The Secret of Pembrooke Park(41)

The woman was handsome and dark haired, perhaps thirty or a little older. Her companions were a matronly looking woman in her forties and a young woman of about twenty—a mother and daughter, perhaps.

William pulled his gaze from the stranger’s startled face and said to his hostess, “And this is Miss Foster.”

“Yes, we met at church. A pity your father is unable to join us.”

“Yes,” Miss Foster said. “Thank you for understanding.”

Mrs. Morgan turned to the three women. “Ladies, if you will allow me, I shall make informal introductions.”

The women turned.

“Mr. Chapman is our curate and was at school with Andrew,” Mrs. Morgan began. “And Miss Foster is new to the area. But you know how Andrew is, all goodness. He invited her to join us.”

“Very neighborly, I’m sure,” the youngest woman said.

Mrs. Morgan gestured first toward the handsome dark-haired woman. “My late brother’s wife, Mrs. Webb. And beside her, my dear old friend, Mrs. Padgett, and her lovely daughter, Miss Padgett, who have come all the way from Winchester to be with us tonight.”

“To welcome dear Andrew home, we would have traveled farther yet,” Miss Padgett said.

“You are very kind.” Mrs. Morgan beamed, then turned to Abigail. “Miss Foster, you are from London, I understand?”

“Yes, born and bred.”

Mr. Morgan spoke up. “Miss Foster is living alone for all intents and purposes in Pembrooke Park, abandoned these eighteen years. Quite a singular young woman to attempt it.”

“And . . . your family is . . . ?” Miss Padgett let the question dangle.

“My father was here with me until recently, when matters of business necessitated his return to Town. He plans to return any day, and my mother and sister will be joining us at the end of the season.”

Miss Padgett and her mother nodded and listened to Miss Foster politely, but William noticed the third woman, Mrs. Morgan’s sister-in-law, kept glancing his way. The woman did not wear mourning so was not a recent widow. Did he make her so uncomfortable? He hoped he had not the opposite effect on her. She was too old for him, and he was there with Miss Foster. . . . No, surely he was mistaken. He turned and met her gaze directly.

A challenging glint shone in her grey-blue eyes. “Mr. Chapman, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me for staring. You . . . remind me of someone.”

“Have we met before, Mrs. Webb?”

She hesitated, lips parted. “I . . . don’t think so.” She turned to Miss Foster and held out her hand. “And a pleasure to meet you, Miss Foster. How are you getting on here? Missing London?”

It was a relief when the woman’s keen gaze shifted to his companion.

“Actually, I miss London far less than I imagined I would,” Miss Foster replied. “Although I miss my family, of course.”

Mrs. Webb smiled thinly. “And how do you find living in the formidable Pembrooke Park?”

“Oh, it’s quite something. A beautiful old house.”

“But surely, after being uninhabited for so long . . . ?”

“It was difficult at first, I own. A great deal of dust and the like. But we’ve an excellent staff and have slowly put the place to rights.”

“I am glad to hear it. No evidence of breakins or damage?”

“Nothing beyond the usual decay one might expect. Mr. Chapman’s father has taken it upon himself to guard the place, to keep out would-be thieves and vandals. Even repaired the roof himself, in his spare time.”

“Did he indeed?” Mrs. Webb’s thin brows rose, clearly impressed.

Hearing this, Mrs. Morgan said, “Well, he was once the Pembrookes’ steward, after all, and old ways die hard.”

Mrs. Webb ignored her. “That was excessively good of your father, Mr. Chapman.”

Miss Foster glanced at him shyly. “Yes, it was.”

She did not, William noticed with relief, recount how Mac had met them at gunpoint.

“Foster . . .” Mrs. Morgan echoed thoughtfully. “Your father wasn’t mixed up in that awful bank failure business, I trust?” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

Miss Foster’s lip parted to reply, but she hesitated. “I . . .”

Mrs. Webb interrupted, “No, the names were something else, I recall. Austen, Gray, and Vincent, I believe. I thought of investing in their first bank a few years ago—such charming men and so certain of their success. But in the end, Mr. Webb talked me out of it.”

Mrs. Morgan nodded. “Sounds like Nicholas. He had a good head for business and always made excellent decisions.”

“Except in his choice of spouse, I think you mean, sister dear?” Mrs. Webb said archly, leaving everyone listening to understand Mrs. Morgan had not approved of her brother’s choice of wife.

The attention had been deflected from Miss Foster, but William did not miss her averted gaze and distracted manner. There was something to the bank story, he guessed. He felt grateful to Andrew’s aunt for diverting the conversation.

“Has Mr. Webb been gone long?” William asked kindly. He did not recall hearing anything about the man’s death, which was understandable as the Webbs did not live in the area.

“Two years,” she replied. “Hence you see me out of my widow’s weeds. Never cared for black.”