The Secret of Pembrooke Park(89)

“Yes, I know you did,” she drawled.

He looked up at her, mildly alarmed. “Oh dear.”

Abigail stepped forward. “Here, let me help you.” She pulled the frock coat around him and helped him angle his arm into the sleeve, gently tugging the lining over the bandages.

“Thank you.” He asked, “Did I . . . talk in my sleep? I sometimes do, Jacob tells me.”

“I’m not sure how much was sleep and how much was the effect of the laudanum.”

“That bad, eh? Not sure I want to ask what I said.”

She playfully narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t so much what you said, as what you did.”

His eyes widened, then sparked with humor. “You are enjoying teasing me, I see. Or perhaps tormenting is the better word.” He added, “I do hope I didn’t embarrass myself, or you.”

“Nothing to worry about. Shall I help you tie your cravat? I’ve often helped my father.”

“If you like. I’m not sure I can manage with only one good arm, but I can do without or wait for my father, if you prefer.”

“I don’t mind, if you don’t.” She lifted the long swath of linen cloth from the back of the chair and circled it around his neck once, then again, pulling it snug, but not too tight.

“Do you plan to strangle me?”

“Probably not.” She grinned and began tying a simple barrel knot. With him seated, and her standing near his knees, his head reached her about shoulder level. She felt self-conscious performing the little domestic chore, yet the light of admiration shining in his eyes boosted her confidence.

He smiled up at her and said, “You know, as sorry as I am that the parsonage was burned, I cannot be truly sorry that I have ended up here, in your company. Something good from the bad, I suppose. God excels at that.”

His words, his nearness, made her feel strangely warm, and her stomach tingled. As she straightened the cravat around his neck, her fingertips brushed his chin. The same fingertips he had kissed last night. She wondered what he would do if she leaned down and planted a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek, or if she dared, his lips. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought. And what would she do if he pulled her onto his lap, wrapped his good arm around her, and soundly kissed her? Would she slap his face? Reprove him there and then, or send her father in to do so? She doubted she would do any of those things. Not when a part of her wished he would do just that.

Feeling nervous, she changed the subject. “Do you remember your nightmare last night? You groaned in your sleep. I had to wake you.”

He squinted in concentration. “I don’t think so.”

“You called for Leah. You were clearly frightened for her.”

Eyes distant in recollection, he murmured, “Oh yes . . .”

“You said something about her hiding in the secret room and that someone was coming for her.”

He stilled, then his mouth formed an O. “Did I?”

She nodded, watching his face.

He chuckled rather lamely. “That is a strange thing to dream . . . or to say.”

“Is it?” she asked.

For a moment their gazes met and held. He opened his mouth as if to reply, but at that moment, footsteps sounded behind them.

She stepped back abruptly and said a bit too brightly, “There. That should do it.”

She looked guiltily over her shoulder. Her stomach sank.

Miles stood there, eyes alight. “Who is hiding in the secret room?”

Abigail said quickly, “Mr. Chapman had a nightmare. That’s all it was.”

“A nightmare?” Miles echoed, shaking his head. “Sounds like a dream come true to me.”



The following day, William left behind his invalid status and joined the Fosters in the dining room for the evening meal. This ought to be interesting, he thought. And perhaps a test of his forbearance as well as his tact, what with Miles Pembrooke seated across from him and Duncan serving at table, along with two housemaids. He hoped the maids would keep the resentful man from spitting in his soup. Or worse.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, William asked Mr. Foster questions about his boyhood. While he was at it, he asked what Miss Foster had been like as a young girl, and her father obliged with tales of how, by the age of six, she had started organizing the nursery and arranging her pinafores by days of the week, and keeping the rest of the family in line.

Miss Foster ducked her head, a becoming blush on her cheeks. “Papa . . .” she gently protested.

But William could tell she enjoyed the fondness and pride in her father’s eyes and in his tone of voice. Who wouldn’t?

He found his gaze drawn across the table to Miles Pembrooke. Had his father ever praised or fondly teased him? Somehow he doubted the man had ever known a father’s love or approval. William’s heart twisted at the thought, and he determined to make more of an effort with him.

He asked Miles about his travels and politely avoided the sore subject of his family. Miles obliged with tales of his time in Gibraltar, all of them determinedly ignoring Duncan’s snort heard from the servery.

Then William decided he would attempt to pique Miles’s interest in God—the true source of unconditional love every human heart longed for—by first encouraging him to attend church.

“You ought to join us on Sunday, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “My sermon is about your favorite topic.”