The Secret of Pembrooke Park(44)

He draped the blanket around her and settled it on her shoulders, his hands lingering. “Better?”

“Yes, except now I feel guilty that you are freezing.”

“Then sit close to me and I shan’t notice anything else.”

Her gaze flew to his—saw his crooked grin, the playful sparkle in his eye. Sitting close as they were, their faces were very near. His breath was warm and smelled of cinnamon. Or perhaps that was his cologne. Whatever it was, it was spicy and masculine and made her want to lean nearer yet.

The horse stamped his hoof impatiently, no doubt eager to return to his stall and feed bucket.

She did not purposely move closer to him, but as the rock and sway of the carriage brought them nearer together, their shoulders brushing and occasionally their knees, she did not pull away, nor attempt to keep a proper distance between them. She did not want him to freeze, after all, she told herself, knowing all the while it was schoolgirl logic Louisa might have used to justify flirting with a man, but at the moment, not caring. It was dark, and they were alone, and dash it, it was cold. She liked the man, and she trusted him enough to know he would not take advantage of any of those factors. At least, not inappropriate advantage.

When they reached Pembrooke Park, Mr. Chapman tied off the reins and alighted from the gig. Coming around, he reached up, but instead of offering one hand to her, he lifted both. She hesitated, meeting his gaze with brows raised in question.

In a low voice, he said, “May I?”

His gloved hands hovered near her waist. In reality, she could have managed the step down with only a hand to assist her, but she pressed her lips together and silently nodded.

He grasped her waist and gently lifted, lowering her easily to the ground. For a moment longer, his hands remained, and he murmured, “You do have a tiny waist.”

His hands felt large, strong, and sure. She swallowed nervously. Uncomfortable standing there so close to him, yet in no hurry to step away.

Behind him, the front door opened, and he released her. Glancing over, she saw Duncan standing in the doorway, candle lamp in hand.

With a rueful smile, Mr. Chapman offered his arm. Abigail placed her gloved hand on his sleeve and he tucked it into the crook of his elbow. Together they walked to the house.

“You two were out late,” Duncan observed, his eyes narrowed. In suspicion, or disapproval?

“The dinner party was quite a long affair,” Mr. Chapman said, coming to her defense.

Abigail added, “I didn’t realize we would be back quite so late. Thank you for waiting up.”

“I am surprised a clergyman thinks it wise to be out so late. And without a chaperone yet. I seem to recall someone giving me a setdown for keeping a lady out after dark once upon a time.”

Insolent man, Abigail thought, torn between offense and curiosity. Who did he mean?

“That situation was entirely different, as you will recall,” Mr. Chapman replied. “The lady in question was out without her parents’ consent.”

Duncan rebutted, “As is Miss Foster, I believe.”

Mr. Chapman met the man’s challenging glare. “Your concern for your mistress is touching, Duncan. Take care your respect equals that concern.”

Aware of the mounting tension between the men, visible in their clenched jaws and taut postures, Abigail extracted herself from Mr. Chapman’s arm and said gently, “It is late, and I had better go in. Thank you again for the lovely evening, Mr. Chapman. And do give your sister my best.”





Chapter 10


In the morning, Abigail lay snug in bed for a time, thinking back to the dinner party the night before, and the carriage ride home with Mr. Chapman. Mr. William Chapman . . . She liked his name.

She had not liked Duncan’s reception when they’d arrived home. His sneering disapproval had spoiled an otherwise lovely evening. Had she done wrong, in spending so much time alone in the curate’s company? She hoped not.

She recalled a few other moments that had been less than idyllic as well. Mrs. Morgan asking her in front of all of those people if her seasons had resulted in any offers of marriage. And later, Mrs. Webb’s comment, “It is not the ghosts you need worry about, but human beings that are very much alive.” Abigail wondered if she referred to treasure hunters in general or some specific human.

She rose, wrapped her shawl around herself, and wandered over to her mother’s bedchamber. She stood at the window, looking toward the church. The grey day seemed as ambivalent as she—not sunny, but not raining. A fine mist hung in the air like a gauzy grey curtain. The window glass was foggy, and what lay beyond was as difficult to see as her future.

She tried to hold on to the happiness she had felt in the carriage the night before, but the quiet, lonely house drew it from her—her family so far away, Gilbert even farther . . .

Something caught her eye. A figure beyond the low churchyard wall. Abigail wiped a circle in the foggy glass and peered closer. Was it Eliza Smith again? Whoever it was wore a dark blue cape and hat with a heavy veil over her face. Her head bowed.

Perhaps it wasn’t Eliza. Perhaps it was a widow come to visit her recently deceased husband. Or a mother grieving her child. She would ask Mr. Chapman if a family in the parish had suffered a recent loss.

Whatever the case, the sight of the lone figure in the misty grey churchyard moved Abigail with pity.