The Secret of Pembrooke Park(23)

Mrs. Chapman snagged an apron from a peg on the wall, whisked it around Abigail, and tied the strings. “Look at that tiny waist! I had one of those once upon a time.” She winked and plunked a bowl of glistening red strawberries on the table before her. “Stem these, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

Mac Chapman came in, and drew up short at seeing her there at the worktable with his wife and daughter. “Miss Foster, you may wait in the sitting room, if you like, whilst we finish—”

“I am happy to help.” She smiled at him.

He looked from her to his daughter, to his wife, and sadly shook his head. “It isn’t right, my dear. Two such fine young women, working like kitchen maids, when they ought to be living like ladies.”

“Mac . . .” Mrs. Chapman sent a meaningful glance toward Abigail.

“It’s all right, Papa,” Leah said. “Miss Foster has said she doesn’t mind, and you know I don’t. There is no place I’d rather be.”

When Mac left the kitchen for more wood for the fire and Mrs. Chapman retreated into the scullery to consult with the cook about a sauce for the fish, Abigail leaned nearer to Miss Chapman and asked softly, “What did your father mean?”

Leah glanced toward the door, then whispered, “Oh, he thinks I should have married some wealthy gentleman by now.” She ducked her head, self-consciously averting her gaze.

Why hadn’t Leah Chapman married? Abigail wondered, looking at her lovely profile and thick golden-brown hair. She was certainly pretty enough. But she looked to be in her late twenties if not thirty. Was it too late for her? Was she destined to remain a spinster? Perhaps Leah and Abigail had that in common.

Kitty bounded into the kitchen, welcomed Abigail enthusiastically, and joined them at the table. She dug out a fistful of pea pods to help her sister, chatting happily all the while. Abigail decided to keep the rest of her questions to herself.

William hurried through the kitchen door, regretting how long he’d been away on what should have been a quick errand. But Mr. Wilson had talked on and on. . . .

He stilled right there in the threshold. Stopped so abruptly the cream sloshed over the edge of the pail. The scene that greeted him was as unexpected as it was delightful: Leah laughing at something their father said. Miss Foster—Miss Foster—sitting at their kitchen table as though one of the family, laughing right along with her.

Mac said, “No, now, you two will be thick as thieves in no time, I see, and I shall be in trouble.”

How wonderful to see Leah smile—really smile, eyes and all. To laugh with ease in the presence of someone not of their immediate family. When had he last seen it?

His father glanced up. “There you are, Will. Milk the cow yourself and separate the cream?”

Kitty added, “You have been gone an age.”

His mother ran her gaze over him. “You were supposed to fetch cream, my dear, not wear it. Good gracious, your shoes. Kitty, get a cloth, will you? And, Jacob, take that pail from your brother before he drops it. He seems dumbstruck.”

William hadn’t noticed Jacob at his elbow, waiting for him to move past the threshold so he might enter the kitchen as well. William surrendered the pail to his gangly brother and smiled sheepishly at his guest. “What a poor host I am, Miss Foster. To invite you and then be so tardy in joining you. I see you have already been initiated into the pack in my absence?”

“Yes. And happily.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Wash your hands, Jacob.” His mother snatched the pail from him. “And then I need you to whip the cream with a little sugar.”

“Let Will do it,” the fifteen-year-old said sullenly. With his red hair, green eyes, and frown, he looked very like their father.

“Lazy bones,” William gently chided him. “Tell you what. Half in two bowls and a race to see who can thicken his faster.”

Jacob met his gaze with a gleam in his eye. “You’re on.” He turned to their father. “Care to place a wager, Pa? Me against William?”

“No, you know we Chapmans don’t gamble,” Mac said sternly. Then he winked at Kitty and whispered, “Sixpence on William.”

She giggled and shook his hand.

“Oh, you two . . .” Mrs. Chapman sighed, but obliged with two mixing bowls and whisks. She poured even amounts of cream in each bowl and eyeballed a palmful of ground sugar. “Dinner will be at midnight at this rate.”

William took up his whisk and readied for the challenge. “Ready. Steady. Go!”

“Back up, Miss Foster,” his mother warned, “or you’ll end up wearing your pudding.”

He and his brother began whisking, now and again each looking at his rival to check his progress, only to grimace in effort once again.

“I don’t want butter, mind,” his mother said. “There, that’s enough.”

“Who won?”

His mother declared it a tie.

“May I taste?” Kitty blinked up at him.

“You may.” William extended the whisk toward her, and she stuck out her tongue, but at the last moment, he tapped it to her nose instead, leaving a dollop of whipped cream on her small pert nose.

Taking the teasing in stride, Kitty fingered the cream from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tongue and pronounced it delicious.