The Secret of Pembrooke Park(39)
According to the newspaper, officials had wanted to question the valet. Had they suspected him of foul play? Mrs. Hayes had rattled on about “Walter’s” fall at Pembrooke Park. Clearly, the report of his death had not reached London quickly, if ever.
Had the valet fled the scene of his crime? But then, why return to Pembrooke Park? Or had he returned to report the news of his master’s death, only to somehow fall to his own death?
Again Abigail wondered why Miss Pembrooke—in spite of Mr. Arbeau’s denial, Abigail still believed it could only be her—was writing to her, sending her information from the past and warnings for the future. Good heavens. If Clive Pembrooke had not bothered to come knocking in eighteen years, he surely wouldn’t do so now out of the blue, during the very first month she happened to live there. That would be too much a coincidence to be believed. Unless . . . Might the house being opened and occupied be the very trigger to raise the sleeping threat from unconcerned slumber at long last?
Where had that thought come from? Abigail shook her head at the fanciful notion. Very unlike her usual pragmatic nature. It was time to organize the larder, or sort her belongings, or . . . something.
Chapter 9
The day of Andrew Morgan’s welcome home party arrived, and Abigail found herself looking forward to it more than she had looked forward to anything in a long time. It was to be her first social event with her new neighbors, other than the homey meals she had shared with the Chapmans. She planned to wear a pretty evening gown and ask Polly to help her dress her hair a little more elegantly than the quick, serviceable coil she usually preferred.
Andrew Morgan was an amusing, handsome man and would no doubt be a charming host. But Abigail especially looked forward to spending the evening with William Chapman. And she looked forward to seeing Leah in a different setting as well—dressed formally and the object of Mr. Morgan’s attentions, if she didn’t miss her guess. She was quite certain Mr. Morgan admired Miss Chapman. How wonderful if the two fell in love and were married. She would like to see Leah Chapman happy, and believed it was her family’s fond wish for her as well.
True to her word, Mrs. Morgan had included Charles Foster in her invitation, but Abigail’s father had yet to return.
Midmorning she received a note from him, apologizing but saying he had been detained in London even longer than he’d originally expected—called in again by the lawyers and Uncle Vincent in the dreaded bankruptcy proceedings. Poor Papa . . . Abigail sighed upon reading the words and the unwritten frustration between them. And poor Uncle Vincent.
She sent Duncan over to Hunts Hall with a note to Mrs. Morgan, modifying her earlier response, expressing her father’s regrets but reiterating her anticipation of the evening.
William Chapman had told Abigail that he and Leah would stop by in their gig at six and the three of them would drive to Hunts Hall together.
Abigail began getting ready hours early. Polly and Duncan carried up pail after pail of hot water so she could have a real bath in a tub in her room, instead of the sponge or hip baths she usually made do with to avoid causing them extra work. She bathed and washed her hair, Polly coming in to help her rinse it with a reserved jug of clean warm water.
Later the maid helped her cinch long stays over her shift, before helping her into her gown. The dress Abigail had chosen for the evening was not as formal as a ball gown but was one of her finer evening dresses: gauzy white muslin with narrow blue stripes, a scalloped flounced hem, and crossover bodice. Polly curled her hair and pinned the curls high atop her head, with several braids looped like garlands at the back. Abigail missed the family jewels, which would have looked so well with the dress and its V neckline, but she made do with a single string of blue glass beads.
“You look beautiful, miss,” Polly breathed.
“Thank you, Polly. If I do, the credit goes to you.”
Abigail pulled on long gloves, then tucked a handkerchief into a reticule, stringing the small bag over her wrist. She carried a bright woven cashmere shawl for the ride home, should the evening grow cold, and made her way downstairs five minutes before the appointed time.
It felt strange to wait alone for callers—and to be attending a social event without family present. She hoped her father would not disapprove of her going alone. She didn’t think he would and wondered again how soon he would finish his business and be able to join her.
She glanced out the hall windows, and there came the Chapmans’ old grey harnessed to their gig. As Morgan’s land agent, Mac had the use of a fine bay, leaving the rest of his family to share their old carriage horse. The small open carriage would be snug with the three of them, but Leah had assured Abigail that the entire family regularly traveled in it, though two had to sit on the back gate and Mac rode alongside.
Leaning forward to better view the gig, Abigail frowned. William Chapman sat at the reins, as she’d anticipated, but no one sat beside him. Abigail let the drapery fall as her thoughts raced and her stomach sank. Was Leah ill? Had William come to tell her they would not be going after all?
Duncan crossed the drive with unusual speed to hold the reins as Mr. Chapman hopped nimbly down. Was it her imagination, or did Duncan appear disappointed as well to see only Mr. Chapman in the gig? Abigail had mentioned to him in passing that both were expected, to emphasize the propriety of the arrangements.
Outside the two men exchanged a few words, and then William strode toward the door. She should have waited for one of the servants to open it for her, but she was too anxious to know what had gone amiss. She opened it on his first knock, and he seemed slightly taken aback.