The Secret of Pembrooke Park(98)
Her hand reached out, following her gaze. William watched her movements, eyes uncertain.
She touched his shoulder lightly. “Does that hurt?”
Voice thick, he murmured, “Not . . . exactly.”
“I am so glad it’s going to heal.”
She retracted her hand, but he captured it in his, holding it to his heart.
He held her gaze and whispered, “Yes. I believe it will.”
Abigail returned to the house in a warm, weak-kneed daze. But in the morning, in the light of day, without the magic of moonlight and water and a half-naked man, her better judgment returned. What had she been thinking? How was touching William Chapman—allowing him to touch her, to take her hand and kiss her cheek—going to help her? She was supposed to be shielding her heart, preparing for disappointment.
She groaned, sighed, and determined to do better.
Chapter 20
Miles left to visit his sister for a few days. And, Abigail guessed, to give the Fosters time to settle in as a family without a guest to worry about. Abigail thought it kind of him to do so but didn’t doubt he would soon return.
On Monday, she stood beside her father as the hired post chaise rattled up the drive. The postilion expertly reined in the horses and brought the coach to a smooth halt before the manor. Abigail fidgeted, unaccountably nervous. Her father stood beside her, hands behind his back and rocking on his heels in anticipation, standing with pride before his manor house, awaiting their impressed reactions. She hoped he would not be disappointed.
The groom opened the door, let down the step, and held up a hand to assist first her mother, then Louisa. Both ladies were dressed in the height of fashion in smart new carriage dresses and matching bonnets. Even the lady’s maid, the last to descend, was smartly dressed. Abigail suddenly felt shabby in her printed muslin day dress.
“My dears!” Mamma held wide her arms and walked toward them.
Her father broke his pose long enough to step from the arched doorway to kiss his wife’s upturned cheek. Then she turned a sweet smile Abigail’s way and enfolded her in a warm embrace. Instantly, Abigail repented of every resentful thought she’d ever had about her mother favoring Louisa. In fact she felt tears prick her eyes. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how much she had missed her mother these last few months.
Louisa walked forward more slowly, and Abigail was reminded anew of how beautiful she was. Her sister’s dark hair was similar to hers, but her eyes were blue compared to Abigail’s ordinary brown ones. Her cheeks were rounder, her lips and bosom fuller.
Louisa tipped her head back to take in the stately fa?ade of the house. “It’s certainly big enough,” she said.
“It is, isn’t it.” Her father beamed proudly. “And just wait until you see the rooms, and all the grand furniture. And how Abigail and I have been longing to hear you play the fine old pianoforte.”
Louisa accepted her father’s kiss, and then turned to her. “Abby. I am happy to see you. I’ve missed you.”
“Have you? I’m surprised you’ve had time to miss me.”
“True. But on Sundays, or rainy days when we were trapped indoors with Aunt Bess, then I definitely missed you. What a whirlwind it’s been.” Louisa took her arm, and together they followed their parents toward the house.
“I can only imagine,” Abigail said. “But you enjoyed yourself, I gather—from Mamma’s letters?”
“Oh yes. It was glorious. A huge success.”
She did not, however, mention an offer of marriage, thought by many to be the crowning achievement of a truly successful season, but Abigail didn’t ask. There would be plenty of time to hear all the details—and boasting—later.
Their father smiled over his shoulder at them. “No dawdling, girls. The staff are eager to meet you.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t have them all lined up outside to greet us, Papa,” Louisa said.
His smile dimmed fractionally. “We wanted to greet you ourselves first. And have a moment alone as a family. But they have been busy preparing for your arrival.”
“Do curtail your expectations a little,” Abigail added nervously. “It is a very old house after all and was neglected for many years.”
“But Abigail and the servants have worked hard to put it to rights,” her father insisted. “Come in and see.” He held the door, ushering them inside.
Both Mother and Louisa looked up in pleasure at the soaring great hall with its grand staircase, the chandeliers and many formal portraits. Father led them through the ground-floor rooms with many sweepings of arm and barely contained smiles, his chest puffed out with pride, as though he had designed and built the place himself—or as if he really were lord of the manor.
Abigail, on the other hand, suddenly noticed minor flaws she’d missed when she’d walked through these rooms alone. They now leapt out at her in high relief. The loopy threads of a cobweb hanging from the candelabra in the dining room, and another in the corner of the crown molding. The shabby upholstery of the sofa in the drawing room. The dingy windows and musty smell of old books and dry leather in the library. Why had she or the maids not noticed these things before?
Molly, likely the appointed sentry, alerted Mrs. Walsh, and when the Fosters returned to the hall, the servants had assembled—Mrs. Walsh in austere black dress, the housemaids and kitchen maid in their best frocks and aprons, while Duncan wore a black coat and a crisp neckcloth, his hair for once combed smooth.