The Secret of Pembrooke Park (24 page)

He looked at her with a sad smile but said nothing.

Leah cleared her throat and asked, “Your sister is in good health?”

“Yes. Last I saw her.”

“And will you be staying long in the area?”

“I have not yet decided.”

Abigail spoke up, “How interesting that you two knew each other as children. Has Miss Chapman changed a great deal in your estimation, Mr. Pembrooke?”

Miles smiled. “Well, you must remember I was only a boy of eleven or twelve at the time, and not really noticing girls. But I will say Miss Chapman has grown uncommonly pretty.”

Leah looked away, disconcerted by his admiring gaze.

William Chapman approached, hesitated at seeing the three of them talking together, then strode forward, face thunderous.

“Leah! What are you doing? Come with me. Now.”

Leah blinked up at her brother. “William?”

“Come.” He took her arm and turned cold eyes on Abigail. “Excuse us, Miss Foster.”

“Mr. Chapman, what is it? What have I done?”

He turned on Miles sharply. “Stay away from my sister, Mr. Pembrooke. Do you understand me?”

Miles’s mouth drooped open. He looked at Abigail, and she met his stunned, hurt expression with one of her own.

Abigail stayed Miles with a quick hand to his sleeve, then hurried after William and Leah.

She caught up with them outside their cottage. “Mr. Chapman, wait.”

He urged Leah inside, then whirled on Abigail. “What were you thinking? To introduce him to my sister? If my father had come upon them instead of me . . . I shudder to think what might have happened.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“That’s right. You don’t. And it would be better for all involved if you stayed out of matters that don’t concern you.”

Tears stung her eyes. Never had she imagined William Chapman speaking to her in such a cutting tone. Or imagined seeing such anger in eyes that had previously regarded her with warm friendliness—even, she thought, admiration. But that look was now soundly replaced with disillusionment and betrayal. Did he feel betrayed on his friend Andrew’s behalf? Or was he so prejudiced against Miles? Even if the old rumors about Clive Pembrooke were true, it shocked her that he would blame the son for his father’s wrongdoing. Especially when Miles had been so young at the time. But perhaps he was not as compassionate as she’d believed him to be.

Even so, thoughts of losing his admiration and Leah’s friendship were like twin knives thrust into her heart. Tears filled her eyes. She turned away to hide them and returned to Pembrooke Park alone.

Miles was waiting for her in the hall. “My dear Miss Foster, are you quite all right? You look very ill indeed. I do hope Mr. Chapman has not overly upset you.”

“And I hope his rudeness has not offended you. I am quite at a loss to explain it. Usually he is perfectly amiable and polite. I have never seen him treat anyone so unkindly.”

Miles studied her face, his expression measuring and disappointed. “Oh dear. Apparently you admire the man a great deal. I am sorry to have caused strife between you.” He certainly appeared sorry. But she somehow doubted he would lose any sleep over it.

He added, “I had hoped the old prejudices would have faded after all this time. Against me and my sister, at any rate. I am the first, you see, to dip my toe back into this pond, to make known my presence. Harri is very reluctant to do so. She remembers all too well how people shunned us when we lived here. As I said, I don’t really blame anybody for those days. My father being the sort of man he was. But now? After all this time? I do not look forward to telling Harri she was right not to trumpet her presence.”

After Miss Foster turned away in retreat, William closed and latched the cottage door and turned to face Leah.

Expression pained, she asked, “Do you think that was wise?”

“Wise?” he echoed. “I find you in tête-à-tête with Miles Pembrooke, and you ask me if
my
actions were wise?”

“Hardly a tête-à-tête. Miss Foster was there as well, you remember. You
should
remember, having hurt her feelings in such a callous manner.”

He blinked away the image of Miss Foster’s wide, pained eyes. “But why were you even talking to him, considering . . . everything?”

“I was constrained by politeness. Miss Foster introduced us.”

He looked heavenward, jaw clenched and biting back an oath.

“Why do you look so fierce? Remember she is not acquainted with our family history, as you have recently become. You were quite harsh with her. With them both.”

