “But . . .”

“But what? I realize that with Mr. Scott back in your life, you may wish to spend less time with me, but I don’t think there’s call for animosity.”

“No, of course not.”

“Here,” he said, spreading his towel on the bank, fortunately larger than the last one he’d brought. “Sit, and let’s talk.”

“But your swim . . .”

“Can wait.”

They sat on the bank, sharing the towel but not quite touching.

He began, “You can’t deny you have changed toward me. I don’t know if it has something to do with your sister being here now. Or more likely, I suppose, Mr. Scott . . .”

Abigail again recalled William Chapman’s dumbfounded expression when he’d first seen Louisa. And then seeing them together that day in the churchyard . . .

“No,” she whispered. “Not Gilbert.” She shook her head, not able to meet his eyes. The moonlight would reveal too much. Her insecurity. Her jealousy.

“Then . . . ?”

She swallowed and quietly admitted, “I saw how you looked at Louisa when Mamma introduced her.”

She felt his gaze on her profile. Then he sighed. “I am sorry. Truly. I tried to be as polite as possible to her then and since. Not to show anything else in my expression or in my words, to reveal what I knew, and how I felt.”

How he felt? Lord, have mercy. Help me through this! He had fallen for Louisa. It was more than passing desire or admiration. He had feelings for her.

“It was obvious,” Abigail said. “To me, at least.”

“Hopefully not to her. I haven’t wanted to say anything. Even though I wondered if I should. For her sake. And yours. But I was afraid to offend you. You are her sister, after all.”

“As I am very much aware.”

“You must wonder how it began, how I even discovered who she was. . . .”

No, not really, she thought. It likely began the way it always did. Men making complete cakes of themselves over Louisa.

He went on, “You might remember Louisa asking if we had met before. Saying I looked familiar to her . . . ?”

Abigail nodded, vaguely recalling the exchange.

William continued, “I said we had not met, and that was true—we had not been introduced. But I had seen her before.”

This was news to Abigail. “Oh? When?”

“You remember that I spent several days with Andrew Morgan in London?”

Yes, Abigail did remember. And what long, lonely, tiresome days they had been.

She nodded, and he continued.

“Andrew insisted I needed a rest after the fire, so I went with him to Town, as I had done once or twice while we were at school together. Mr. Morris agreed to take my services for me while I was away, eager to show his nephew his future living, I imagine.

“In London, Andrew dragged me to the most crowded, noisiest rout I had ever attended, held at some wealthy acquaintance’s home. While we were there, one of his highborn friends said something very cutting about a certain young woman in attendance. I did not hear her name over all the noise and music, but I did see her quite clearly, laughing loudly and flirting with an officer and a dandy at once. This man pointed her out and said, ‘Careful, gents, the minx may look an angel, but she is the biggest flirt in London, so determined to net a titled man that she is willing to do anything to trap him.’ The insinuation was perfectly clear.”