The Secret of Pembrooke Park(91)
A few chuckled, including the blacksmith himself.
William continued, “And yes, adequate means make life easier. Or so I hear.” He grinned at that. “Though often need draws us close to God like plenty never can.”
At this point, William hesitated. Should he? Dare he confront the issue directly? Taking a deep breath, he plunged ahead. “Throughout history, stories and myths have included the lure of treasure—whether chests of pirate gold or the goose that laid the golden egg. And local lore whispers about hidden treasure much nearer at hand.”
Miss Foster blinked up at him. Mr. Pembrooke’s eyes shone with amused irritation. Around the nave, people exchanged uneasy glances.
“Can you imagine the waste of a life spent searching for a treasure that doesn’t exist? Or of hiding a treasure, only to have thieves break in and steal it? Or to finally unearth the long-sought treasure, only to find it rusted and destroyed? Worthless?”
Miles Pembrooke frowned.
“Where are you investing your time, attention, love, and talents?” William asked. “In earthly matters or eternal ones? Where do your affections lie? What does your heart seek above all else?”
He nodded to his father, who read, “‘But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”
When he finished, William said, “When I discovered the parsonage was in flames—my bed, my belongings, my books—of course I tried to put out the fire. And because the parsonage belongs not only to me but to the entire parish, I perhaps tried even harder than I would have done, were it mine alone. But I can honestly say, that my thoughts during those tense moments were not for my belongings. I was thinking of those dearest to me. Of the safety of those helping me. Of what it would do to my family were I injured or killed. And the loss to all of you, should the fire spread to the church itself.
“No, I am not happy that my favorite green coat was burned or my university gown ruined. You shall grow tired of seeing me in my black forms, no doubt.” Again he smiled. “But I am not devastated. The parsonage does not hold my real treasure. My faith, my soul, my greatest treasure lies not within four walls, or my purse, nor any possession. My hope is in God alone.” Again he let his gaze travel slowly over his parishioners. “And I pray the same for each of you.”
Abigail released a long breath and unclenched her hands, relieved the uncomfortable sermon had ended. Mr. Chapman turned next to the offertory, and Mac collected the alms for the poor. Holy Communion followed, but Miles, she noticed, did not go forward to receive the bread and wine. Did he see himself as unworthy? Weren’t they all?
When the service concluded, people didn’t linger as long as usual, eager to walk over to the Chapmans’ to be first in line for tea, cider, and biscuits.
“You two go ahead,” Miles said. “I’m going back to the house. I’ve caused enough stir for one day, I think. My work here is done.” He winked. “And on the Sabbath no less.”
Her father said, “You know, my dear, I am not sure I am eager for a community-wide chat just now either.”
“Then no need,” Abigail said. “We’ll all go home. We may have to wait for our dinner, however, for I wouldn’t dream of asking Mrs. Walsh and the others to forgo the pleasure.”
Mr. Morgan senior stopped to talk to her father, so Miles and Abigail waited on the edges of the exiting crowd. Several people, she noticed, stopped to thank Mr. Chapman for the sermon, warmly shaking his hand. She was happy for him. True to form, Mrs. Peterman stopped to give her opinion as well, and from the look on her face, it was not favorable. Poor William.
Miles said, “I think our friend Mr. Chapman has missed his calling. He ought to have been one of Wesley’s itinerant preachers. You don’t suppose that sermon was directed at anyone in particular—do you, Miss Foster?”
She noticed the twinkle in his eye, and said, “Perhaps. But I think it had something to say to all of us.”
“Not you, Miss Foster. Surely you have not been tempted after treasure?”
She sent a guarded glance toward her father, and seeing him still engrossed in conversation, quietly admitted, “It has crossed my mind.”
His brows rose. “Delightful! Nothing like a little healthy competition.”
She shrugged. “No point for me to search, really. The treasure wouldn’t be mine to claim. I would no doubt have to surrender anything I found to the estate.”
“Ah. Then you don’t know about the reward?”
She looked at him, not believing they were having this conversation right after Mr. Chapman’s sermon.
Miles explained, “My father was so convinced there was a significant treasure, possibly an entire room full of treasure, that he put up a portion of his own prize money and offered it as a reward, hoping some reluctant servant would suddenly recall the location of the supposed treasure. The reward has never been retracted; it is still held in trust by the solicitor, ready to be claimed.”
Abigail took it in. If true, it put a different perspective on things. There might be hope for the Foster finances—and her dowry—yet.
He leaned near and whispered a sum. The reward was sizeable. It would not replace all the money her father had lost, but it would allow her to make some recompense. And yes, she could replace her dowry. Not enough to draw fortune hunters, but if a man already held her in high regard, might a tidy sum sweeten her charms and win over any reluctant parents?