The Secret of Pembrooke Park(84)
“It is a very kind offer, but—”
“You may have your pick of the empty rooms upstairs. Or we might fit out this room, if you prefer, so he doesn’t have to negotiate the stairs.”
“I am not an invalid,” William objected. “But even so, I must say the notion appeals to me. For one, if I might have this room here at the front of the house, I could keep an eye on the parsonage. If the fire was the work of vandals, I would be on hand to see their return.”
He glanced at Miss Foster to gauge her reaction and then addressed her father. “I sincerely appreciate the offer, Mr. Foster. And hopefully after a few days, the worst of the smoke will have cleared and I will be able to make sufficient repairs to return.”
“That seems a bit optimistic, Will,” Mac said. “I think the damage is worse than you realize.”
Mr. Foster said, “You are welcome to stay as long as need be. We don’t mind at all. Do we, my dear?”
Miss Foster’s face remained impassive, her hands folded primly before her. “Not at all, Papa.”
Abigail walked out of the room with her father, leaving Mr. Chapman to rest, while Mac went to gather necessities for his son.
When they were out of earshot, she said, “That was very kind of you, Papa.”
He said, “You know, I quite liked doing it. I must say I was surprised by the surge of . . . em, patronage I felt. I suppose this is what it must feel like to be of the manor born, to experience a paternal fondness for one’s tenants and neighbors. A compulsion toward condescension and benevolence. Yes, I could quite get used to being lord of Pembrooke Park.”
His words stirred warnings in Abigail. “Be careful not to grow too accustomed to it, Papa. Remember what Mr. Arbeau said. You have not inherited the place. You are merely its tenant.”
“For now, yes. But once the tangle of the will is figured out . . . who knows?”
“Miles Pembrooke knows, I would imagine. Or his sister perhaps.”
He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I could see myself here. Doing . . . this. Forever.”
She touched his arm. “We shall enjoy it while we can, Papa. But try not to become too attached to the place, all right? I would hate to see you disappointed again.”
He patted her hand. “That’s my Abigail. Always the practical one.”
Her brave smile faltered. “Yes. That’s me.” She added, “I don’t mean to steal your joy, Papa, and I quite agree with you—you would make an excellent lord of the manor, as you say. In fact, I was quite proud of you just now when you offered Mr. Chapman a place to stay.”
He sent her a sidelong glance. “Yes, I thought you might like that.”
She looked up at him in surprise, relieved to see no censure in his expression but rather an understanding light in his eyes. She tried to act nonchalant, as if she had no idea what he meant, but she could not quite stifle a small grin.
The grin faded, however, when she thought of Miles Pembrooke. He would not be happy to learn he was no longer their only houseguest.
Chapter 17
And so, feeling eager and self-conscious, Abigail oversaw the arrangements to settle William Chapman in Pembrooke Park’s morning room—an informal parlor with large windows where a family might spend time together reading, playing games, or doing needlework.
Mac returned to the parsonage and brought back a valise of William’s least smoky clothes. His mother and sisters took the rest home to be cleaned. While they were gone, Abigail and the servants fitted up the sofa with proper bedding, and brought down a small bedstead from the attic for Mac, who was determined to stay with his son for at least that first night to make sure he fared well, had everything he needed, and didn’t trouble the Fosters inordinately.
This answered the question in Abigail’s mind of who would help William dress and bathe, since his burned arm was wrapped and not terribly useful. With Mac there, she would not yet have to ask much more of Duncan, who would not be eager to serve Mr. Chapman.
Mrs. Walsh, however, was only too eager to have a Chapman under the same roof to cook for and immediately went about preparing a selection of healthful soups and jellies, as though William were ill and not simply injured. She refused Kate Chapman’s offer to send over food, saying, “I would enjoy nothing better than cooking for our curate. You’ll not rob me of that pleasure, I trust?”
Mrs. Walsh brought the tray up herself that evening, making a fuss over William. He thanked her warmly, but said, “Only for tonight, mind. I shan’t let you spoil me for long. I’m not really an invalid, Mrs. Walsh, though I do appreciate all the trouble you are taking over me.”
“Aye, and what else would I do?” She winked and told him she wouldn’t be satisfied until he had eaten every bowl clean.
She offered to bring a tray for Mac as well. He politely but firmly refused. “I shall go home to Kate’s table. Don’t want her getting jealous,” he teased lightly, “or our cook, for that matter.” But a wary glint in his eye made Abigail wonder if he had other reasons for not wanting to dine in Pembrooke Park.
Abigail ate in the dining room as usual that evening, with her father and Mr. Pembrooke. When her father mentioned William Chapman was in residence, Miles surprised her by reacting with apparent approbation.
“You are all goodness, Mr. Foster,” he said. “I declare. I am quite proud to be related to you. First you invite me to stay and then our poor injured curate. Your generosity knows no bounds.”