The Secret of Pembrooke Park(52)

“Less practiced,” he repeated with a quick grin. “Now you sound like the parishioners who admonish me to practice more to make up for the deficiencies of my delivery.”

He felt her gaze on his profile and wondered what she saw.

She said, “I can hardly conceive of a more difficult profession. People can be nearly impossible to please, but you have to be polite and react with Christian forbearance and pretend to care about each and every grievance.”

“I hope I do more than pretend to care.”

“Yes, I think you do. I see that you care about your parishioners. In word and deed. You have my sincere admiration—you and your sister both.”

He looked at her, taken aback by her praise. His heart warmed, and he sat taller against the hard wooden pew. She gazed at the altar, with no coy or flirtatious looks or apparent awareness of the deep compliment she had paid him, nor her effect on him.

The candle on the reader’s desk guttered and swayed in the draughty nave. The rain tapped against the roof, and in the distance, thunder rumbled. His stomach grumbled in reply, and William felt his neck heat in mild embarrassment. He braved a sideways glance at her.

She grinned. “Hungry?”

“Very.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to invite her into the parsonage for something to eat, only a few feet beyond the vestry door. But he knew he should not. Not just the two of them alone in his rooms.

As if reading his mind, she said, “Would you like to come over to the manor and join me for tea? Do you think that would be all right, since my father is there?” She added, “I suppose you have to be very careful.”

Very careful indeed, he thought. The eyes of God—and Mrs. Peterman—are everywhere.

“I have another idea,” he said. “We were to have cider today after the service, in honor of the occasion. Why don’t I fetch us two glasses?”

“If you like.”

He rose. “I’ll be right back.” Making haste into the vestry, he replaced white gown with coat and hat and dashed across the rain-slashed path to the parsonage. He returned a few minutes later with a basket.

She met him in the vestry. “You’re dripping wet!”

“Not too bad.” He handed her the basket and shed his long coat and hat.

“You might have borrowed my umbrella.”

“Now you offer,” he teased. He pulled a chair from the corner of the room toward the small desk and chair against the office wall. He wished for the hundredth time the old place had heating—a simple hearth or even a stove.

He poured two glasses of cider and prised up the lid from a tin of biscuits his mother had brought over the day before.

He handed Miss Foster a glass and lifted his own. “Will you drink King George’s health with me?”

“I shall indeed.” She lifted her glass, and they both sipped.

He offered her the tin.

She eyed the biscuits in surprise. “Don’t tell me you made these.”

“What do you take me for—useful?” he quipped. “No, Mamma is the baker in the family.”

Miss Foster took a bite. “And very accomplished she is.”

But William’s mind was not on cider or biscuits. He found his gaze lingering on Miss Foster’s beguiling mouth and lovely white teeth as she nibbled dainty bites of ginger biscuit. He swallowed.

In the small room, she sat very near, their knees only inches apart, and he could smell something flowery and feminine—perfume or floral soap. He noticed a crumb on her lower lip, and watched in fascination as her pink tongue licked it away. He felt a stab of longing and took a deep, shaky breath. Steady on, Parson. Steady on.

“Miss Foster,” he said, his voice low and not perfectly even. “I am very glad you came.”

“To church?” she asked.

“To Pembrooke.”

She smiled. “So am I.”



The damp weather persisted. From the morning-room window, Abigail looked out across the drive toward the church, remembering fondly her time there with Mr. Chapman. She had seen him again during the second dance class, which Abigail thought went even better than the first. She had been so pleased to see Leah looking relaxed—and enjoying Mr. Morgan’s company.

From beyond the rain-spotted glass, movement caught her eye. It was the woman in the dark blue cape and veiled hat again, walking into the churchyard, something bright yellow in her hands. Was it Eliza Smith? She had seen a small veiled hat on a peg in Mrs. Hayes’s cottage, though it hadn’t been a full, heavy veil like this one. And there was something about the woman’s posture that suggested wealth and breeding.

Molly came in with fresh coffee and the newspaper.

“Molly, do you know who that is . . . in the churchyard?”

The lower housemaid walked over to stand beside her at the window. “No, miss. Don’t recall seeing a woman in a veil like that round here before.”

Abigail thanked the girl. She sat back down, took a sip of coffee, and read the headlines, but she soon found her attention returning to the churchyard. She went to the hall cupboard, pulled on a hooded mantle and gloves, and stepped outside. But by the time she crossed the drive, the woman was gone.

Abigail entered the churchyard anyway, and walked to the spot where she thought the woman had stood—if she was not mistaken, also very near the place Eliza Smith had stood not so long ago. She saw no fresh graves, no temporary crosses or sparse grass yet to grow in. By appearances this plot of graves had lain undisturbed for decades. She looked closer at the trio of headstones and read the names: Robert Pembrooke, Elizabeth Pembrooke, and Eleanor Pembrooke, Beloved Daughter, surrounded by many other Pembrookes of generations past. She supposed it wasn’t so surprising that the grave of the well-liked lord of the manor should receive visits from not one but two women in as many weeks. Though this time flowers—a bouquet of yellow daffodils—had been left on Eleanor Pembrooke’s grave rather than Robert’s.