The Secret of Pembrooke Park(99)

Introductions made, Mr. Foster led the way upstairs, leaving the unloading of trunks, bandboxes, and valises to the care of the lady’s maid and Pembrooke Park staff.

Louisa asked in a loud whisper, “Those can’t be all of the servants? Not for a place this size?”

“Yes,” Abigail answered in lower tones. “Though now you’re here, we shall have Marcel as well.”

“But we had more servants in London, and our house there wasn’t nearly as large.”

“Yes, well, we are making do. And you will too.”

As they walked along the upper gallery her father said, “Abigail has selected a room for each of you, so I shall let her do the honors.”

She hoped they would approve her choices. “Mamma, this is the mistress’s bedchamber, the match to Father’s room on the opposite side of the stairway. Your dressing room is through there. . . .”

Her mother entered and gazed appreciatively around the room—the fresh flowers on the polished side table and lace-covered dressing table, the sunlight spilling through the oriel window onto the floral bed-curtains and brightly woven plush carpet. “It’s lovely, Abigail. Thank you.”

Then Abigail briefly showed them the guest room where Miles had been staying, and explained he would return in a few days. They already knew about their guest through Abigail’s and Mr. Foster’s letters and were eager to meet him. Louisa especially.

Then Abigail led the way into the room she’d chosen for Louisa. “I thought you would like this room, Louisa. It’s in the newer part of the house, over the drawing room, with a lovely view of the rear courtyard and ponds beyond.”

Louisa glanced about the room and out its windows.

“I believe it’s one of the largest bedchambers,” her father added helpfully.

“Bigger than yours, Abby?” Louisa asked, one brow high.

“Yes. I chose one of the older, smaller bedchambers.”

“Why?”

“I like it. It was clearly the former daughter’s room, and still contains her old books and dolls’ house. Come, I’ll show you.”

She led the way back through the central gallery to her own room. She certainly hoped Louisa wouldn’t ask to switch. For she definitely saw it as her room now.

As they entered, Mrs. Foster enthused, “Look at this baby house! It’s lovely and very like Pembrooke Park, is it not?”

“Yes,” Abigail agreed. She eyed her sister surreptitiously as she surveyed the small four-poster bed and girlish furnishings and draperies.

If she expected any thanks for selecting this room and giving Louisa the far larger and brighter one, she would have been disappointed. Louisa said little, seeming to take the best room as her due. And in this instance, Abigail was only too glad of it, relieved by her sister’s vague smile and faint attempt at praising the window seat and garden view.

“Well,” Abigail said, “shall we go down for tea? You are both no doubt tired and hungry after your journey.”

Everyone agreed. As they went downstairs, Abigail was surprised to see William Chapman stepping out of the morning room, books in hand. Oh no. Not already . . .

He turned and hesitated at seeing them. “Forgive the intrusion, but I realized I’d left two books behind.”

“No intrusion at all,” Mr. Foster said with a smile. “You are just in time to be the first to meet my wife and younger daughter.” He turned to them. “My dear Mrs. Foster, may I introduce Mr. William Chapman, our curate.”

Mrs. Foster dipped her head. “How do you do, Mr. Chapman.”

William bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Foster. I think I speak for the entire parish when I say you are very welcome here. We have all looked forward to meeting you.”

“You are very kind. Thank you.” Mother stepped aside, revealing Louisa, who’d come down the stairs behind her. “And this is our younger daughter, Miss Louisa Foster.”

Louisa dipped a dainty curtsy and smiled sweetly up at the man.

Abigail held her breath, every muscle tight, and forced herself to look at William, to watch his expression like a person watching two carriages about to collide.

His broad mouth, the lips so often quirked in irony, drooped as if dumbfounded. His eyes widened, his brows rose high. He darted a glance toward Abigail and her parents, blinked, and then faltered, “Miss . . . Louisa. How . . . good to meet you. At last.”

Abigail’s heart sank. Her stomach twisted until she felt she might be sick there and then.

Louisa’s smile widened, and her eyes twinkled knowingly, on familiar territory with a stunned-speechless admirer.

“Have we met before, Mr. Chapman?” she asked.

“I . . . no. I have not had that pleasure.”

“Ah. You look vaguely familiar, so I thought . . . but my mistake.”

Abigail pressed her eyes closed and whispered a silent prayer for composure. And that the man would leave quickly.

Instead her father said, “We were just about to have tea, Mr. Chapman. Would you care to join us?”

He hesitated, clearly conflicted. “I . . . thank you, but no. I am afraid pressing parish business calls. Perhaps another time?”

“Of course.”

Relieved, Abigail said, “Yes, I’m sure you are very busy. Don’t let us keep you.”