The Secret of Pembrooke Park(129)

Finally, father and son parted ways, though William doubted either of them would get much sleep that night.

The disturbance did have one benefit—it distracted William from his regret over Miss Foster. At least for a time. Before tonight, he had all but decided to bow out of Miss Foster’s life. But after that kiss . . . heaven help him, it would take every ounce of strength he had to do so. Thy will be done. But please, God, have mercy on your besotted servant. . . .





Chapter 28


The following day, Eliza Smith came to call, face pale, eyes damp and red. Without preamble, she began unfastening the E pin from her fichu. “I should never have accepted this.”

“Did Duncan give it to you?” Abigail asked.

Eliza nodded. “He didn’t see it as stealing. He thought I was entitled to some memento—some . . . recompense.” The latch snagged on the muslin, and she worked to free it. “He believed me, you see, about who my father was. He said there were two pins and one wouldn’t be missed. Robert Pembrooke must have had the matching pins made for his wife and daughter. I thought that’s why Mamma had given me an E name. That perhaps it had been his suggestion, like Eleanor and baby Emma. His quiet way of acknowledging me privately if not publicly. But no. I was fooling myself.” She yanked the pin free, taking several threads with it.

Her chin trembled. “But now . . . Mac’s told me the truth. I didn’t want to believe him, but I know him to be an honest man. It’s just that . . . Auntie told me several times that my father lived in Pembrooke Park. That’s where Mamma met him. And that much was true. But the man wasn’t Robert Pembrooke, it was the butler. It’s his mother’s house we live in now. He signed it over to Mamma before he left town. Left us.” Tears filled her eyes.

Abigail said gently, “I’m sorry you grew up without a father, Eliza. But it’s your life now, to do with as you will.”

Eliza shook her head. “I’ve struggled for so long to make something of myself, to have something to show for my supposed heritage . . . and for what?” She thrust the pin toward Abigail. “Here, take it.”

Abigail accepted the pin. “But look at the good that’s come of that striving,” she soothed. “You’ve pushed yourself to succeed. You singlehandedly support yourself and your aunt. That is an accomplishment to feel proud of—one few women can boast of.”

“Proud is the last thing I feel.”

“Well then, I am proud of you. Proud to know you. You are quite a good writer, Miss E. P. Brooks, if I do say so myself.”

Eliza looked up at her in wary surprise.

“You are someone, Eliza. Someone valuable—just as you are. God has blessed you with gifts, and talents, and abilities.” Abigail squeezed her hand. “Make the most of them.”



Mr. Chapman stopped by the house later that afternoon. Abigail’s heart rose to see him at her door, but her happiness was quickly dampened by the look on his face.

“Good afternoon, Miss Foster.” His dull eyes belied his fleeting smile.

“What happened last night?” she whispered. “Did you find that man?”

He shook his head. “No. No sign of him. But that’s not why I’m here. You haven’t seen my father, have you?”

“No. Not since yesterday. Why?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “He has gone out to look for Mr. Morgan’s hound again. Mamma expected him back by now.” He sighed. “No doubt checking fences or something, to make the best use of his time while he’s out.”

“Sounds like your father. Never one to idle.”

“Exactly.” He gave a little chuckle, but it sounded flat to Abigail’s ears.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Abigail assured him.

“No doubt you’re right, and I shall feel a fool for worrying.”

She smiled gently and said, “Our parson is very fond of quoting the verse ‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee. . . .’”

“Sounds a wise man, your parson.” He managed a grin, then pressed a hand to his midriff. “Just can’t shake this feeling that something is wrong.” Again he tried to joke it off. “That’s what I get for eating my own cooking again today.”

An hour later, after dinner with her family, Abigail walked over to the Chapman cottage to see if Mac had returned and found William saddling the carriage horse. Nearby, the dog kennel was empty and silent.

“No sign of him?”

He shook his head, all joking and laughter gone from his eyes. “No. And there’s a storm brewing in the west. Not like him to be gone so long, not without sending word to Mamma. He knows she’ll worry. The rest of us too.”

“What can I do? Give me someplace to look.”

He looked at her skeptically. “On foot?”

“I am a good walker. Or I could ask Miles to ride out with you.”

He tossed back the stirrup leather and tightened the cinch. “No need to involve Mr. Pembrooke, Miss Foster. No offense. But perhaps you might walk through the village and ask at the inn and shops if anyone has seen him, or knows where he was headed.”

“Of course I will. What about Hunts Hall? Would someone there know which direction he went?”

“I hope so. I plan to ride there first. And if they don’t know, God help me.”