The Secret of Pembrooke Park(87)

“I agree. But don’t worry, we shall look after William until you return.”

“Much obliged, Miss Foster.”

Abigail went belowstairs to talk to Duncan but discovered his room empty. Where was he at this hour? Out drinking at the public house? Meeting Eliza?

Drawn by Abigail’s knocking, Mrs. Walsh peeped out of her own room across the passage, her hair in paper wrappers. Abigail asked if she knew where Duncan was, but the housekeeper said she thought he’d gone to bed and was surprised to learn his room was empty.

Abigail borrowed paper and ink from Mrs. Walsh and left a note for Duncan, asking him to check on Mr. Chapman when he returned, and to take him fresh water in the morning. The note would also serve to let the man know she was aware of—and not pleased with—his late-night absence.

She sighed, resigned to go upstairs and ask her father to look in on William. Remembering Miles’s comment about reputations, she doubted it would be proper for her to do so. Crossing the hall, she paused outside the morning room door, to assure herself William Chapman slept on, undisturbed. If so, she would let her father sleep awhile longer. Perhaps Duncan would return soon and she wouldn’t have to wake her father. His “lord of the manor” condescension might not extend to middle-of-the-night visits to his houseguest’s sickbed.

She pressed her ear to the closed door, but a groan broke the silence she’d hoped for. Her heart banged against her ribs, and her stomach plummeted. All thoughts of propriety fled.

She inched open the door and peered in. Mac had left a candle lamp glowing on a side table, which illuminated William’s form on the makeshift bed. Seeing he was dressed in nightshirt and covered by bedclothes, she opened the door wider and tiptoed inside. Again she heard a pitiful groan.

She cautiously approached. His eyes were closed, but his face was bunched up in a grimace of pain, or anxiety.

“Noooo,” he moaned. “Leah . . .”

She was startled to hear him calling for his sister. He must be having a nightmare.

Abigail bent near. “Mr. Chapman?” she whispered. “William?” When he didn’t respond, she gently touched his arm. “You’re all right. Just a dream.”

She had heard laudanum could give people horrid nightmares, sometimes even hallucinations. She hoped the surgeon hadn’t prescribed too great a dose.

“You’re all right,” she repeated, gently shaking his arm.

Slowly, groggily, he opened his eyes. He looked at her with a bleary gaze.

“You were having a nightmare,” she said quietly, kneeling on the footstool. “I only came in to wake you. Are you all right?”

“Leah?” He looked past her, toward the door.

“She is at home in bed. Sound asleep, no doubt. You are here in Pembrooke Park—do you remember?”

“Leah was here too,” he murmured. His expression tightened in alarm. “Hiding in the secret room. He was coming for her.”

Leah, in the secret room? Abigail thought. Someone coming for her? What a dream for him to have.

“Only a nightmare,” she repeated.

“Was it? It seemed so real.” He sighed. “What a relief.”

His expression relaxed, and he took a slow, deep breath.

“Are you all right now?” she asked. “Are you in pain?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth in a lopsided grin. “The pain is a distant thing—off shore. I feel . . . good.” His gaze roamed her face. “Abigail Foster is at my bedside . . .” His eyes twinkled. “How can I not feel good? In fact, I feel very . . . warm.”

His hand found hers, and he entwined his long fingers around her shorter ones. “Like . . . warm jelly that hasn’t set. My bones are soft. Your skin is soft. So soft . . .” He looked down at her pale wrist as though it were an awe-inspiring sight, and ran a thumb over it.

It sent a thrill of pleasure up her arm.

She supposed she now knew how William Chapman would behave were he ever foxed. And considering he stayed away from liquor, this was likely as close as he would ever come. She hoped he wouldn’t feel the worse for it when the laudanum wore off. She wondered if he would even remember this conversation in the morning.

His voice thick, he said, “I’ve never seen you with your hair down.” He reached out and captured the end of a dark curl and caressed it between his thumb and fingers.

She bowed her head, embarrassed and self-conscious, yet at the same time supremely aware of her femininity, her long dark hair falling on either side of her face and over her shoulders like a veil.

“Sorry. I had already dressed for bed.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to meet his earnest gaze.

He continued to hold her hand, and she continued to let him. His eyes took on that dazed quality once more. He said languidly, “Abigail Foster in my bedchamber at night. I must be dreaming . . .”

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a slow kiss to one fingertip after another. “Mulberries . . .” he murmured. “I find I like them after all.”

He gave her a roguish grin.

“You are feeling very pleased with yourself,” she observed.

“Of course I am. You are with me, so I am on top of the world . . . yet strangely numb to the world at the same time.”