The Secret of Pembrooke Park(65)

Her father came in. “No sign of Gilbert?”

Abigail shook her head, astonished to find tears stinging her eyes. She sternly blinked them dry and said as casually as she could, “Apparently I misunderstood him. Or the Morgans had other plans for him today.”

“That’s it, no doubt. I’m sure he’ll be by when he can. I’ll be in the library. Do let me know when he comes.”

Abigail nodded and resolutely turned a page in her book.

A few minutes later, Molly popped her head in and looked curiously about the room, probably sent by Mrs. Walsh to discover how long to keep the water hot.

“Apparently we shall not be needing tea after all,” Abigail said, rising. “Please apologize to Mrs. Walsh for me and let her know my father and I will happily eat whatever she has prepared for our dinner tonight.”

“Very good, miss.”

Abigail left the drawing room, feeling restless. Should she change her clothes? No, she decided. She was wearing a walking dress, so she would walk. Gathering bonnet and gloves, she went outside and walked back to the gardens. She stopped in the old potting shed and found shears and a basket, planning to cut flowers. Instead she began pulling weeds from a border of lilies. She had asked Duncan to do so, but he had yet to get to it. Perhaps it was time to ask Mac to recommend a gardener or at least a youth who could help with outside chores. Next she yanked a clump of grass from the flower bed. The exertion felt good. She released a bit of frustration with every weed she yanked from the ground. If only she could root out her worries and disappointments as easily.

Weary at last, she returned the gardening tools to the shed and made her way back to the house. As she rounded the front, Gilbert appeared, crossing the drive on foot, hands extended in supplication.

“Abby. Forgive me. I know I’m late. Mr. Morgan gathered all the men for a shooting tournament, and I didn’t feel I could refuse, being a guest there and with my employer no less. The contest lasted far longer than I anticipated. But I remembered you said you were at your leisure today, so I decided to come over late. Have I been presumptuous?”

“You know you are welcome, Gilbert. Papa will be happy to see you.”

“But are you?”

“Of course I am.”

He smiled into her eyes, and for a moment she felt herself falling into them, but then she drew herself up. “So, who won the tournament?”

“A young sir somebody. I forget. But then Mr. Morgan summoned his land agent, and he easily bested our champion.”

“Mac Chapman?”

“Yes, that was his name.”

“I am surprised Mr. Morgan brought Mac into the contest.”

“Wanted to give the proud young buck a setdown, I gather. Either that or he is awfully proud of his agent.”

“He used to be steward here,” Abigail said. “I am fairly well acquainted with him. He’s our curate’s father.”

“Ah. The red-haired chap. I should have guessed.” He smiled playfully. “The local competition.”

Abigail realized they were no longer talking about a shooting competition. Was Gilbert flirting with her?

An annoying tendril of hair kept blowing across her face. She brushed it away with a swipe of her glove.

Gilbert smiled indulgently, reached out, and stroked her cheek.

She stilled, inhaling a long breath.

He held up his buff glove to show her the smudge of soil there. “How did you manage to smear dirt on your face, fair lady?”

“Oh . . . I was pottering about in the garden.” She ducked her head, self-consciously wiping the spot again. She glanced up at him tentatively. “All right?”

“More than all right. Perfect.”

Her cheeks heated. She was not accustomed to Gilbert paying her compliments. No doubt a skill he’d learned in Italy. Weren’t Italian men notorious for flirting with every female they encountered? It didn’t mean anything.

She gestured toward the house. “So, what do you think?”

“Beautiful.”

Something in his voice caused her to turn her head. His eyes remained on her face.

She’d had enough. “I’m talking about the house, Bertie, as well you know.” She referred to him by an old nickname, hoping to dissolve the unfamiliar tension between them.

Gilbert dragged his eyes from her, up toward the house, taking in its gables, arches, and elaborate oriel windows.

He released a low whistle. “You live here?”

She nodded. “It’s something, isn’t it.”

They slowly walked around the house. After they turned the corner, Gilbert paused and pointed up. “Looks like a water tower. Do the upper floors have running water?”

“No. Only the kitchen belowstairs.”

“Hm. The main hall is clearly fifteenth century. But that shaft looks like a later addition to me.”

“To accommodate a servants’ staircase, perhaps?”

“Bit narrow for that.” He squinted upward. “But if it was a water tower, evidently it has fallen out of use. Cheaper and easier to have servants haul water than to maintain the system, apparently.”

They walked around the back of the house.

“Another later addition,” Gilbert noted, gesturing toward the two-story structure occupying part of the rear courtyard.