He shook his head, his emotions still in a tangle. “I didn’t think. Only reacted. My only thought was to protect you. To remove you from harm’s way.”

“Did you really think he would have harmed me—then and
there? Do you not see that by your very noticeable overreaction you have brought me to the notice of Mr. Pembrooke, rendering my own attempts to appear civil and unaffected void? Have we now not raised questions in his mind? Made him think twice about my history with his family?”

“I hope not.” He pressed his eyes closed and sent up a prayer for mercy.

“I know this is hard for you,” Leah said. “I have had years—almost my whole life—to get used to the idea. To learn to hide my feelings.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I do understand, William. And I hope Miss Foster will as well. Eventually.”

F
or the next few days, the entire Chapman family seemed to make a point of avoiding Abigail, and Pembrooke Park in general. Not even Kitty stopped by, and there was no invitation to dinner after the midweek prayer service for their rector, Mr. Morris, who had come down with a worrisome fever. During the service, William and Mac avoided meeting her eye, and Leah departed as soon as the service concluded without staying to chat. Abigail began to fear that she had lost Leah’s fledgling friendship and her brother’s admiration forever.

Abigail tossed and turned in her bed well past eleven that night but was unable to fall asleep. She rose and paced her room, then quietly crossed the gallery into her mother’s empty room. From its windows facing the churchyard she could see the parsonage. A light shone in the window.

Mr. Chapman was up late. Could he not sleep either?
Oh
, God, help me heal the rift between us.

Knowing she would not sleep unless she did something, Abigail decided to take a risk. She returned to her room, pulled on stockings and shoes, and slipped a dressing gown and shawl over her nightdress. Taking a candle lamp with her, she tiptoed back into
the gallery. Seeing no light under her father’s door, she decided not to disturb him and crept quietly down the stairs.

The servants had likely been asleep for some time. Even so, she tiptoed across the hall, quietly unbolted the door, and let herself outside, closing the door as silently as she could. The night air shivered through her muslin nightdress, and she wrapped the shawl more tightly around herself as she hurried along the verge, avoiding the gravel of the drive. She entered the moonlit churchyard, not allowing her gaze to linger on the gravestones or the swaying willow branches bowing in grief over the dead.

She shivered again, only partly from the cold.

Reaching the parsonage, she paused to collect herself. Her heart beat hard, more than the slight exertion of the walk justified. She took a deep breath and knocked softly. Then again.

A moment later, she heard faint footsteps within, the latch clicking, and the door opening. There stood William Chapman. Dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves, his shirt open at the neck, his hair tousled, his eyes weary, then widening in surprise as he recognized his late-night caller.

“Mr. Chapman, forgive me for showing up on your doorstep at such an hour. I saw your light, so I hoped I wouldn’t wake you.”

“No, I was not asleep.” He gestured vaguely toward the desk inside, where a candle lamp burned and a Bible lay open, paper and quill nearby.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I feel terrible. I never meant to upset Leah, or you. I did not think it through. Or realize how strongly you felt about the Pembrookes. Won’t you forgive me?”

“Miss Foster . . .” He paused, opening the door wider. “Here, step inside out of the cold for a moment.”

She hoped she would not get him into trouble—or ruin her own reputation in the bargain. But she was too cold, and too upset, to worry about propriety at the moment.

He did not invite her any farther than the entryway, she noticed, and left the door ajar behind her. Again he gestured toward the desk. “I was writing you a letter. For it is I who should apologize
to you. For a moment I thought I’d fallen asleep mid-letter and dreamt you on my doorstep.”

She shook her head. “I should never have stuck my nose in. What was I thinking to introduce Mr. Pembrooke to your sister? Me—playing matchmaker! As though I have any experience in courtship.”

“True. I don’t recommend a future in matchmaking for you—or for anyone, for that matter. Even so, I should not have spoken so harshly to you. I overreacted, and I apologize.”

