The Secret of Pembrooke Park(57)

Her father continued, “I was included in the invitation, but as I have never even met the family, I declined. I was in London on business when Abigail made their acquaintance. The Morgan family—perhaps you know them?”

“I’m afraid I have not had that pleasure, that I recall.”

“They are new to the area,” Abigail explained. “Mr. Morgan inherited Hunts Hall from his cousin.”

“I do recall the name Hunt, yes.”

Her father said, “You and I shall dine together then, Miles. If that suits you.”

“Very well, sir. I look forward to it. And I shall look forward to improving my acquaintance with your lovely daughter as well. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Abigail smiled. “Tomorrow it is, Mr. Pembrooke. Do let us know if there is anything you need while you’re here.”

“I shall. Thank you. You are generosity itself, and I am ever in your debt.” He bowed.

Abigail excused herself to inform Mrs. Walsh of their guest and to ask Polly to put fresh bedclothes on the guest bed and carry up hot water. But even as she did so, she couldn’t help but wonder if inviting Miles to stay would land them all in hot water.





Chapter 12


With the upper housemaid’s help, Abigail dressed for the ball. She tied silk stockings over her knees and stepped into shift and underslip. Polly cinched long bone stays over her shift, and helped her on with the white gown, doing up the lacing and the tiny decorative pearl buttons at the back of the bodice. The maid curled her hair with hot irons, pinning up the majority with soft height, but leaving bouncy ringlets on either side of her face. She pinned tiny white roses amid the curls, to match her shimmering muslin gown.

While Polly made the final touches to her hair, Abigail powdered her nose and brushed just a hint of blush on her cheeks and lips. Then she touched dainty dabs of rose water to her neck and wrists. Finally she pulled on long white leather gloves, and Polly helped her tie them with ribbons above her elbows.

“You’ll be the prettiest girl there,” Polly assured her.

“I doubt that, but you are kind to say so.” Abigail gave her reflection in the glass a final look. She did look pretty, she admitted to herself. And without Louisa in attendance, she felt she just might hold her own with the likes of Miss Padgett from Winchester.

Taking her reticule, mask, and a colorful India shawl with her, Abigail went downstairs and was surprised but pleased to see her father waiting in the hall.

He rose from the sofa, his eyes widening. “You look beautiful, my dear.”

The endearment sounded a bit stilted, stiff from lack of use since their falling-out, but she was happy to hear it nonetheless.

“Thank you, Papa.”

Perhaps this was a taste of the favor Louisa was accustomed to receiving—people ready to forgive her anything because of her beauty. It felt strange. Good and somehow deflating at once. Was she only to be treated well when she put such efforts into her appearance? She felt weary at the thought.

“Mr. Pembrooke will be down for dinner shortly, no doubt, but I wanted to be here to see you off.”

He helped her settle her shawl around her and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Have a good time, Abigail. Mr. Morgan is sending his carriage?”

“Yes. For the Chapmans as well. It should be here any time.”

“Very thoughtful of Mr. Morgan. Is there something I should know? Shall I expect a call from him sometime soon?” His eyes twinkled.

Confusion flared, followed quickly by comprehension. “Oh. No, Papa! Mr. Morgan doesn’t admire me. Not in that way. He may admire Miss Chapman, I think, though his kindness extends to me as well, as her friend.”

Frown lines creased his brow. “But you are a lady, Abigail. A gentleman’s daughter. I don’t know that I like you being reduced to the same level as Mac Chapman’s daughter. . . .”

“Father, don’t say that. Miss Chapman is everything good and ladylike.”

“Well.” He drew back his shoulders. “Don’t hide in her shadow, Abigail. Our circumstances may be reduced, but you are a Foster—kin to the Pembrookes. Remember that, and do us proud.”

Her father’s snobbish vanity made Abigail uneasy. Who were they to view themselves above others? It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that some people in the area had tied the name Foster to the banking scandal, knowing it would knock him down a peg or two. But looking at him now, in the fading evening sunlight slicing through the hall windows, her father suddenly looked older than his fifty years. Perhaps he had been knocked down enough already.

The rumble of carriage wheels and the jingle of harnesses announced the arrival of the Morgans’ coach-and-four.

Her father opened the door and she bid him good evening. Outside, a liveried groom hopped down off the rear board to open the coach door and let down the step. Mr. Chapman and Leah were already inside.

Leah said, “You look beautiful, Miss Foster.”

“Yes, she does,” Mr. Chapman agreed, eyes shining.

“So do you,” Abigail said, admiring Leah’s curled hair and glowing complexion, the dress so becoming on her.

“Which of us?” William joked.

“The both of you.”

He grinned. “Forgive me, Miss Foster. I did not mean to beg a compliment.”