The Secret of Pembrooke Park(63)
While they waited for the Morgans’ coach-and-four to be brought around, William stood companionably with Miss Foster. His sister stood a few yards away, talking to Andrew. They had already bid him and his parents farewell, but Andrew had insisted on escorting Leah out, clearly reluctant to let her go.
He felt Miss Foster’s gaze on his profile. She asked quietly, “Was it awkward for you? With Andrew’s sister there?”
He looked at her in surprise.
“I hope you don’t mind. But Mrs. Webb mentioned you once courted her.”
“Ah.” He lifted his chin in understanding. “Actually, it was not as bad as I would have guessed. I confess having you there with me was quite a balm.”
She looked up at him sharply.
Concern filling him, he said, “Forgive me. I don’t mean to presume anything about our . . . friendship. But even if you think me an absolute dunderhead, the fact that Rebekah Garwood saw me enjoying myself with a beautiful woman eased the sting. Not to mention nipping in the bud any supposition that I hope to wrangle another chance with her, now that she is widowed.”
Miss Foster pressed her lips together, then asked, “You don’t wish another chance with her?”
He looked at her, surprised at her boldness. He inhaled and looked up at the night sky as he considered the question. Then he met her gaze and said quietly, “Not anymore.”
William watched her face. Did she believe him? Was she relieved? He hesitated to ask the same question of her. He had seen her with Mr. Scott. Seen the way the young man looked at her, his proprietary air as he escorted her across the room. The easy familiarity in which he held her hand and smiled into her face as they danced and laughed together.
The sight had filled William with an uncomfortably sickly feeling he recognized as jealousy—stronger even than what he had felt when Rebekah broke things off with him in favor of Mr. Garwood. He didn’t like it—knew it to be an unworthy emotion. But heaven help him, he felt it all the same.
The carriage arrived, and the groom opened the door for them, giving a hand up to both Miss Foster and Leah. Then William climbed in after them and, after vacillating for a second, sat beside his sister. Andrew stood at the window and gave them all a final farewell.
William glanced at Leah, saw the contented smile there, and hoped it would remain, even as he doubted it.
As the coach rumbled away, something William saw outside the window drew him upright. There, through the throng of waiting carriages and horses, passed a figure in a full-length green cloak, like those worn by naval officers on deck during storms. Why would anyone wear a deep hood on such a fine night, unless he meant to conceal his identity? Was it the same person he and Miss Foster had seen crossing the bridge near Pembrooke Park?
William’s pulse rate accelerated. He glanced in concern at his sister, fearing she would see the figure as well, but was relieved to see her gazing idly out the opposite window, a dreamy smile still hovering on her lips. He would not be the one to send it flying by drawing her attention to a sight that would surely frighten her. So he said nothing.
Perhaps he was wrong. It had been a masquerade ball, after all. Perhaps the cloak was part of some man’s costume. He hoped that’s all it was. Even so, he would have to tell his father. Just in case.
Chapter 13
Even though Abigail was tired from being up late the night before, she resisted the urge to sleep in, rising only an hour past her usual time. She summoned Polly by a pull of the bell cord, when the kind young woman no doubt intended to let her sleep, not even tiptoeing inside to turn back the shutters. Abigail went to the washstand, resigned to the notion of washing her face in last night’s cold water, but was surprised and pleased to find it warm. Polly had snuck in without waking her. The housemaid was certainly skilled. Thoughtful in the bargain.
While she waited, Abigail washed for the day and began brushing out her hair, extra full and curly from the night before. She thought back to Polly’s eager questions when she had helped her undress after the ball. Her maid had wanted every detail, and Abigail did her best to supply them, assuring her she had enjoyed herself and that everyone had admired her hair. Polly had beamed.
The housemaid entered a few minutes later. “You’re up early, miss. Thought you’d sleep till noon after all the doings last night.”
“We have a guest, so I thought it best to rise and be hospitable.”
“He and your father are already eating breakfast, so no hurry. Mrs. Walsh is in a tizzy, having a gen-u-ine Pembrooke to cook for, and Duncan is in a foul mood at having another to tote and carry for, as you can imagine.”
“Yes, I can well imagine.” In fact, her father was the only person Duncan didn’t seem to mind serving. He served him cheerfully, and in turn her father thought highly of him.
“How’s that blister this mornin’?” Polly asked.
Abigail regarded her little toe. She had danced quite a bit last night—more than she had in a year’s time—and her dancing slippers had rubbed a tender spot.
“Oh, it’s fine.”
“The price you pay for bein’ the belle of the ball.”
A small price, indeed, and well worth the minor discomfort, Abigail thought. She had enjoyed being sought after as a dancing partner. A new experience.
Polly stepped to her closet. “Your buff day dress and cap today, miss?”