The Secret of Pembrooke Park(40)

“What’s happened?” Abigail asked quickly. “Where is Leah?”

For a moment he stared at her, his gaze roving over her face, her hair, her gown. Slowly he removed his hat. “You look beautiful, Miss Foster.”

“Thank you.” She ducked her head, allowing herself a moment to relish the rare compliment, then asked again, “Is Leah all right?”

His face twisted. “I’m afraid Leah will not be joining us after all. She claims she feels too ill to go.”

“Oh no. What is the matter?”

“My guess is a bad case of nerves and illogical fear. She honestly feels poorly, though whether brought on by anxiety or any real malady, I cannot say for certain. But she begs that you and I go on without her so as not to disappoint Mr. Morgan altogether.”

“He will be disappointed by her absence no matter what.”

“Yes. And I realize you, um, may not be comfortable going with only me.”

Abigail hesitated, aware of Duncan watching them from the drive and of Molly hovering in the hall behind her.

Abigail drew her shoulders back and said in a pleasant, audible voice, “I am so sorry your sister will not be able to join us after all. But it is perfectly proper to ride in an open carriage to attend a party of respectable people.” She lowered her voice, struck with another thought. “But I am thinking only of myself. What about you? If you prefer not to attend the dinner with me alone, I will understand.”

“Miss Foster, I have been looking forward to this evening all week, and not because of the Morgans or the meal in store for us there. And certainly not to enjoy the company of my sister, dear though she is.”

Abigail’s cheeks warmed at his implied compliment. His striking blue eyes looked directly into hers, and the silence stretched between them.

She looked away first. “Well, if it won’t pose a problem for you . . .”

“It may cause a bit of talk, I can’t deny. But I am willing to brave it if you are.”

“Then I should still like to go, yes. For Mr. Morgan’s sake.”

He raised his auburn eyebrows. “Only for Mr. Morgan’s sake?”

Again she ducked her head.

“You look even prettier when you blush, Miss Foster.”

She refused to meet his playful gaze and instead walked past him. “Shall we go?”

Mr. Chapman easily passed her with his long stride and reached the gig ahead of her, offering his hand. She flicked a glance into his handsome face, laid her white glove in his dark one, and allowed him to hand her up into the carriage. Then he walked around to his side, climbed in with graceful ease, and accepted the reins from Duncan.

Abigail smiled down at the manservant. “Lock up, will you please, Duncan? We are going to dinner at Hunts Hall, and I am not sure how late I shall be.”

“Very good, miss.”

Mr. Chapman called, “Walk on,” and turned the horse through the gate. They crossed the bridge and followed the narrow, tree-lined road leading to Easton, then turned onto the Caldwell Road. The sun hung low in the western horizon, shining golden through the trees. They passed picturesque thatched cottages and well-tended farms divided by stone walls and blooming hedgerows. Birds called and in the distance a dog barked.

“What a lovely evening,” Abigail said to break the silence.

She felt his gaze on her profile. “Lovely indeed.”

They turned from the road through an iron gate and onto a long curved drive. At its end lay a squat square manor house, not as large as Pembrooke Park but elegant, with shaped hedges and formal gardens flanking its fa?ade.

Ahead of them, a fine black barouche driven by a dignified coachman dropped off its occupant, hidden from their view, and drove around to the rear of the house. August company, Abigail thought, reminding herself not to be intimidated. Or at least not to show it.

As the Chapman gig reached the circular drive, a footman in livery and powdered wig exited the house and ceremoniously strode forward, extending a hand to help Abigail down. A groom appeared on the other side to take the horse and carriage to the stable around back.

As they walked to the front door, Mr. Chapman said quietly, “I’m sorry I can’t deliver you in a fine barouche.”

“Don’t be. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Nervous?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Yes,” she admitted. “You?”

“Not in the least. I likely would have been, had Leah been here. Nervous for her. But you, Miss Foster, can handle yourself in any situation, I think.”

She raised her brows. “We shall see about that.”

William liked the feel of Miss Foster’s hand on his arm. Her presence, he thought, would be sweet enough to compensate for the lukewarm reception he anticipated from Mrs. Morgan. Nor did he look forward to feeling like an outsider among the other guests, most of whom were from a higher social sphere. He was used to such snubs from his years at Oxford, but that didn’t mean he had learned to enjoy being looked down upon for his humble birth.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan stood inside the vestibule, receiving guests. Three women stood nearby, talking in low tones to one another.

Mrs. Morgan welcomed him civilly, if coolly. “Ah, Mr. Chapman. Welcome.”

At the sound of his name, one of the three women whirled, mouth parted in surprise and, if he was not mistaken, alarm. Did she know he was a clergyman and dread his presence? Assume he would spoil their fun? Some people thought so, he knew.