The Secret of Pembrooke Park(4)

But she interrupted him. “I have helped Papa find a few ways to economize. Some funds we had set aside for a . . . rainy day. And a few things we can sell—”

“Not your father’s emeralds!”

Abigail shook her head. “No, not the emeralds.”

Her mother firmly nodded. “Good. Louisa must have her chance to wear them, as you did.”

Abigail noticed with relief that her mother refrained from adding, “for as much good as it did you,” or something of that sort.

Abigail forced a smile. “We shall scrape together enough to give Louisa a wonderful season. The season she deserves.”

For a moment her mother stared at her as if she spoke a foreign language. Abigail feared she would probe further into the source of the money—perhaps even suggest Abigail’s dowry could be used for additional funds, since she no longer needed one. It was one thing to offer it up quietly, willingly—as Abigail had done privately to her father—but quite a different, humiliating thing to be told a dowry was wasted on her.

Mollified, her mother only nodded. “As it should be.” She pressed Louisa’s hand. “You see, my dear, you are to have your season after all. What did I tell you? You shall meet the most handsome, best connected, and wealthiest young man this year. I just know it!”

And so, while Mrs. Foster and Louisa attended dress fittings, Abigail began helping her disillusioned and disappointed father find a more affordable place to live.



Abigail contacted a property agent and made inquiries for a suitable dwelling. But she heard of no situation that answered her mother’s notions of spacious comfort and suited Abigail’s prudence. She had rejected several houses as too large for their income.

One afternoon, among the correspondence about properties, Abigail received a letter from Gilbert Scott, postmarked Roma. Her heart gave a little foolish leap, as it always did when seeing her name in his neat hand. Over the preceding months, Gilbert had sent letters to both her and Louisa. Abigail always read his descriptions of his studies and the architecture of Italy—sometimes with sketches in the margins—with absorption and dutifully wrote back. She did not know what sort of letters Gilbert wrote to Louisa. Abigail feared they might be of a more romantic nature than those she received but hoped she was wrong.

She retreated to her bedchamber to read Gilbert’s letter in private.

My dear Abby,

Hello, old friend. How is life in London? I imagine you are bored without me there to tease you and drag you about the city to see St. Paul’s, or the construction at Bethlehem Hospital, or to hear some lecture or other. Italy is amazing, and you would love it. But I shan’t overwhelm you with details in this letter, for fear of making you jealous and risk your not writing back.

You have been very good about answering my letters, Abby. I appreciate it more than you know. As much as I enjoy Italy and my studies, I don’t mind confessing to you—since you know me so well—that I do feel lonely now and again. How I would love to walk with you along the Piazza Venezia and show you the Roman Forum!

I have not heard from Louisa in some time. Like you, she was prompt in writing back when I first began my travels. But her letters have trickled off of late. I hope she is in good health—as well as you and your parents, of course. Perhaps I have done something to vex her. If I have, it was unintentional. Please tell her I said so. If only all women were as easygoing and forgiving as you, Abby.

You asked in your last letter which building I most admired here. I seem to find a new favorite every day. Which reminds me, I had better sign off for now. We’re soon to leave to visit the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. Perhaps I shall find a new favorite.

Fondly,

Gilbert

Abigail folded the letter and for a moment held it to her chest, imagining Gilbert’s handsome, earnest face as he wrote it, the ink on his fingers, and the tip of his tongue protruding as it always did when he concentrated on a task. Then she imagined walking arm in arm with him through Rome. . . .

“What has you smiling?” Louisa asked, pausing in her bedchamber doorway.

“Only a letter from Gilbert.”

“And what has he to say this time? More lengthy descriptions of columns and cupolas, I suppose?”

“You may read it if you like,” Abigail held it forth to show she had nothing to hide, hoping Louisa might return the favor. Not that Louisa ever exhibited any sign of being jealous of her older sister.

Louisa waved away the offer. “Maybe later.”

“He asks why you have not written to him lately,” Abigail said. “He’s afraid he has vexed you.”

Louisa lifted a delicate shrug. “Oh, nothing of that sort. I’ve just been so busy answering invitations and attending fittings and the like. And now that Easter is over and the season has begun . . . Well, you remember how it is. Up late every night, sleeping in every morning, and every afternoon given to calls. . . .”

Abigail had never told Louisa that she had witnessed her private tête-à-tête with Gilbert, nor asked what she had given him as a parting gift. Perhaps it was time she did.

“Louisa, I know you gave Gilbert something before he left. Is it a secret, or . . . ?”

Louisa blinked at her in surprise. “Did Gilbert tell you that, in his letter? I . . . gave him a lock of my hair. You don’t mind, do you? For you’ve always insisted you and Gilbert were just friends.”