The Secret of Pembrooke Park(146)

Leaving the gown where it was, Abigail walked to her dressing stool and sat down heavily upon it. Maybe she would simply claim fatigue and stay home. She was tired from all the tasks and supervision of the last few weeks. No one would blame her, and her family would make her excuses. . . .

Then words William Chapman had said whispered on the edges of her mind. “You are every bit as beautiful as your sister. More so, to me. I treasure you. . . .”

Oh, William . . . she thought fondly. How she missed him. Even if he exaggerated her charms. She had thought he might write to her, but he had apparently seen her move to London as an opportunity for a clean break. Leah had written a few times—at least their friendship would continue, even if her relationship with William would not. After all, nothing had changed between them.

Marcel, her mother’s lady’s maid, scratched at the door and entered, her often stern face bright and a parcel in her hands. “Mademoiselle! Zee jeweler has returned your necklace just in time! You must wear eet tonight!”

Abigail shook her head. “Louisa wanted to wear it, but . . . In any case, I’m thinking of staying home.”

“No, mademoiselle. You should go.”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

Abigail opened the hinged case and looked at the sparkling emeralds within, winking at her.

“I treasure you. . . .”

Suddenly, Abigail stood. “You know what, Marcel. I will go. But I must ask you to help me. I know I have refused in the past, but Mary has gone to her dinner, and I shall make it worth your while.”

“No, no, mademoiselle. No need. It will be my pleasure, I promise you. How long I have wished to get my hands on zat beautiful hair of yours! Sit, sit!”



Dressed in uncomfortable evening clothes of his least favorite color, black, William Chapman surveyed the people mingling in the drawing room with sinking disappointment. Miss Foster was not among them. Perhaps he ought not to have come with Andrew. Maybe he could still bow out.

Charles Foster saw him from across the room, and a sincere smile lit the older man’s handsome face as he made his way over. “Mr. Chapman! What a pleasure to see you again. I didn’t realize you were in Town.”

“Yes. Staying with Mr. Morgan for a few days. The Scotts were kind enough to extend their invitation to me as well.”

“We heard Mr. Morris was coming, but not you.”

“Mr. Morris? No, sir, he is not—”

Mr. Foster interrupted, brow puckered. “But I am quite certain Mrs. Scott mentioned the rector of our former parish would be attending. . . .”

“Ah, yes. You see, I have recently been granted the living. Mr. Morris, you may not have heard, passed on a fortnight ago.”

“Oh, no. I had not heard. I’m sorry. But I thought his nephew was angling for the living.”

“He was. But the owner of Pembrooke Park—in whose benefice the living lies—grants it to the man of her choosing. And Eleanor Pembrooke chose me.” He gave a self-deprecating grin. “I suppose you think it terribly unfair.”

“Not at all—you mistake me. I think your sister an excellent woman and an excellent judge of character. She chose wisely and well. Allow me to offer my sincerest and heartiest congratulations.”

Charles Foster offered his hand, and William shook it.

“Thank you, sir. I plan to hire young Mr. Morris as my curate, to help conduct services in outlying churches of the parish and in visiting the sick.”

“Well again, congratulations. The rest of my family will be happy to hear the news as well. Though I am afraid Abigail may not be joining us.”

“Oh?” William hoped his disappointment wasn’t too obvious, especially with Gilbert Scott in attendance. Had she entered into an understanding with Mr. Scott during the intervening weeks? He’d not had leave to write to her but thought she would have mentioned it in one of her letters to his sister. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

“Yes, I’m afraid we’ve kept her quite busy arranging the housekeeping and things for the new place. Quite worn off her feet. Louisa wagers she will be too tired to come.”

“I am sorry to hear it. I had hoped to see her before I left Town.” There was something he very much wished to say to her.

Mr. Foster excused himself to go and find his wife.

A few moments later Louisa Foster and Gilbert Scott approached.

“Mr. Chapman!” Louisa beamed. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

William bowed. “Miss Louisa. Mr. Scott.”

“I’ve been talking to Andrew Morgan and hear congratulations are in order,” Gilbert said.

“Thank you, yes. I am very grateful for the opportunity.”

Louisa said, “Too bad Abigail isn’t here—she will be so sorry to have missed you.”

“Yes, I am sorry to have missed her as well.” More sorry than you know.

The door opened behind them, and a butler announced in an affected voice, “Miss Foster.”

Heart leaping, William turned. The smile instantly lifting his mouth fell away. He blinked and stared again, his heart beating erratically. Here she was, Miss Abigail Foster. The girl of his fondest memories and fonder dreams, yet somehow altered. Head high, posture erect as she entered the room, her gaze slowly sweeping the assembled company. She met the varyingly pleased and surprised looks with a gentle smile and stopped to greet her host and hostess.