The Secret of Pembrooke Park(25)
“Now, no more refusals or polite demurs, I beg of you. I shall have Mamma dash off official invitations as soon as I return home. No filling your social diaries with anything else in the meanwhile, hear?” He wagged a teasing finger.
“Oh yes, a busy social diary indeed,” William agreed wryly. “We shall do our best to squeeze you in.”
Later, after Mr. Morgan had taken his leave, William led the ladies around the gardens. When he suggested it was time to walk Miss Foster home, Leah begged off, leaving William the honor of walking Miss Foster home alone. He did not mind in the least.
As they strolled across the manor grounds, Miss Foster commented, “Your friend seems an amiable fellow.”
“Indeed he is. And he seemed impressed with you, I noticed.”
“Me? Hardly. He only had eyes for Leah.”
William looked at her in surprise. “Did he?”
“Yes. I don’t know how you failed to notice.”
“Hm . . .” William considered her observation. On one hand, he was relieved to know that his handsome and wealthy friend had not already set his sights on Miss Foster, but he was disquieted by the thought of his being smitten with his sister. It would be interesting to see what happened now that Andrew had returned—apparently for good—with the intention of settling down and giving his mother grandchildren. He supposed everyone in Easton considered Leah Chapman, at eight and twenty, on the shelf and there to stay. Would Leah be able to overcome her reluctance and allow herself to be courted?
Whatever happened, William hoped Leah wouldn’t be hurt. He himself knew what it felt like to be disappointed in romance. He had been rejected and lived to tell the tale, but his sister was so much more sensitive and isolated than he was. Nor was her faith the solid rock his had become, a faith that sustained him when disappointments came. He would pray for her. He would pray for them both.
Miss Foster began, “May I ask, Mr. Chapman, about Oxford. How did you . . . ?”
“Afford it?” he glibly supplied. “You may well wonder, considering my father’s background. Even my mother’s.”
“I’m sorry. I meant no offense. I am only curious.”
“You are a very curious creature—asking questions about many things, I have noticed.”
“Forgive me, I—”
“In this instance, I don’t mind in the least. As you know, my father was Robert Pembrooke’s steward, and Mr. Pembrooke relied on him a great deal. It is a great matter of pride—of honor—to my father. A steward or servant who takes pride, reflected though it may be, from the honor or rank of the family he serves is nothing new. But Robert Pembrooke rewarded my father’s faithful service with more than just words. Though not an old man when he died, Robert Pembrooke had already written his will.
“I previously mentioned he left my father the cottage and land it sits on, as well as use of the estate fishpond, but he also left him a tidy sum. Father might have invested that sum and lived off the interest fairly comfortably. Instead he invested that money in my education. I hope he doesn’t regret the investment.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Miss Foster said. “His pride in you is perfectly obvious.”
William shrugged. “Pride makes me uncomfortable, Miss Foster.”
“I only wish my own father . . .” She stopped, allowing her sentence to trail away unfinished.
He glanced at her troubled profile. “Wish what?”
“Never mind,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
They reached the front of the house and stood awkwardly at the door.
She glanced away across the courtyard, toward the gate and river beyond, and frowned. “Who’s that?”
He turned to follow her gaze and saw a figure in a green cloak cross the bridge and disappear from view.
His stomach tightened. “I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse.”
But that one glimpse was enough to make him uneasy. It brought back a boyhood memory—lads telling ghost stories about a faceless man in a hooded cloak, coming to kill anyone who got in his way.
Chapter 7
That night, as Abigail went about her usual bedtime routine, she thought back to dinner with the Chapmans. She realized that at some point during the cream whipping and teasing and conversation between William Chapman and his family, she had come to dismiss the fleeting suspicions she’d had about the man. She liked him, and liked his family. And she missed her own.
She settled into bed with her sketch pad, attempting to draw William Chapman’s face. But it proved too difficult for her. She idly sketched the Chapman cottage instead, the neat lines, shutters, and charming thatched roof.
She wondered again what Mr. Chapman had meant when he said, “Had I wanted to get inside Pembrooke Park, I could have done so at any time.” She still didn’t know.
Abigail stopped, her drawing pencil pausing midstroke. What had she just heard? Footsteps outside her bedchamber? She should be used to servants going about their duties, she told herself. They’d had even more servants in London, setting fires and answering bells at all hours.
She set aside her drawing things and picked up an old novel she’d found in the library. She read for several minutes, but the account of an evil monk pursuing an innocent young lady chilled her. Shutting the cover decisively, she laid the book on her bedside table and leaned over to blow out her candle. But at the last second she stopped and let it burn. Abigail settled under the bedclothes, the flickering light casting shadows on the papered walls. How she longed for her father’s return. The dark house would seem less frightening once he was there.