The Secret of Pembrooke Park(60)

“I promise you, Miss Foster, it would take very little acting ability on my part.”

She looked up at him and saw the sincerity shining in his blue eyes, and her heart squeezed. “Thank you, Mr. Chapman. You are very kind to restore my fragile feminine ego.”

“My pleasure.”

The musicians finished their introduction, and around them couples filled in, ladies and gentlemen facing one another in long columns. Across the ballroom, Abigail saw that Gilbert had been partnered with Miss Adah Morgan, Andrew’s younger sister. She forced her attention back to William. Unfortunately, he had noticed the direction of her gaze, but he smiled gamely and took her hand in his as the dance began.

Together they danced their way up the line. As they waited their turn at the top of the dance, Abigail noticed a striking woman in a fine black ball gown looking their way. No mask marred her pretty face, and she appeared remarkably attractive for a woman in mourning. She was a very young widow, perhaps Abigail’s own age or even younger.

“Who is that woman in black?” Abigail asked her partner.

“Hm?” William turned to look and stumbled.

“She is staring at us.” Abigail added, “As I have never met her, I assume she is looking at you.”

“That is Rebek—er, Mrs. Garwood.”

Her eyes flashed to his as he fumbled the words. She saw the sparkle leave his eyes, replaced by stoic acceptance.

“Andrew’s elder sister. Recently married, and even more recently widowed.”

“So young,” Abigail breathed.

“Yes. Completely unexpected. I did not realize she would be attending. In mourning as she is.”

“I see,” Abigail murmured. And with another glance at him, thought, Oh yes, I do see. . . .

When their dance ended, Mr. Chapman excused himself and went to ask his sister for the next, dutiful brother that he was. His kindness warmed Abigail’s heart. Abigail went to the punch table and accepted a glass from a footman, then found a place along the wall to catch her breath.

A woman joined her in the out-of-the-way corner. Her gaze flickered over Abigail’s hair and mask. “Miss Foster, I presume?”

Abigail turned to the thirtyish woman in a peacock-blue ball gown. She wore no mask, and Abigail easily recognized her thin dark brows, blue-green eyes, and sharp nose. “Yes. It is good to see you again, Mrs. Webb.”

The woman nodded. “My sister-in-law is in quite a pique, I can tell you, over so few of her guests embracing the spirit of the masquerade.”

“And where is your mask?” Abigail asked.

Mrs. Webb arched one thin brow. “Oh, disguise of every sort is my abhorrence,”

Abigail grinned. “Ah! That is from Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy says it to Elizabeth Bennet.”

Again the woman nodded. “I am impressed, but not surprised. I had already pegged you as a kindred spirit.” She lifted a hand. “Look about you. Most of the guests have already removed their masks. Except that woman dancing with your Mr. Chapman. Who is she? Do you know?”

Abigail turned and saw William Chapman dancing a reel with Leah, still masked.

“That is Leah Chapman, his sister.”

“Ah, the dastardly ‘older woman’ Mrs. Morgan wants Andrew to pass over for young Miss Padgett?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

The woman’s keen eyes fastened on hers. “Are you well acquainted with Miss Chapman?”

“Fairly well, though she is a rather private person. Even so, I can say unequivocally that she is a genteel, accomplished woman of good character.”

“Yes, yes. But has she anything more interesting to recommend her? Is she good company, able to laugh at herself, or a witty conversationalist? Has she any intelligence in her pretty head?”

“Yes, definitely. All of the above,” Abigail replied. “And she has read Pride and Prejudice three times, Sense and Sensibility twice, and Mansfield Park only once.”

The woman’s eyes glinted with wry humor. “That is in her favor, indeed. I can tell you are an excellent judge of character, Miss Foster, and I shall put in a good word for her with the Morgans, based on your high opinion.”

“I would be happy to introduce her, if you like, and you may decide for yourself.”

“Perhaps another time. But first, tell me. Does your high regard extend to her brother? Are the two of you . . . ?” She let the question dangle, but her arched brow and her meaning were clear.

Abigail’s cheeks heated. “Oh, I . . . No. We have only recently met.”

“But you admire him,” she suggested, eyes alight.

“Well, yes, I suppose I do. But . . . that is, we are not . . . courting.”

“Pity.” Mrs. Webb turned to look at Mr. Chapman once more. “I would like to see him happy, since my sister-in-law disappointed his hopes once before.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I overheard her talking to one of her cronies. Congratulating herself on putting a stop to a courtship between Mr. Chapman and her daughter Rebekah a few years ago. Olive was very pleased with herself when Rebekah married rich Mr. Garwood instead. And now that he is gone, she fears the lowly curate will try once again to woo the wealthy widow. Her words, mind, not mine.”

Abigail suddenly felt queasy. “And would Mrs. Garwood welcome his attentions?”