The Secret of Pembrooke Park(2)

“Lovely,” I murmured. It was an innocuous, uninformed, feminine remark. Something Louisa might have said. But in his flush of triumph, he did not seem to notice.

I glanced over my shoulder. Through the open library door, I could see into the Scotts’ drawing room. There Susan slipped her arm through her husband’s as they stood talking to my mother. My parents lived very separate lives—Father occupied with his club and investments. Mother with her social calls, charities, and husband hunting for Louisa. No, I didn’t want a marriage like my parents’. But a life like Susan’s, working side by side with the one you loved . . . Yes, that seemed ideal.

With that hope, I glanced up at Gilbert. He had followed my gaze toward his newly married sister. He briefly met my eyes, then looked down, his Adam’s apple convulsing, his fingers distractedly rolling the corner of his plan.

Noticing his nervous hesitation, my heart beat hard. Had the moment come? Was he about to propose?

He began, “You know you mean a great deal to me, Abby. And I realize you might be expecting . . .”

His words trailed away, and he swallowed. Had he guessed my presumptuous thoughts?

“No, no. I am not expecting anything,” I reassured him, adding to myself, Not yet.

He nodded but did not meet my eyes. “We have been friends a long time, you and I, but you need to know that I . . . That with all the chances involved in the coming year away, I don’t think either of us should shackle ourselves with promises.”

“Oh.” I blinked, stomach plummeting. Perhaps he was merely trying to protect me, I told myself. He no doubt had my best interests at heart. I forced a smile. “Yes, you are perfectly right, Gilbert. Very practical.”

Gilbert’s mother stepped into the room. “Thought I would find the two of you in here,” she said. “Come through. We’re serving coffee, and your father needs a great deal of it.” Mrs. Scott patted her son’s arm. “He’s terribly proud . . . but so sorry to see you go.”

Me too, I thought.

Later, when the evening began winding down and my parents were thanking Mr. and Mrs. Scott for dinner, I went in search of Gilbert, hoping to say my good-byes to him in private. Instead I found Gilbert and my sister ensconced in the vestibule, alone.

With sinking heart, I saw Louisa hand something to Gilbert. She said, “To remember me by.”

He slipped it into his pocketbook and tucked it away, his gaze lingering on her lovely face all the while. Then he smiled and squeezed Louisa’s hand.

Feeling light-headed, I turned away, not waiting to hear his reply.

What had Louisa given him? A miniature? A lover’s eye? A lock of hair set in a ring? I had not seen Gilbert place anything on his finger, only in his pocketbook. Surely it had been nothing of such import—nothing that indicated a courtship or engagement. Even if Louisa had developed a schoolgirl affection for our neighbor, that did not mean Gilbert returned her feelings. He was likely too polite to refuse her gift, whatever it was.

Even so, it was all I could do to smile and feign normalcy a short while later, when everyone gathered at the door to say farewell and wish Gilbert success and safe travels.

Gilbert took my hand, the old brotherly tenderness coming back into his expression. “Abby. You won’t forget me, I know. And I shall never forget you. Your father has given me permission to correspond with you and your sister. Will you write to me?”

“If you like.”

He pressed my hand warmly and then turned to shake Father’s hand and made Mother blush by kissing her cheek. He hesitated when he came to Louisa, her head demurely bowed. He made do with a bow and a murmured, “Miss Louisa.”

She looked up at him from beneath long lashes, and I saw the telltale sparkle in her eye even if no one else did.

When did things change between them? I wondered. Louisa had always been the pesky little sister, someone to tease or avoid. Someone with a plait of hair to be tugged—not presented as a lover’s gift.

I had wanted Gilbert’s year away to fly quickly past. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I had looked forward to life after his return—a life in which he played a significant role.

Suddenly the future seemed far less certain.





Chapter 1


10 MONTHS LATER

MARCH 1818

The jewel case lay open on the desk between them, the evergreen emeralds glittering against the black velvet lining. The necklace and matching bracelet had been passed down through the Foster side of the family. Her mother’s family had no precious gems to pass down. And soon neither side would.

Her father snapped the case shut, and Abigail winced as though she’d been slapped.

“Say good-bye to the family jewels,” he said. “I suppose I shall have to sell these along with the house.”

Standing before her father’s desk, Abigail gripped her hands. “No, Papa, not the jewels. There must be another way. . . .”

Nearly a year had passed since Gilbert left England, and with it Abigail’s twenty-third birthday. When she had predicted an uncertain future on the eve of his departure, she’d been more accurate than she would have guessed.

What had she been thinking? Just because she could run a large home and staff did not mean she knew anything about investments. She was the type of person who usually considered things carefully, investigated thoroughly before acting—whether it was selecting a new dressmaker or hiring a new housemaid. Abigail was the practical, behind-the-scenes daughter and had long prided herself on making sound, rational decisions. That was why her mother left much of the household management to her. Even her father had come to depend on her opinion.