The Secret of Pembrooke Park (19 page)

The couples stepped forward and back twice, then released hands. Each honored his partner, then turned to honor his corner. The men joined hands and circled around before bowing to their partners, then their corners once more. Then the ladies followed suit.

“Lovely partner, Mr. Chapman,” Abigail said when the dance brought them together.

He nodded. “I agree.” He held her hand a little longer than the dance required and looked into her eyes. “Though not as pretty as my first.”

The pattern was then repeated in the opposite direction. When Gilbert reclaimed Abigail’s hand at last, he said, “I’d forgot what a good dancer you are.”

She caught Mr. Chapman’s eye across the square. “I’ve had quite a bit of practice lately.”

Gilbert smiled. “It shows.”

Abigail now and again glanced at Andrew Morgan and Leah as they danced. The man couldn’t take his eyes off her, masked or not. Leah, for her part, tried in vain to suppress the smile on her pretty face. It was the happiest Abigail had ever seen her.

Before they parted for the night, Gilbert asked Abigail to name a time for him to call the following day. They settled on two o’clock, though Abigail said she would be at her leisure all afternoon.

He bowed over her hand, then looked up at her, eyes sparkling. Abigail’s heart squeezed to see such warmth and fondness in Gilbert’s eyes. It had been too long.

Don’t
be a simpleton.
He is just being friendly.
She reminded herself that she was the only person Gilbert really knew there, so of course he would seek her out. They were comfortable with each other. They had history. Their families were old friends. She told herself all this with her practical sensible mind, but her foolish heart still beat a little too hard.

While they waited for the Morgans’ coach-and-four to be brought around, William stood companionably with Miss Foster. His sister stood a few yards away, talking to Andrew. They had already bid him and his parents farewell, but Andrew had insisted on escorting Leah out, clearly reluctant to let her go.

He felt Miss Foster’s gaze on his profile. She asked quietly, “Was it awkward for you? With Andrew’s sister there?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“I hope you don’t mind. But Mrs. Webb mentioned you once courted her.”

“Ah.” He lifted his chin in understanding. “Actually, it was not as bad as I would have guessed. I confess having you there with me was quite a balm.”

She looked up at him sharply.

Concern filling him, he said, “Forgive me. I don’t mean to presume anything about our . . . friendship. But even if you think me an absolute dunderhead, the fact that Rebekah Garwood saw me enjoying myself with a beautiful woman eased the sting. Not to mention nipping in the bud any supposition that I hope to wrangle another chance with her, now that she is widowed.”

Miss Foster pressed her lips together, then asked, “You don’t wish another chance with her?”

He looked at her, surprised at her boldness. He inhaled and looked up at the night sky as he considered the question. Then he met her gaze and said quietly, “Not anymore.”

William watched her face. Did she believe him? Was she relieved?
He hesitated to ask the same question of her. He had seen her with Mr. Scott. Seen the way the young man looked at her, his proprietary air as he escorted her across the room. The easy familiarity in which he held her hand and smiled into her face as they danced and laughed together.

The sight had filled William with an uncomfortably sickly feeling he recognized as jealousy—stronger even than what he had felt when Rebekah broke things off with him in favor of Mr. Garwood. He didn’t like it—knew it to be an unworthy emotion. But heaven help him, he felt it all the same.

The carriage arrived, and the groom opened the door for them, giving a hand up to both Miss Foster and Leah. Then William climbed in after them and, after vacillating for a second, sat beside his sister. Andrew stood at the window and gave them all a final farewell.

William glanced at Leah, saw the contented smile there, and hoped it would remain, even as he doubted it.

As the coach rumbled away, something William saw outside the window drew him upright. There, through the throng of waiting carriages and horses, passed a figure in a full-length green cloak, like those worn by naval officers on deck during storms. Why would anyone wear a deep hood on such a fine night, unless he meant to conceal his identity? Was it the same person he and Miss Foster had seen crossing the bridge near Pembrooke Park?

