The Secret of Pembrooke Park(14)

She gasped and lay still, listening hard. But all she heard was the wind. Surely she had imagined the voice. Yes, of course, she told herself, long into the night. It had only been the wind.



In the morning, Abigail stayed in bed later than usual, having slept poorly. It was Sunday, but Abigail decided against attending church. She wasn’t ready to meet all those strangers, to feel their stares as she, the newcomer, entered. And what if they did things differently in the country? She would feel uncomfortable and uncertain what to do. Her family had attended divine services only sporadically in London, when they had not been out too late the night before, or when her mother decided they ought to show up for appearances’ sake, especially if a prospective suitor was known to be devout. Besides, Abigail had several letters to write, and she would finally have the time to do so.

Polly brought up a breakfast tray and helped her dress before leaving to attend church herself. Mac had strongly suggested the servants be given a day of rest on the Sabbath, so they might attend church and visit their families. Abigail had agreed, wishing her own family were there so she would not be alone.

After breakfast, Abigail reread a letter she had received at the inn the day before from Gilbert’s sister. Susan expressed regret that Abigail had left Town and concern over her family’s new situation. She had also added a postscript:

You described Pembrooke Park as being a remote place near the tiny hamlet of Easton and the village of Caldwell. Interestingly enough, Edward and I have heard of Caldwell. One of the magazine’s regular contributors lives there. What a small world it is!

Abigail idly wondered who it was. She dipped a quill in ink and began her reply, trying to sound optimistic about the change in their circumstances, to ward off her friend’s pity or worry. She was fine. They were fine. She asked the name of the local writer, in case she encountered this person.

But she soon found herself distracted and rose and crossed the hall to her father’s room. From his window, she saw a few wagons and gigs stopping on the other side of the bridge. The habit of leaving horses and vehicles was well ingrained, she saw, though Mac had finally agreed to removal of the barricade. Duncan had not enjoyed the task, she knew.

Other families came on foot from nearby Easton, greeting one another as they passed through the gate. The church bell rang, startling Abigail after the silence of the empty house. The last of the parishioners disappeared inside, and with a sigh Abigail returned to her letter.

Later, when the service ended, Abigail again rose to watch the congregation depart. As the small crowd diminished and trickled away over the bridge, she finally saw the Chapmans emerge—Mac, a middle-aged woman who must be his wife, William, Leah, the younger girl, and a red-haired boy as well. They talked and laughed as they walked across the courtyard on their way home. Mac’s cottage was somewhere just beyond the estate grounds. William, she’d gathered, had recently moved into the small parsonage behind the church, though clearly he still spent time with his family.

The dog, so fierce when she’d first seen him, bounded over and joined the family with a lolling tongue and wagging tail. The tall red-haired boy of perhaps fifteen tossed a stick to him and then went chasing after the dog. His younger sister followed suit. Mac called some ireless admonishment after them, while his wife laughed and took his arm. Behind their parents, Leah took William’s arm as well. The sweet picture of familiar affection caused a little ache in Abigail’s heart. Her own family was not terribly affectionate. But she’d always secretly hoped that she and Gilbert would make up for it with their own children someday. Tears bit her eyes, and she blinked the painful thought away.

As though sensing he was being watched, William Chapman glanced back, looking up at the house. Although she doubted he could see inside the dim room on the sunny day, she stepped away from his view.



Later that afternoon, Abigail buttoned a spencer over her day dress—preparing to go out for a walk—when someone knocked on the front door. Since the servants had not yet returned from their day off, Abigail jogged lightly down the stairs and answered it herself, hat and gloves in hand. She felt a momentary hesitation about opening the door to a stranger—or possible treasure hunter—while she was alone in the house, so she was relieved to recognize the caller as William Chapman, basket in arms. Nothing about his fashionable green coat, patterned waistcoat, or simple cravat marked him as a clergyman.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

He glanced behind her toward the empty hall. “Servants abandon you already?” A wry glint shone in his boyish blue eyes.

“No,” she assured him. “Not at all. They are enjoying a day of rest.”

“That was generous of you.”

“Your father’s idea.”

“Ah. Yes, he isn’t shy about offering his ideas on how I ought to conduct things on Sundays either.”

“Oh?”

“He is the parish clerk, after all. So . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

“You poor man,” she teased. William Chapman was handsome, she decided. His hair was darker than his father’s, more auburn than red. And he was nearly as tall. His features were pleasing—straight nose, broad mouth, and fair skin.

He held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for my father. But he can be a bit . . . overbearing at times. I wouldn’t want you to think you were the only one on the receiving end of his . . . suggestions.”