The Secret of Pembrooke Park(144)
Mr. Scott hurried to Abigail’s side, embraced her tightly, and inspected her hand.
William stepped forward. “I was just about to take her to the local surgeon.”
Mr. Scott shook his head, an angry twist to his mouth. “No, I will. And then I’ll take her to our family physician in London.”
He led her to the carriage. There she paused in its doorway, looking over her shoulder at William, her expression weary and regretful and resigned. He didn’t blame her. After all, nothing had changed. He was in no position to protest her departure. No position to make her an offer, to ask for her hand, her poor burnt hand. . . .
She was far better off with Mr. Scott, he told himself, even as the thought lanced his soul. From the corner of his eye, he felt his father’s and sister’s concerned looks but dared not meet them.
Through the gate came a gig and wagons overflowing with servants and tenants from Hunts Hall, arriving to help.
William thanked Andrew and joined the line. But a part of his heart left in a fine carriage, as it carried away the woman he loved.
Thunder rumbled and rain began to fall, and around him friends and neighbors thanked God. The rain would help their efforts to fight the fire. The rain would cool the hot, weary workers of the fire brigade and wash away sweat and even tears as it did so.
Chapter 31
A month later, Abigail stood in the window of Aunt Bess’s townhouse, looking out at the damp cobblestones below, busy with passing carriages, carts, and well-dressed pedestrians. How strange to be back in London, she reflected, when she had planned to remain in Pembrooke Park for a twelvemonth at least. At one time Abigail had privately hoped to renew the lease indefinitely, assuming Mr. Arbeau and Harriet Pembrooke were in agreement, for she had grown fond of the house and countryside, the village and her neighbors. Especially a certain neighbor and his family. Of course, that was before she’d learned Leah’s true identity, and before the fire.
The searchers had found Miles Pembrooke’s body among the rubble of the ruined tower, rubies still clutched in his hand—reminiscent of the way his father had been found, a pistol clutched in his. Harriet had Miles buried in the Bristol churchyard, next to their beloved mother and brother. For though damaged by the experiences of his childhood, he was her brother, and she had loved him. Abigail had as well.
The fire destroyed most of the west wing, rendering Pembrooke Park even less habitable than when she and her father had first arrived. So Abigail had little choice but to remain in London with her family, sharing the cramped quarters and uneasy hospitality of Aunt Bess’s townhouse.
But her family’s unexpected change in situation had not ended there. To the surprise of everyone, Uncle Vincent’s last remaining investment had actually been a great success, paying out a good deal of money. And with it, he repaid his brother-in-law a large portion of what he had lost in the failed banking venture. Their former home was not for sale, which wasn’t surprising, having only recently been purchased. And Abigail, her practical nature reasserting itself, managed to convince her father not to buy or let a house in one of the most elite and expensive squares as before, but a fashionable, though more modest home in Cavendish Square. They would move in next week.
They had seen little of Gilbert since their return, as he’d been assigned to a new project in Greenwich. His sister, Susan Lloyd, however, invited Abigail over for tea, wanting to hear all about her experiences in Easton and about the fire. Her old friend’s astute, well-informed questions demonstrated a surprising familiarity with the area and the players involved. Abigail grew suspicious. She asked Susan how she knew so much about it, and Susan confessed the writer from Caldwell, E. P. Brooks, had sent a story based on what she claimed were true events. Could Abigail corroborate the account before they printed it? Unfortunately, Abigail could.
Abigail’s mother and sister had decided Miles was too distant a relation to publicly mourn. But Abigail and her father dressed in mourning for several weeks. She was glad she was wearing black when Harriet paid a call soon after she returned to London, dressed in full mourning for her brother. She delivered the long-promised reward in person, pressing Abigail to accept it, when she would have refused. Then Harriet asked Abigail to tell her everything that had happened the day of the fire—insisting she not spare her feelings.
Abigail swallowed and told Harriet about Miles reading the letters, seeing him carry the letter he’d burnt toward the hearth, and being convinced the fire had been accidental, emphasizing his heroic return when William told him she and Leah were likely trapped in the house, his quick thinking in wearing the soaked hooded cloak to reach them. His words, “I didn’t know you were in here. Honest I didn’t! I came to rescue you. . . .”
“He tried to rescue us, Harriet,” Abigail repeated earnestly. “He risked his own life to reach us. He made mistakes, but I honestly believe he intended us no harm. He tried to save us, but in the end he could not. I am so sorry we were not able to get him out of there with us.”
Harriet slowly nodded, her mouth trembling. “You have no doubt portrayed my brother in a more heroic light than he deserved.” Tears shone in her eyes at last. “But I thank you for it, just the same.”
Once the Fosters moved into their new house, their old neighbors, the Scotts, decided to host a party to celebrate their return to London and their return to fortune. Thrilled at the prospect, Louisa pored over fashion prints in search of a new gown and hairstyle and went out with Mamma to visit their favorite modiste. Everyone hoped Gilbert would return from Greenwich in time for the party.