“I have heard the rumors about Clive Pembrooke, of course,” she said gently. “I know people believe he may have killed Robert Pembrooke. And I know how highly your father esteemed that gentleman. Had Mac reacted so vehemently, I would not have been shocked. But—”

“But that I, a clergyman, would hold the sins of the father against his son?”

Again, the Numbers verse ran through her mind. “Yes. After all, his family did nothing to yours.”

“I am afraid it is not quite that simple, Miss Foster.”

“If Miles did something—either as a boy or since his return, I am certain he would be happy to try and make amends.”

“It is not within his power to do so.”

“I don’t . . . understand.”

William ran a weary hand over his face. “I know you don’t. And again, I’m sorry. There is more to the story, but it isn’t my story to tell. Just believe me when I tell you, we have reason to dislike and distrust our former neighbors. No good can come from trying to foster a relationship between Miles Pembrooke and my sister.”

She shook her head. “I shall never try that again. Be assured of that. I have learnt my lesson. I only hope Leah will forgive me in time. And you will too.”

“I have already done so. And I hope you will forgive me.”

“Of course I do.”

A grin quirked his lips. “And here I’ve been sitting an hour, trying to compose an apology that was accepted in five minutes.”

She managed a wobbly smile.

Then, remembering something, she said, “I know you offered to ask Leah about anyone named Lizzie she might know, but never mind that now. I—”

He said, “Actually, I think it would be best to leave Leah out of these sorts of questions, Miss Foster. All right?” A hint of defensiveness crept into his voice again, and Abigail regretted mentioning it.

“Very well.”

He looked suddenly over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”

“Where?” She turned to see what had caught his eye.

“That light in the window.”

She looked, and there in an upper window, light from a single candle bobbed past. Her breath caught. “That’s my mother’s room. But it’s unoccupied at present.”

Who was in there? The candle was partially shielded, not reflecting on its bearer, perhaps by design.

“It’s probably Duncan. Or one of the maids,” she supposed aloud.

“At this hour?” He frowned. “Did you happen to lock the front door when you left?”

“No. I didn’t think to. I didn’t plan to be gone more than a few minutes.”

William Chapman’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps I should go rouse my father. . . .”

“Your father and his gun? I don’t think that necessary. Or wise. Perhaps it’s my father wandering about for some reason.”

“Looking for you?”

“I wouldn’t think so.” The thought pinched her with guilt. She hoped not. She didn’t want to worry him, but nor did she want him to learn she’d left the house at night to speak to a man.

“Let’s go see who it is.” William grabbed his coat from its peg and shrugged it on. I don’t want you entering the house alone. Just in case a prowler has let himself in.”

He grasped her hand and led her across the lawn, taking the verge as she had done earlier to avoid the gravel drive, and then stepped lightly across the paving stones to the front door. He opened it with care, listened, then stepped in first, keeping her shielded behind his body. The main level was dark and quiet.

“Come on,” he whispered, leading her across the hall and up the main stairs. She liked the feel of his larger warm hand engulfing hers. Her heart pounded a bit too hard from his proximity, and the sense of danger in the air.

“This way,” she whispered at the top of the stairs, gesturing toward her mother’s bedchamber. She felt rather brazen, holding his hand, but did not let go.

The door to her mother’s room stood ajar. Had she left it open when she’d looked from its window?

“Shh,” she urged. They paused where they were, listening. A faint tap-tapping reached them from within. Again, he stepped in front of her, shielding her and slowly pushing open the door wide enough to enter.

In a dim arc of candlelight, Miles Pembrooke stood, candle in one hand, tapping against the wall with his stick, ear pressed close to the wood. Listening for the sound of an empty chamber behind the paneling?

“Looking for something?” William asked, his quiet voice cracking like a cannon in the dark room. Miles jumped, and Abigail squeezed William’s hand a bit too hard.

For a moment Miles froze, like a thief caught. Then he relaxed and a smile eased across his face.

“You two frightened the wits out of me.”

Abigail asked, “What are you doing in my mother’s room, Mr. Pembrooke?”

