The Secret of Pembrooke Park(22)

“You must give it back to Miss Foster. And apologize for taking it.” He gave her his most withering look of clerical exhortation.

She screwed up her face. “Of course I will.”

When they entered the cottage, there sat his mother and sister in their customary chairs in the sitting room, knitting.

Kitty hurried over to her sister. “Look at this.”

Leah took the little basket in her fingers. “Is this the one I made for you?”

“No. That’s why I wanted to show you. I found it in the dolls’ house at Pembrooke Park. Did you give one to the girl who used to live there?”

Leah’s brow furrowed as she looked from her sister to the basket, but before she could reply, their father came in from the next room, frowning.

“What were you doing in Pembrooke Park?” he asked.

Kitty said, “Miss Foster gave William and me a tour. I’ll give the basket back—I just wanted to show it to Leah.”

Leah said, “I’m sure Kitty meant no harm, Papa. But of course she must return it when she next calls.”

“I don’t want her going back there.”

“Please don’t be angry, Papa. I wanted to see inside. William did too.”

“I have told you all that I don’t want you going over there. I—”

“I don’t see why not,” Kitty protested. “Miss Foster is living there now, and she is perfectly amiable. William must think so too. For he invited her to have dinner with us tonight.”

William felt his ears redden at the insinuation.

“Tonight?” his mother echoed. She raised her eyebrows and pierced him with a startled look. “Did he indeed?”



The Chapman cottage sat nestled in a wood bordering the estate grounds—on the same side of the river—which allowed Mac to guard the place from outsiders who had to cross the bridge to reach the house, unless they knew the back way through the wood. Abigail had seen the Chapman home from a distance on her walk with William Chapman, but approaching it now, cast in the golden late-afternoon sunlight filtered through a canopy of lime trees, Abigail thought it looked more charming than ever—like a painting in soft hues of gold, green, and ivory. Dark green shutters framed its windows, and tulips and daffodils crowned window boxes beneath. A low stone wall surrounded the cottage, the enclosed space filled with cheerful kitchen and flower gardens boasting blooming herbs and spring flowers. The only object marring the idyllic picture was a high-fenced dog kennel on one side—the dog within barking furiously as Abigail opened the gate.

She heard Mac Chapman’s voice before she saw him stalking out from a side door, sternly chastising his dog. “Brutus. Quiet. Down!”

Drawn by the hubbub, a woman in mob cap and apron hurried out the front door. “Sorry about that. Don’t worry. His bark is worse than his bite.” She winked. “The dog’s too.”

The wink, the grin, the bright blue eyes identified the woman as William Chapman’s mother.

“You must be Miss Foster,” she said. “I’m Kate Chapman. A pleasure to meet you. What a welcome! Your second inauspicious welcome at our hands! I am surprised you could be persuaded to join us. Come inside, my dear. The dog will calm down when he can’t see you—the scary stranger.”

Abigail returned the woman’s smile, liking her immediately. Mrs. Chapman was a pretty woman in her early fifties with golden-brown hair and dancing blue eyes. Her teeth were a bit crooked but together formed a warm and welcoming smile. She showed none of her husband’s suspicious nature nor her elder daughter’s wary reserve.

“William would no doubt have escorted you over, but I’ve sent him to the Wilsons’ for fresh cream. Should have done it earlier, I know, but I’m a bit scattered by the prospect of such august company!”

“Really—you oughtn’t to have gone to any special trouble.”

Mrs. Chapman opened the door for her. “Of course I must! And do be sure and notice Mac’s collection of shooting trophies. Knowing you were joining us, he spent the last hour polishing them.”

“Oh! I feel terrible. Your son assured me you would not mind—that you have guests all the time.”

“He may have exaggerated just a bit, my dear. To put you at your ease, no doubt. And don’t mistake me—I have been longing to meet you.”

She took Abigail’s arm and led her through the vestibule and down the passage. “Mary! Check the fish, if you please.” She looked back at Abigail and explained, “We have a plain cook, and she is very plain indeed. We’re attempting a fine dinner for you, my dear, but no guarantees.”

“What may I do to help?” Abigail asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t much experience, but I am happy to try.”

“Oh, my dear—I like you already.” She squeezed Abigail’s arm. “Come back to the kitchen.”

She followed the woman toward the back of the house and into a chaotic kitchen, with a worktable strewn with flour and mixing bowls and a stove covered with pots and stewing pans.

“Something smells good,” Abigail said.

Leah looked up from where she sat, shelling peas. “Oh! Miss Foster. We are behind schedule, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind in the least. Give me something to do.”