The Secret of Pembrooke Park(42)

“Nor I,” William said wryly, since clergymen stereotypically wore black, though he preferred not to.

Humor sparked in the woman’s eyes, and she chuckled appreciatively.

“I don’t see anything funny.” Mrs. Morgan sniffed.

Mrs. Webb said, “Olive, do be a dear and allow me to sit by Mr. Chapman and Miss Foster. I think I shall enjoy their company.”

“But . . . you are one of our honored guests, sister. I planned for you to sit on Mr. Morgan’s right.”

“Oh, I can talk to him tomorrow. Humor me.”

Mrs. Morgan sighed. “Very well.”

Andrew, who had been cornered by several men clustered around the decanters, broke away from the group and strode over beaming. “Will, good to see you. And Miss Foster, thank you for coming.” He looked around. “But where is Miss Chapman?”

William made her apologies.

Andrew’s smile fell. “I am very sorry to hear it. I had been looking forward to seeing her again. Er, seeing all of you, of course. You will tell her she was missed, won’t you, ol’ boy?”

“I shall.”

“It’s no use trying to sit by either Mr. Chapman or Miss Foster,” Mrs. Webb teased. “For I have claimed them as my dinner companions.”

Andrew smiled at the woman. “I knew you were an excellent judge of character, Aunt Webb.”

“Yes, of course. Do tell Miss Chapman we hope she feels better,” Mrs. Morgan interjected. Then she abruptly turned to Miss Foster and asked, “And how old is your sister, Miss Foster?”

“Nineteen.”

“Ah yes, the perfect age to enjoy the season. Miss Padgett had a very successful season last year. Did you not, my dear? Yes, you see, Miss Padgett is not yet twenty. So young and full of life. I was married at eighteen, you know. It is so much better when the bride is young. Don’t you agree, sister?”

Mrs. Webb shrugged. “I was very young when I married Nicholas, but we were not blessed with children even so.”

“I already had three children by the time I was Miss Foster’s age. What about you, Mrs. Padgett?”

Mrs. Padgett demurred, blushing and protesting that her hostess would not trick her into owning her age.

Meanwhile Mrs. Webb sidled closer to William and whispered, “What is my sister-in-law going on about? Does Andrew admire an older woman I don’t know of?”

William sighed. “Andrew did invite my sister to come tonight, but that doesn’t necessarily indicate a special regard.”

“Ah. And how old is your sister?”

“Eight and twenty.”

One dark brow rose. “So that is what we are calling old these days, is it? Then I am quite ancient, for I am even older than that. No doubt your sister was wise to stay home and avoid all this. Though I don’t like to think of anyone cowering before my sister-in-law. Not if Andrew truly admires her.”

“Again, I do not presume to guess where his affections lie.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Chapman.” She patted his arm. “You are all discretion, never fear.”

The butler announced that dinner was served, and people lined up according to precedence, with Mrs. Webb breaking social ranks to wait to enter the dining room with her chosen companions. Andrew, William saw, was nudged to lead in Miss Padgett. William offered an arm to Mrs. Webb, who accepted with a conspiratorial wink. Then he offered his other arm to Miss Foster.

The guests made their way into the dining room lit with candelabras and decorated with centerpieces of fruits and flowers. Footmen in livery and powdered wigs stood at attention, waiting to lay second, third, and fourth courses to a table already crowded with silver serving dishes, domed platters, and a massive soup tureen.

William held a chair for Mrs. Webb, but a footman reached Miss Foster’s chair before he could do so. They sat down, and William counted himself fortunate to be seated between two lovely, intelligent women who initiated meaningful conversation and, more importantly, appreciated his sense of humor.

Abigail enjoyed Mr. Chapman’s and Mrs. Webb’s company as much as she enjoyed the meal: a first course of spring soup and crimped salmon, followed by duck with orange sauce and peas, braised tongue, beetroot and cucumber salad, and strawberry tartlets. Dishes were passed and savored for more than an hour. Around her, Abigail heard snatches of other conversations in progress, most of it vague pleasantries—the weather, betrothals from earlier in the season, upcoming shoots, races, and house parties.

Mrs. Morgan, a third of the way down the table, leaned forward suddenly and addressed her. “And why are you not in London, enjoying the season with your sister, Miss Foster?”

Mr. Chapman, she noticed, glanced over and watched her carefully, awaiting her response.

She said easily, “I have had my season. Two, actually. It is Louisa’s turn.”

“Did you enjoy your seasons?”

She shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose.”

“But no offers of marriage came of it?”

“Um . . .” Abigail paused awkwardly. “Evidently not.”

“Mamma!” Andrew Morgan gently chided. “Don’t interrogate our guests. Besides, you are all supposed to be fawning over me and asking about my time abroad and all my adventures.”

“Had you any adventures?” Mrs. Webb asked gamely.