The Secret of Pembrooke Park(76)

Her father spoke up. “To face Mac Chapman, do you mean? Come, Miles. I hope you don’t mind, but Abigail mentioned the rumors about your father all those years ago. Stuff and nonsense the lot of it, I imagine. But you cannot let a few small-minded busybodies keep you from living your life and going where you will.” He laid down his knife and fork with a clank.

“You are kind, Mr. Foster. But I don’t stay home to avoid Mac or any one particular person. I meant that I dare not face God.” He added in apparent good humor, “It is His house, after all. And I am definitely not an invited guest, if you know what I mean. I don’t belong there.”

“Of course you do.” Abigail’s heart twisted to see the wounded vulnerability on the man’s face, beneath his humorous fa?ade. “Church is for everyone,” she said. “And so is God. Did Jesus himself not eat with sinners and tax collectors?”

“You flatter me, Miss Foster.”

“I don’t mean that you—”

“Heavens, you are fun to tease.” He patted her arm. “No, no. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and shall consider what you say. But for now I will stay here. I will not interrupt the worship of all those good souls, and you can’t pretend my attendance wouldn’t do so. It is not as though I could sneak into the place, what with a mere two dozen parishioners?”

“Give or take,” Abigail allowed.

“There, you see. But I shall wait here for you. And . . . if you thought to include me in your prayers, I should not mind.”

“I shall indeed,” Abigail earnestly assured him.

After Sunday school that day, Abigail took Leah’s arm, planning to walk her home and hoping for a private chat on the way. She began, “If you are determined not to see Andrew Morgan, then I should like you to meet Miles. I know you don’t like strangers, but he isn’t—not really. He is a distant relative of my father’s and your former neighbor. And yes, he is a Pembrooke, but he’s very agreeable—and quite handsome.”

Leah protested, “Miss Foster, I don’t—”

Abigail looked up and paused, surprised to see the very man in question on the path. “There he is now. Come, let me introduce you.”

She tugged, but Leah froze like a statue, her arm as yielding as a stout branch.

Seeing them, Miles Pembrooke smiled and walked over, his limp less noticeable. Perhaps he made more effort to conceal it when meeting new people, or at least when meeting pretty ladies.

“We were just talking about you,” Abigail said and turned to Leah. “Miss Leah Chapman, may I introduce Mr. Miles Pembrooke.”

Abigail watched Miles for his reaction. Saw his eyes widen slightly and his expression soften as his gaze roved Leah’s gentle features, her large pretty eyes and honey-brown hair. His head tilted to one side as he regarded her in apparent admiration and . . . something else—curiosity, or perhaps recognition.

He bowed low to her. “Miss Chapman, what a pleasure.”

Leah stared at him. Dipped a stiff curtsy without removing her gaze from his face. Dare Abigail hope she was as taken by his handsome face and polite address as he obviously was with her beauty?

“Mr. . . . Pembrooke?” Leah echoed in a high, pinched voice.

“Yes. Miles,” he clarified, tilting his head to the other side. “I believe we have met before, Miss Chapman. When we were children. I don’t flatter myself you would recall.”

“Did we?” Leah asked almost timidly.

“Soon after you came home from school, I believe it was. Of course that was years ago. I no doubt made a nuisance of myself, mischievous boy that I was. At least, my sister always thought so.”

“Ah. Yes. Perhaps. Well. As you say, it was a long time ago.” Leah tried to extract her arm from Abigail’s, but Abigail held fast.

Leah swallowed and asked, “So . . . what are you doing here now, Mr. Pembrooke?”

“I wished to see my old home again—that’s all.”

“And where is the rest of your family?”

“My mother died last year, God rest her soul. My brother died not long after we left here.”

“I am—” it seemed as if the word stuck in Leah Chapman’s usually polite mouth—“sorry to hear it.”

“Are you? Or are you glad there are a few less Pembrookes in the world?” Miles’s grin did not reach his eyes.

Leah’s mouth slackened. “Of course I am not glad—”

“We are the last of a dying breed, you know,” Miles continued amiably. “My brother died young. My sister has had no children. And I have not been blessed with a spouse to shower with love as I have long wished for. And you, Miss Chapman? Dare I hope you are not yet attached?”

She paled. “I am not attached, nor have I plans to become so, especially . . .” She let her words trail away.

Hurt shone in his round eyes. “Especially to a man like me?”

“That’s not what I meant. But no, I could never become attached to a Pembrooke. No offense.”

He looked at her with a sad smile but said nothing.

Leah cleared her throat and asked, “Your sister is in good health?”

“Yes. Last I saw her.”

“And will you be staying long in the area?”

“I have not yet decided.”