“I think you mean
my
mother’s room, Miss Foster. Or at least it was. I was looking for, ah, some memento. I’d hoped perhaps something of hers had been left here.”

“This late at night?”

“Yes, I found myself awake and missing her. And you, Miss Foster?
I am surprised to see you up and about and keeping company with our good parson so late at night.”

Abigail glanced at William, then away, releasing his hand at last. No explanation presented itself.

“Miss Foster need not explain herself to you, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “But I judge it safe to say that a memento wasn’t all you were looking for. The treasure, I take it?”

“Well, yes, if you must know. I’ve been thinking about my father’s obsession with a treasure hidden somewhere in the house. All stuff and nonsense no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

Abigail said, “In future, Mr. Pembrooke, if there is something you wish to see in the house, or if you want to visit your mother’s former room, you need only ask. That is, until my own mother arrives, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Surely Mr. Pembrooke doesn’t intend to stay that long,” William said, sending the man a challenging look. “Do you?”

“Ah. Well, I have no definite plans. Though I admit I have been looking forward to making the acquaintance of the rest of Miss Foster’s family. We are related, after all.”

“Only very distantly,” Mr. Chapman said, smile forced.

“Well, closer than you will ever be.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

For a moment the two men stood, eyes locked, shoulders squared, jaws clenched.

Abigail hurried to diffuse the tension, saying, “All right, gentlemen. It is late, and I think it time we all called a truce and returned to our bedchambers. All right?”

“Very well,” Miles said, shuffling to the door, his limp less noticeable than usual.

They followed him out into the gallery.

William Chapman waited until the door to the guest room had closed behind Miles, before he turned to Abigail once more. “Are
you sure you’ll be all right? I hate the thought of him here in the house with you.”

“Mr. Pembrooke is harmless, I assure you. A thief I might believe, but not a murderer. Besides, my father’s room is just there.”

“Even so, promise me you will lock your bedchamber door tonight and every night.”

In the darkness she could not clearly see his eyes, but his voice rumbled in solemn concern.

“Very well. I shall.”

Now that Mr. Chapman had forgiven her, she thought she would sleep soundly at last. But perhaps a locked door would be a good idea as well.

The next day, Abigail paid a call at the Chapman cottage, hoping to make things right with Leah as well. Leah herself came to the door, and Abigail braced herself to be rebuffed.

“I’ve come to apologize, Miss Chapman,” she began. “I hope you will forgive me. If I had known there was such enmity between you and Mr. Pembrooke, I would not have made the introduction. I never intended to upset you.”

Leah sighed. “I know you meant no harm, Miss Foster. Come, let’s take a walk, shall we?”

The two walked through the grove together. Abigail did not risk, however, trying to take her arm.

Abigail said, “I didn’t realize you were even acquainted with Mr. Pembrooke.”

Leah shrugged. “I was away at school when Clive Pembrooke moved his family into Pembrooke Park. But they were still here when I returned—though they remained only about a year longer.”

“Did you meet Miles then?”

“Not that I remember. He was only a boy. And my father wouldn’t let us have anything to do with the Pembrooke family. He mistrusted—even detested—Clive Pembrooke, and that
distrust extended to his wife and children as well. I was forbidden to set foot on the grounds, even though our property was adjacent to the estate.”

“Surely you saw each other at church or around the village?”

She shrugged again. “The Pembrookes didn’t often attend church. And when they did, they had their box in front—entered after we were all seated and left before the rest of us. By the time I returned from my year at school, everyone in the village was either afraid of them or hated them. I didn’t care about the parents, I supposed they deserved it. And the Pembrooke boys had each other and didn’t seem to notice.”

“And the girl?” Abigail prompted. “You must have met her.”

She resolutely shook her head. “I never officially met Harriet Pembrooke. But I saw her from a distance. And that was enough to make me feel sorry for her. I often wonder where she is now, and if she is happy.”

Yes,
Abigail thought.
So do I.

“When they left,” Leah continued, “everyone was relieved. Now Miles Pembrooke’s return has raised the old fears once more.” She sighed and looked pensively off into the distance.