William’s pulse rate accelerated. He glanced in concern at his sister, fearing she would see the figure as well, but was relieved to see her gazing idly out the opposite window, a dreamy smile still hovering on her lips. He would not be the one to send it flying by drawing her attention to a sight that would surely frighten her. So he said nothing.

Perhaps he was wrong. It had been a masquerade ball, after all. Perhaps the cloak was part of some man’s costume. He hoped that’s all it was. Even so, he would have to tell his father. Just in case.

E
ven though Abigail was tired from being up late the night before, she resisted the urge to sleep in, rising only an hour past her usual time. She summoned Polly by a pull of the bell cord, when the kind young woman no doubt intended to let her sleep, not even tiptoeing inside to turn back the shutters. Abigail went to the washstand, resigned to the notion of washing her face in last night’s cold water, but was surprised and pleased to find it warm. Polly had snuck in without waking her. The housemaid was certainly skilled. Thoughtful in the bargain.

While she waited, Abigail washed for the day and began brushing out her hair, extra full and curly from the night before. She thought back to Polly’s eager questions when she had helped her undress after the ball. Her maid had wanted every detail, and Abigail did her best to supply them, assuring her she had enjoyed herself and that everyone had admired her hair. Polly had beamed.

The housemaid entered a few minutes later. “You’re up early, miss. Thought you’d sleep till noon after all the doings last night.”

“We have a guest, so I thought it best to rise and be hospitable.”

“He and your father are already eating breakfast, so no hurry. Mrs. Walsh is in a tizzy, having a gen-u-ine Pembrooke to cook for,
and Duncan is in a foul mood at having another to tote and carry for, as you can imagine.”

“Yes, I can well imagine.” In fact, her father was the only person Duncan didn’t seem to mind serving. He served him cheerfully, and in turn her father thought highly of him.

“How’s that blister this mornin’?” Polly asked.

Abigail regarded her little toe. She had danced quite a bit last night—more than she had in a year’s time—and her dancing slippers had rubbed a tender spot.

“Oh, it’s fine.”

“The price you pay for bein’ the belle of the ball.”

A small price, indeed, and well worth the minor discomfort, Abigail thought. She had enjoyed being sought after as a dancing partner. A new experience.

Polly stepped to her closet. “Your buff day dress and cap today, miss?”

“Em, no,” Abigail said. “I was thinking of my blue walking dress.”

The maid turned in surprise. “Going out again?”

“I am expecting a caller this afternoon.”

“Oh? One of the gentlemen you danced with last night, paying a call? How romantic! I’ll do your hair up nice again.”

“It is only an old friend of mine from London.”

“A gentleman friend?” Polly’s eyes glinted mischievously.

“Don’t go seeing romance where there is only friendship,” Abigail said to the maid, silently reminding herself to heed her own advice.

When Abigail went down to breakfast twenty minutes later, she found her father and Mr. Pembrooke seated in the dining room lingering over coffee, tea, and conversation.

Her father saw her first. “Good morning, Abigail.”

Miles Pembrooke rose abruptly. “Good morning, Miss Foster. A pleasure to see you again.”

She dipped her head. “Good morning, Mr. Pembrooke. I hope you slept well?”

“For the most part, yes. Except for the ghosts I heard rumbling about all night.”

Abigail drew up short. “Ghosts?”

He smiled playfully. “Only in my mind, I assure you. No need to be alarmed. Being here has stirred many memories.”

She helped herself to tea and toast from the sideboard, and then took a chair across from his.

He sipped his tea, eyeing her with amusement over his cup brim. “Don’t tell me I frightened you, Miss Foster. You do not strike me as the sort of female to believe in ghosts or gothic tales.”

“I . . . don’t. But this old place makes many noises that might be mistaken for nighttime visitors of some sort. I do hope you were able to sleep, considering.”

“The first night in a new bed is always a struggle. I’m sure I shall sleep better tonight.”

Abigail shot a quick look at her father.

Miles apprehended her surprise and said, “Your kind father has invited me to stay on longer. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I . . . Of course not,” Abigail faltered, but she felt suspicion trickle through her mind and pinch her stomach.

