The Secret of Pembrooke Park(85)

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Mr. Foster said with a wry twist to his lips, but his eyes shone at his guest’s praise.

Miles looked at her with a knowing grin. “And wise to put him on the ground level, sir, away from the family bedchambers. A clergyman cannot be too careful—one’s reputation is not to be trifled with.”

Was that a barb directed at her? Abigail wondered. Her father had shown no such scruple about keeping Miles Pembrooke away from the family bedchambers. But then again, he considered him family and therefore harmless.

Abigail hoped he was right.

After dinner, Abigail gathered her courage, reminding herself it was perfectly acceptable for a hostess to check on her injured houseguest. The morning room door stood ajar, which made her feel more comfortable in approaching and knocking softly on the jamb.

“Come,” Mr. Chapman called in reply.

She pushed wide the door but remained in the threshold. William lay on the sofa, cocooned in bedclothes, his wrapped arm propped on a cushion. Hands, face, and hair scrubbed clean.

“Just checking to see if you have everything you need.”

“I do. Thank you.”

She glanced about the room. “Where is your father? I thought he was staying with you tonight?”

“He is. But he insisted on going to Mr. Brown’s for laudanum. He should be back shortly.”

She winced in empathy. “Is the pain very bad?”

“I’ve felt better,” he allowed.

“I . . . should leave you. If there is nothing I can do.”

“Stay and talk to me until he returns. Won’t be long. I could use a pleasant distraction.”

“Of course—if you like.” Leaving the door open behind her, she crossed the room and sat in an armchair facing the sofa.

Closer now, she noticed the tension in his jaw and mouth, as if gritting his teeth against the pain.

He asked, “How is Mr. Pembrooke taking the news?”

“Actually, he congratulated my father on his largesse.”

He chuckled. “I am sorry if I accused him unjustly. And I do hope you are . . . comfortable with my being here.”

“I don’t know if that is the word I would use, but I definitely approve of my father’s decision to ask you to stay.”

“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully, watching her with a measuring look.

For a few moments they sat in companionable silence.

Knowing he wished her to distract him, she said, “It was kind of Miles to go for the surgeon today.”

“I agree. Though perhaps shortsighted.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Mr. Brown told me something interesting about Mr. Pembrooke while he was tending my wounds. Granted, I was distracted by the pain, but I am fairly certain I heard correctly. Did not Miles say his limp was the result of an old war wound?”

“He mentioned that, yes. Though he might have been jesting to brush it off lightly.”

“Or to avoid uncomfortable questions, perhaps.”

She frowned, remembering Duncan’s doubts on the subject. “Why? What did Mr. Brown tell you?”

“He said he recalled Miles as a lad, when he lived here with his family. He was called in to set his leg—broken, apparently, during a fall down the stairs.”

“No . . .” Abigail breathed, her heart twisting at the thought of a young boy falling down those many stairs.

William nodded. “He also intimated that the family did not immediately call him. And by the time they did, he was unable to set the leg as well as he would have liked. Mr. Brown said he suggested they take the boy to the hospital in Bath, but as far as he knows, they never went. He said it disappointed him, seeing Miles limp after all these years, and wished he’d been able to do more for him.”

Abigail bit her lip as she considered, then asked, “Don’t tell anyone else, all right? I’d like to talk to him myself.”

“I won’t.” He reached across the distance and pressed her hand. “You have a compassionate heart, Abigail Foster.”

Or a foolish heart, she thought but did not say so.



Abigail left Mr. Chapman and joined Miles in the drawing room for coffee. She found him staring out the window at the twilight sky, idly rolling the handle of a spoon between his fingers. As usual her father had remained in the dining room to smoke after dinner.

She sat across from him and began, “I understand Mr. Brown was called in to treat you here when you were a boy.”

Miles lowered his eyes, his long lashes fanning over his cheek. “Ah . . .” he murmured. He smiled a sad little smile and continued to roll the spoon in his hand. “And I suppose he told you I broke my leg in an accident?”

“Yes. A fall down the stairs. Though perhaps you reinjured it in battle . . . ?”

She waited, watching the curtain of thoughts and emotions shifting across his golden-brown eyes.

He looked at her, then away again. “I did fall, yes. Clumsy Miles. But with so many injured in the war, I find it easier to call it an old war wound. Better to be one of the honorable veterans, injured in a noble cause, than a cripple since boyhood, an object of pity or scorn.”

Abigail’s heart ached for him, and she wished she had kept her mouth shut.

He shrugged. “It was not a complete fabrication. I did serve in the navy. An attempt to follow in my father’s footsteps. To make up for all the other ways I had disappointed him. I bound my leg and hid my limp as best I could. It worked, for a time. I wasn’t the strongest sailor, but I was clever, and worked my way up. But in the end, I hadn’t the stomach for fighting. My father always told me I was too soft. And he was right.” His mouth twisted. “So far.”