The Secret of Pembrooke Park(43)

“Give me another glass of this excellent claret and I shall tell you tales to make your ears burn.”

“Hear, hear,” Mrs. Webb said, lifting her glass.

“Andrew . . .” his mother warned.

“Oh, let the boy talk, my dear,” Mr. Morgan senior urged. “It is why we are here after all.”

And Andrew happily obliged.

Abigail silently thanked the man for coming to her rescue.

Later, as dinner was winding down and conversation quieted to small duets and trios around the long table, Abigail finally began to relax.

Mrs. Webb turned to William and asked, “I hope you don’t think I am interrogating you, Mr. Chapman. But I would like to hear about your family. They all . . . live nearby . . . ?”

“Yes. My mother and father live not far from Pembrooke Park. Father is Mr. Morgan’s land agent now, so that may explain why your sister-in-law takes exception to her son’s choice of guests.”

“Ah,” she murmured noncommittally.

“I have two sisters, Leah and Kitty,” William continued. “And a brother, Jacob.”

“And, are they all ginger haired like you?”

“Ginger? I wouldn’t go that far . . .”

He sounded almost affronted, Abigail thought, biting back a grin.

“My hair isn’t as red as my father’s, or my brother’s for that matter,” he explained. “And the girls have light brown hair, like our mother.”

“I see. And they are all in good health?”

“Yes. Thank God.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“And your family, Mrs. Webb?” Abigail asked. “Have you brothers or sisters?”

“I always wanted a sister,” she said. “Here both of you have sisters, but I never did.”

“I have one to spare if you’d like,” William teased.

She smiled. “I doubt your parents would approve of that.”

“Where do you live, Mrs. Webb?” Abigail added, “If you don’t mind my asking. Not too far from your relatives here, I hope?”

“I have lived in several places, what with Mr. Webb being with the East India Company for many years. So no, not close to Easton, I’m afraid. In fact, I have not been here in years.”

“How good of you to come for Andrew’s homecoming, then.”

“I was happy to come. He is a dear boy, and my husband was quite fond of him.”

She looked closely at Abigail. “I do hope things have been . . . peaceful . . . since you’ve moved in to Pembrooke Park? No trouble?”

“Oh yes. For the most part. Very peaceful.”

“For the most part? What does that mean, I wonder?”

“Oh, you know how old houses are. They creak and groan and make all sorts of odd noises. I understand the village children claim the place is haunted. But I’ve yet to see any evidence of that.”

“I am relieved to hear it. Nothing . . . unsettling . . . since you’ve been there? No one where they ought not be?”

Abigail thought of the footsteps in the dust, the mislaid candle lamp, and the figure in the cloak. “I have seen no ghosts, I assure you, Mrs. Webb. And all I’ve heard is an old house complaining of its years and neglect, nothing more.” To herself she added, I hope.

Candlelight glinted in Mrs. Webb’s blue-grey eyes. “It is not the ghosts you need worry about, Miss Foster, but human beings that are very much alive.”



Later, Abigail and Mr. Chapman rode home in the gig. Abigail was very aware of being alone with a man—a man she found increasingly attractive. Though she wondered if she would have found him quite so attractive had Gilbert not disappointed her.

It was late, but the moon shone brightly, and she could see Mr. Chapman’s profile quite clearly. His straight nose, his firm, fair cheek. The waves of auburn hair falling over his ear, and his long, sculpted side-whiskers.

Perhaps sensing her scrutiny, he glanced over at her. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.

“I did. And you?”

“Yes. More than I dared hope.”

She wasn’t certain what he meant but wished he would keep his eyes on the road so she could study him unobserved.

He turned the horse back toward Easton. As they passed through the sleepy hamlet, he slowed the horse to a walking pace. Candles flickered in the public house and a few other windows, but otherwise the street was quiet, shops closed, people abed for the night.

Leaving the hamlet, he clicked the horse to a trot, but the wheels hit a deep rut. The gig lurched and she swayed, knocking into his arm. Instinctively, he slid the reins into one hand and threw his other around her shoulders to steady her. “All right?”

She swallowed, self-conscious in his embrace. Self-conscious about how much she liked the warm security of his arm around her, her side pressed firmly to his. “Ye-yes. Fine.”

He removed his arm and she shivered, whether from his nearness or the night air, she wasn’t certain.

“You’re cold,” he observed. He halted the horse right there on the road and tied off the reins. He dug under the seat and pulled forth a folded wool blanket.

“I’m fine, really,” she insisted. “I have my shawl.”

“You’re not fine. You’re shivering. You females and your thin muslins. It’s a wonder you don’t all freeze to death.”