She nibbled her toast and collected her thoughts. “Have you . . . specific plans while you are here? Former acquaintances you wish to visit?”

At that moment, Molly knocked softly on the open door and entered, bobbing a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, miss, sir. But a messenger from Hunts Hall delivered this for Mr. Pembrooke. He’s outside, awaitin’ his answer.”

“For me?” Miles asked in surprise. He accepted the folded note and read it. His dark eyebrows rose. “I’ve been invited to call at Hunts Hall at my earliest convenience.”

He looked up at Abigail. “You must have mentioned me to your hosts.”

“I don’t recall mentioning you to the Morgans, though I may have done. I hope that doesn’t pose a problem?”

“Not at all.”

Abigail said, “I did not realize you were acquainted with the Morgans.”

“Neither did I.” He smiled and rose to leave. “If you will excuse me, I shall let my horse remain in the stable and go directly with the messenger. That way I can pay my respects without delay.”

Surprised, Abigail watched him go. Her surprise increased when she noticed him limp and use his walking stick for support—the implement not merely a dandy’s affectation as she’d originally assumed.

Her father followed her gaze, then said, “War wound, he told me.”

“Ah.”

“Did you have a good time last night?”

“I did, Papa. Thank you. And you’ll never guess who was there. . . . ” At the raising of his eyebrows, she supplied, “Gilbert Scott.”

His mouth momentarily slackened. “You don’t say.”

Abigail explained Gilbert’s connection to the Morgan family through his new employer.

Her father nodded in understanding, then said, “I hope you invited him to call on us while he’s here.”

“I did. He seemed eager to see you again, and the house as well.”

“Emphasis on the latter, no doubt, and who could blame him? I’m surprised we haven’t had more people showing up, asking to tour the place.”

Abigail managed a weak grin and nodded her agreement, thinking of Miles Pembrooke. Strangers showing up for tours was not what worried her.

Abigail situated herself in the drawing room ten minutes before two o’clock. She had forewarned Mrs. Walsh she would likely be asking for a tea tray. She didn’t wish to appear as though she’d been eagerly awaiting Gilbert’s visit, but she knew better than to request any baked goods without giving Mrs. Walsh proper notice.

Arranging her skirts around her, she picked up a book, a biography of architect Christopher Wren, but found it difficult to concentrate.

Her palms were damp. She felt jumpy and nervous, quite unlike her normal reserve.

Stop being foolish,
she told herself. This was Gilbert, plain old next-door Gilbert, whom she’d known through his awkward, pudgy days, his blemish days, his voice-changing days. Whom she’d played with and argued with and studied with and . . . loved. She began to perspire anew.

Two o’clock came and went. Two thirty. Three. Abigail’s heart deflated, and her stomach sank. She’d been nervous for nothing. Worn a pretty dress and had Polly arrange her hair . . . for nothing.

Her father came in. “No sign of Gilbert?”

Abigail shook her head, astonished to find tears stinging her eyes. She sternly blinked them dry and said as casually as she could, “Apparently I misunderstood him. Or the Morgans had other plans for him today.”

“That’s it, no doubt. I’m sure he’ll be by when he can. I’ll be in the library. Do let me know when he comes.”

Abigail nodded and resolutely turned a page in her book.

A few minutes later, Molly popped her head in and looked curiously about the room, probably sent by Mrs. Walsh to discover how long to keep the water hot.

“Apparently we shall not be needing tea after all,” Abigail said, rising. “Please apologize to Mrs. Walsh for me and let her know my father and I will happily eat whatever she has prepared for our dinner tonight.”

“Very good, miss.”

Abigail left the drawing room, feeling restless. Should she change her clothes? No, she decided. She was wearing a walking dress, so she would walk. Gathering bonnet and gloves, she went outside and walked back to the gardens. She stopped in the old potting shed and found shears and a basket, planning to cut flowers. Instead she began pulling weeds from a border of lilies. She had asked Duncan
to do so, but he had yet to get to it. Perhaps it was time to ask Mac to recommend a gardener or at least a youth who could help with outside chores. Next she yanked a clump of grass from the flower bed. The exertion felt good. She released a bit of frustration with every weed she yanked from the ground. If only she could root out her worries and disappointments as easily.

