The Secret of Pembrooke Park(75)

Kitty shook her head, an impish glint in her eye. “You suppose correctly.”

They finished their work, then Kitty said, “Come to the house, Miss Foster. Grandmamma would love to meet you.”

“And I her. But . . . what about the argument?”

“Oh, it’s sure to have blown over by now.” Kitty shielded her eyes. “In fact, there goes Will now.”

Abigail glanced over her shoulder and saw Mr. Chapman leaving the grove and striding toward the parsonage. She was surprised he did not stop to say hello, but perhaps he had not seen them there in the garden.

“See?” Kitty grinned at her. “Coast is clear.”

But first Abigail asked Kitty to follow her into the house and belowstairs, where they found a simple glass vase for the flowers and asked Mrs. Walsh for something to take as a welcome gift. When they explained who it was for, Mrs. Walsh’s reserve fell away and she bustled about, gathering a bottle of jugged hare and a small plum pudding to take to Mrs. Reynolds, apparently an old friend of hers.

Armed with gifts, Abigail walked back to the Chapman cottage with Kitty. She met Mrs. Reynolds ensconced in the small bedchamber, bound leg raised on a cushion. The pleasant-looking old woman, in face very similar to Kate Chapman, accepted the flowers and gifts with smiling gratitude. Abigail talked with her for several minutes before wishing her a speedy recovery and excusing herself.

Leah was waiting for her outside and seemed happy to see her. “Can you stay and talk for a few minutes?” she invited, offering her a glass of lemonade.

“I would like that. Thank you.”

The two women sat on a bench in the little garden in front of the house, since it was a beautiful day, and because the house was quite crowded at the moment. They talked about everyday things for a few minutes—Leah’s grandmother coming to stay, the upcoming Sunday school lessons, and the glorious weather.

Then Abigail said tentatively, “We have an unexpected houseguest as well. Have you heard?”

“Yes. Papa told me.”

Abigail hesitated. “Kitty mentioned your father and brother had a row earlier. I hope that’s not what they argued about?”

“No. Not . . . directly.” Leah avoided her eyes and asked, “How is it going with him there?”

“Fine, I suppose,” Abigail said. “Miles is quite charming, really. Though I do wonder how long he plans to stay.”

She noticed Leah begin to fidget, her grip tightening on her glass.

“But let’s not talk about that,” Abigail said quickly. “I haven’t seen you in several days. Tell me what has been happening since I saw you last. Any word from Andrew Morgan?”

Leah’s pretty face fell, and Abigail knew she had wandered from one sore topic to another.

Leah looked off in the distance and said flatly, “I don’t think I will be seeing Mr. Morgan again.”

“Why do you say that? I am certain he admires you.”

Leah nodded slightly. “Admiration is one thing. But he is too honorable to do anything about it. I overheard his mother, you see, chastising him for even inviting me to the ball. Apparently, William has sufficient respectability as a clergyman and former schoolmate of Andrew’s. But his parents cannot overlook the fact that my mother had been in service. And my father, as their agent and a former steward, is little higher.”

“But certainly Andrew will persuade them.”

She shook her head. “I am older than you, Miss Foster, and a little wiser in the ways of the world, so don’t be offended if I disagree. When a woman marries a man she also marries his family, for better or for worse. And that is how it should be. I shouldn’t want a man who would have to extricate himself from his family in order to be my husband, nor a man who would alienate himself from my family in order to please his. And his parents clearly want him to marry someone else. You saw Miss Padgett—young and wealthy. It is not as though I ever stood a chance, objections to my parentage or not.”

Abigail reached over and pressed her hand, feeling a painful twinge of empathy. For a moment the two sat in companionable silence.

Then Leah added, “The Morgans are new to the parish, you see. They only visited the area a few times before inheriting Hunts Hall. They don’t know . . . can’t be expected to understand . . .”

When her words trailed off, Abigail prompted, “To understand what?”

“How . . . well respected Mac Chapman is, and—”

At that moment, Kitty ran out of the house, waving a piece of paper over her head like a flag. “Jacob has a love letter. Jacob has a love letter. . . .”

Jacob came barreling after her, long arms pumping. “Give that back! It’s mine!”

Leah sent Abigail a wry glance. “And how very genteel my family truly is.”



On Sunday morning, Abigail glanced at her father, intently slicing his sausages, then looked across the breakfast table at Miles.

“Mr. Pembrooke,” she began, “I . . . don’t suppose you’d want to go to church with us?”

Miles opened his mouth. Closed it again. And then smiled at her fondly. “Thank you for inviting me, Miss Foster, however equivocally done.”

“I did not mean to—”

He held up a hand to forestall her protests. “I understand. And don’t worry—I am not offended. I did not plan to go in any case. I could not stand to face him.”