The Secret of Pembrooke Park(15)

He smiled, causing vertical grooves to frame his mouth and his large eyes to crinkle at the corners. Abigail felt a flutter of attraction.

“Here, this is for you. A welcome basket from my sister.” He held forth the basket, bulging with gifts: embroidered hand towels, homemade soap, tins of tea and jam, a loaf of bread, and a mound of muffins.

“My goodness. Did she make all this herself?”

“Most of it, yes—even the basket—though Kitty helps with the soap, Mamma is the baker, and my father is famous round the parish for his jams.”

“No . . .”

“Oh yes. Walking about as land agent, he’s discovered all the best patches of wild strawberries, gooseberries, and blackberries. Plus, he’s long had the run of the Pembrooke orchards. I hope you shan’t tell the new tenant. . . .” He winked.

“His secret is quite safe with me. Especially since he shared his jam. But . . . why didn’t your sister come herself? I would have liked to thank her in person.”

He grimaced as he considered his reply. “Leah is a bit . . . not shy exactly, but cautious around strangers.”

“Oh. I see. I did wonder, when I saw you escorting her away the day we arrived. Actually, when I saw you with her and a younger girl too, I thought they were your wife and daughter. . . .”

“Ah.” He crossed his arms behind his back and rocked on his heels. “No, I am not married. I have not had that privilege. Though I was—” He broke off, and she thought she saw pain flash across his eyes before he blinked it away. “You saw my two sisters, and I have a brother as well. Kitty looks young for her age, but she is twelve.”

“I see.” Abigail stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure whether she ought to ask him in. “I would invite you in to share this with me, but as I am alone in the house, I . . .”

He waved away the offer. “No, no. I have no intention of begging an invitation and wouldn’t dream of depriving you of a single bite. Though if you share the jam with Mrs. Walsh, you shall have a friend for life.”

She smiled up at him. “Then I shall indeed.”

Duty discharged, William Chapman knew he should excuse himself, but felt oddly reluctant to part ways with the lovely newcomer. He forced himself to say, “Well, I can see you are dressed to go out, so I shan’t keep you.”

“I was only going for a walk,” Miss Foster said. “I have been indoors all day and haven’t had a chance to explore the grounds yet, so . . .” Her words trailed away.

Was she hoping he would join her? Unlikely, yet there was only one way to find out.

“A beautiful day for it,” William agreed. “Would you mind some company?”

“Not at all.”

He smiled. “A walk is exactly what I need after Mamma’s roast dinner.”

She returned his smile with apparent relief. “Just let me set this inside and put on my things.”

A few moments later, she joined him in the courtyard wearing gloves and a straw hat.

“After you.” He gestured her toward the side of the house, and they walked around it. “Other than the church, everything I love is back here.”

Behind the house, lush green vines with white flowers climbed the manor walls. In the rear courtyard, a terrace overlooked a neglected rose garden, overgrown topiaries, and a lily pond.

He said, “It isn’t as beautiful as it once was, of course.”

“Perhaps when the house is ready, I might give the gardens some attention.”

“Mamma would be happy to help. She loves a garden. And Papa would be eager to offer you many suggestions of how to go about it.”

The two shared another grin.

They passed a walled garden, potting shed, and orchard. William pointed toward a large pond beyond. “That’s the fishpond. Robert Pembrooke left Papa the use of it, along with ownership of our cottage, in his will.”

“Robert Pembrooke . . .” Miss Foster echoed. “Is that who lived here before us?”

“Not immediately before. He died twenty years ago.”

William did not expand on his reply. His father didn’t want him inviting questions about the manor’s former occupants.

As if sensing his reserve, she asked instead, “Where is your family’s cottage?”

“Come. I’ll show you.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Then I’ll just point it out to you. You should know where it is, in case you ever need anything, or if there is ever any . . . trouble.” Lord willing, there would not be, William thought, though his father was full of dire predictions and warnings.

He led her past the former gamekeeper’s lodge, then along a well-worn path through a grove of trees, carpeted with green-and-white wood anemones. Nestled in a clearing sat his family’s white cottage with a thatched roof.

She paused to look at it from a polite distance. “How charming,” she murmured.

He regarded the place fondly. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

After a moment, she asked abruptly, “Is your family as happy as they seem?”

He considered her unexpected question, pursing his lips in thought. “Yes, for the most part we are a happy lot. Or perhaps content is the better word. We have our squabbles like any family, but woe to anyone who tries to harm a Chapman.” He tried to smile but felt it falter. “If only Leah . . .”