Weary at last, she returned the gardening tools to the shed and made her way back to the house. As she rounded the front, Gilbert appeared, crossing the drive on foot, hands extended in supplication.

“Abby. Forgive me. I know I’m late. Mr. Morgan gathered all the men for a shooting tournament, and I didn’t feel I could refuse, being a guest there and with my employer no less. The contest lasted far longer than I anticipated. But I remembered you said you were at your leisure today, so I decided to come over late. Have I been presumptuous?”

“You know you are welcome, Gilbert. Papa will be happy to see you.”

“But are you?”

“Of course I am.”

He smiled into her eyes, and for a moment she felt herself falling into them, but then she drew herself up. “So, who won the tournament?”

“A young sir somebody. I forget. But then Mr. Morgan summoned his land agent, and he easily bested our champion.”

“Mac Chapman?”

“Yes, that was his name.”

“I am surprised Mr. Morgan brought Mac into the contest.”

“Wanted to give the proud young buck a setdown, I gather. Either that or he is awfully proud of his agent.”

“He used to be steward here,” Abigail said. “I am fairly well acquainted with him. He’s our curate’s father.”

“Ah. The red-haired chap. I should have guessed.” He smiled playfully. “The local competition.”

Abigail realized they were no longer talking about a shooting competition. Was Gilbert flirting with her?

An annoying tendril of hair kept blowing across her face. She brushed it away with a swipe of her glove.

Gilbert smiled indulgently, reached out, and stroked her cheek.

She stilled, inhaling a long breath.

He held up his buff glove to show her the smudge of soil there. “How did you manage to smear dirt on your face, fair lady?”

“Oh . . . I was pottering about in the garden.” She ducked her head, self-consciously wiping the spot again. She glanced up at him tentatively. “All right?”

“More than all right. Perfect.”

Her cheeks heated. She was not accustomed to Gilbert paying her compliments. No doubt a skill he’d learned in Italy. Weren’t Italian men notorious for flirting with every female they encountered? It didn’t mean anything.

She gestured toward the house. “So, what do you think?”

“Beautiful.”

Something in his voice caused her to turn her head. His eyes remained on her face.

She’d had enough. “I’m talking about the house, Bertie, as well you know.” She referred to him by an old nickname, hoping to dissolve the unfamiliar tension between them.

Gilbert dragged his eyes from her, up toward the house, taking in its gables, arches, and elaborate oriel windows.

He released a low whistle. “You live here?”

She nodded. “It’s something, isn’t it.”

They slowly walked around the house. After they turned the corner, Gilbert paused and pointed up. “Looks like a water tower. Do the upper floors have running water?”

“No. Only the kitchen belowstairs.”

“Hm. The main hall is clearly fifteenth century. But that shaft looks like a later addition to me.”

“To accommodate a servants’ staircase, perhaps?”

“Bit narrow for that.” He squinted upward. “But if it was a water tower, evidently it has fallen out of use. Cheaper and easier to have servants haul water than to maintain the system, apparently.”

They walked around the back of the house.

“Another later addition,” Gilbert noted, gesturing toward the two-story structure occupying part of the rear courtyard.

“Yes. That’s the drawing room on the ground level, and a lovely bedchamber and dressing room above.”

“Your bedchamber?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I thought Louisa would like it.”

He said nothing, but his gaze lingered on its windows.

From the side of the house, her father came striding toward them, hand extended, smile creasing his thin, handsome face. “Gilbert! How good to see you here, my boy.”

“Mr. Foster. A pleasure to see you again, sir.”

The two shook hands.

“I saw you from the windows,” her father said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was eager to greet you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“We were just coming in to find you,” Abigail said, hoping that the servants had not already eaten all the cake.