The Secret of Pembrooke Park(96)

“I agree with him,” Abigail said eagerly. “How would you feel about an entry porch or small conservatory to shield the sitting room from the worst of the weather whenever the front door is opened? Or you might even add a study, with an extra bedchamber above. . . .”

He raised a quizzical brow. “Is that what you’ve been drawing? The parsonage?”

She ducked her head, hoping to hide her blush. “I was only playing around, as I said.”

He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

“No, it’s nowhere near ready for anyone to see. Merely rough sketches for my amusement.”

He looked at her with a fond smile overtaking his face. “I am touched by your interest, Miss Foster. And if it were my personal home, I would trust your judgment implicitly and eagerly discuss your every idea. But as it is, I would have to get the rector’s approval, who in turn would likely have to get the approval of the estate executor or trustees. I doubt they’d approve or finance any more than rudimentary repairs.”

He tilted his head and looked at her, eyes warm as they lingered on her face. “I must say, I quite like the idea of adding rooms to the parsonage. If I had someone to share it with me.”

Abigail felt her cheeks heat, pleasure and embarrassment warring within her. She found she could not hold his intense gaze.

He stepped nearer. “Miss Foster . . . Abigail . . . May I call you Abigail?”

“I . . .”

“Abby!” her father called, rushing into the library, waving an open letter in the air. He drew up short at seeing William. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Chapman. I did not know you were here.”

“That’s all right, sir,” William said, stepping back.

“We were just discussing repairs to the parsonage,” Abigail said. “What is it?”

“A letter from your mother. She and Louisa will be joining us early next week. Is that not good news?”

Louisa is coming already? Abigail’s stomach sank. She said, “But that is sooner than we expected. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. But I gather they are weary of the constant rounds of balls and callers. And your mother may have hinted that too much of dear Aunt Bess can be tiring as well.” He grinned.

Abigail nodded. “She is a dear, but yes, I can imagine it must be difficult to be a houseguest for so long. . . .” She looked at William. “I don’t refer to you, of course, Mr. Chapman. You have only been here a short while.”

“And I shan’t be in your way much longer.”

“No hurry at all.” She looked back at her father. “What day do they plan to arrive?”

“Monday, if they can hire a decent coach. If not, Tuesday.”

Time to start sheilding her heart. She squared her shoulders. “Well, I have a great deal to prepare. Thank you for letting me know so promptly, Papa. Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Chapman . . .”

“Of course.” William’s eyes narrowed in concern as he studied her face. “Are you . . . Is everything all right?”

“Of course.” She smiled brightly but could not leave the room fast enough.



William felt restless. His first night sleeping in the parsonage again after his few days in London and his nights at Pembrooke Park. Living under the same roof as Miss Foster, he’d been ever aware of her movements. Where she might be at various times of the day, looking for her to come down the stairs in the morning, and anticipating shared meals with pleasure. Yes, he’d had to put up with Miles Pembrooke at those meals, but it had been worth it to be in her company.

Now he was back living on his own. The roof and walls temporarily patched. He felt the emptiness, the solitude of the place, as he never had before. He’d missed her in London and he missed her now. Which was ridiculous, he told himself, because she was right across the drive. Even so, he missed being near her.

He paced his small sitting room for a time and then, giving up, peeled off his coat, shirt, shoes, and stockings. He would go for a nighttime swim. He used to swim often in the river in summertime. But with people living in the manor, he’d been less willing to do so. Why not? It was late and still warm, and the moon was full. Mr. Brown had removed his restrictions on bathing during his last visit. His arm was healed and his shoulder well on its way to recovery.

He took a threadbare towel with him and quietly slipped from the parsonage. Pembrooke Park was quiet. No lights shone in the windows. He was safe from discovery.

He found his old spot where the bank gradually sloped to the water and waded in, then dove beneath the gently moving current. Ahh . . . The cool water felt good on his skin, on his shoulder, on his every part. Peace enveloped him. He was able to forget, for a little while, his troubles, his suspicions, and a certain female neighbor.

Abigail stopped in her tracks and stared. Was she hallucinating? There beneath a tree along the riverbank hovered a ghostly white figure. Heart lodged in her throat, Abigail could not scream. The pale figure did not look like a mortal man. No dark coat or boots marred the unbroken white of his being.

There is no such thing as ghosts, she told herself.

Even so, she stood there, unable to run, every muscle tense, waiting for the specter to fly at her, to pounce, to—

“Miss Foster . . . ?” a voice asked. It was not a ghostly voice but rather an earthly one she easily recognized. Relief was quickly replaced with . . . shocking awareness.