The Secret of Pembrooke Park (28 page)

“I don’t mind, if you don’t.” She lifted the long swath of linen cloth from the back of the chair and circled it around his neck once, then again, pulling it snug, but not too tight.

“Do you plan to strangle me?”

“Probably not.” She grinned and began tying a simple barrel knot. With him seated, and her standing near his knees, his head reached her about shoulder level. She felt self-conscious performing the little domestic chore, yet the light of admiration shining in his eyes boosted her confidence.

He smiled up at her and said, “You know, as sorry as I am that the parsonage was burned, I cannot be truly sorry that I have ended up here, in your company. Something good from the bad, I suppose. God excels at that.”

His words, his nearness, made her feel strangely warm, and her
stomach tingled. As she straightened the cravat around his neck, her fingertips brushed his chin. The same fingertips he had kissed last night. She wondered what he would do if she leaned down and planted a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek, or if she dared, his lips. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought. And what would
she
do if he pulled her onto his lap, wrapped his good arm around her, and soundly kissed her? Would she slap his face? Reprove him there and then, or send her father in to do so? She doubted she would do any of those things. Not when a part of her wished he would do just that.

Feeling nervous, she changed the subject. “Do you remember your nightmare last night? You groaned in your sleep. I had to wake you.”

He squinted in concentration. “I don’t think so.”

“You called for Leah. You were clearly frightened for her.”

Eyes distant in recollection, he murmured, “Oh yes . . .”

“You said something about her hiding in the secret room and that someone was coming for her.”

He stilled, then his mouth formed an O. “Did I?”

She nodded, watching his face.

He chuckled rather lamely. “That is a strange thing to dream . . . or to say.”

“Is it?” she asked.

For a moment their gazes met and held. He opened his mouth as if to reply, but at that moment, footsteps sounded behind them.

She stepped back abruptly and said a bit too brightly, “There. That should do it.”

She looked guiltily over her shoulder. Her stomach sank.

Miles stood there, eyes alight. “Who is hiding in the secret room?”

Abigail said quickly, “Mr. Chapman had a nightmare. That’s all it was.”

“A nightmare?” Miles echoed, shaking his head. “Sounds like a dream come true to me.”

The following day, William left behind his invalid status and joined the Fosters in the dining room for the evening meal.
This
ought to be interesting,
he thought. And perhaps a test of his forbearance as well as his tact, what with Miles Pembrooke seated across from him and Duncan serving at table, along with two housemaids. He hoped the maids would keep the resentful man from spitting in his soup. Or worse.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, William asked Mr. Foster questions about his boyhood. While he was at it, he asked what Miss Foster had been like as a young girl, and her father obliged with tales of how, by the age of six, she had started organizing the nursery and arranging her pinafores by days of the week, and keeping the rest of the family in line.

Miss Foster ducked her head, a becoming blush on her cheeks. “Papa . . .” she gently protested.

But William could tell she enjoyed the fondness and pride in her father’s eyes and in his tone of voice. Who wouldn’t?

He found his gaze drawn across the table to Miles Pembrooke. Had
his
father ever praised or fondly teased him? Somehow he doubted the man had ever known a father’s love or approval. William’s heart twisted at the thought, and he determined to make more of an effort with him.

He asked Miles about his travels and politely avoided the sore subject of his family. Miles obliged with tales of his time in Gibraltar, all of them determinedly ignoring Duncan’s snort heard from the servery.

Then William decided he would attempt to pique Miles’s interest in God—the true source of unconditional love every human heart longed for—by first encouraging him to attend church.

“You ought to join us on Sunday, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “My sermon is about your favorite topic.”

“My favorite topic?” Miles raised his eyebrows. “Oh my, what
could it be? Miss Foster, perhaps?” He tsked. “I don’t think your parishioners would approve.”

“No.”

“Then what are you suggesting is my favorite topic?”

William met the man’s challenging gaze with a warm smile. “Treasure.”

O
n Sunday William dressed in his black forms, his newest bandage less bulky than the first and his arm more mobile now that the pain, without the aid of laudanum, had dulled somewhat. His father came to Pembrooke Park, wearing his customary black coat and grey waistcoat, which he thought befitted his position as parish clerk. Mac had returned to his own bed after the first two nights, once assured that William was doing well on his own.

“Ready?” his father asked.

“I think so, yes.”

“Don’t worry, lad. Folks won’t expect much of you this morning. They’ll understand you’ve been in no fit state for writing sermons.”

“Some believe that to be my perpetual state,” William quipped.

“Well. Can’t please everyone.”

“Don’t I know it.” He grinned at his father. “I would likely hear more complaints were most people not in awe of my fierce Scots father.”

Mac grinned. “If only Mrs. Peterman were of that same persuasion.”

When the church bells rang, people crowded into the boxes and pews, more than had attended in some time. William was surprised
to see Miles Pembrooke in church, sitting with Miss Foster and her father, and his spirit quickened at the sight of him. At the opportunity. Around the nave, people stared at Miles and spoke in whispers and hushed grumbles and supposition.

Mac called the service to order, perhaps more sharply than usual, and everyone quieted.

Standing near a communion table swathed in white linen, William prayed the Lord’s Prayer and then continued on to the Collect and readings. He said, “And now let us proclaim our faith together. . . .”

Everyone stood to say aloud the Nicene Creed, words shared with fellow believers across the centuries and around the world. “I believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible: and in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God . . .”

When it came time for William to give a personal greeting and announcements before his sermon, he slowly looked around the nave, smiling at one and all.

“It is good to see so many in attendance this morning, though I know curiosity to view the damage done to the parsonage—and to the parson—may have drawn more of you than my fine oratory skills.”

A few quiet chuckles rumbled across the nave. Mrs. Peterman, however, sat ramrod straight, her mouth its usual stern line.

“Whatever the case, you are all welcome and I am glad to see you.” He glanced at Miles Pembrooke as he said it. “And again, my deepest thanks to those of you who came to help. My mother invites you all to our house after the service for tea or cider and her famous biscuits as a small token of our gratitude.”

This announcement was met with murmurs of approval.

When the crowd had quieted, William said, “It is good to draw together as a community after such an event. When problems strike, it is also a good time to draw close to God personally, to take stock of your own heart, your own life.” He looked again at Miles. “With this in mind, I am going to deviate from the planned text for the morning and hope you will indulge me.”

Mrs. Peterman, he saw, rolled her eyes.

William sent up a silent prayer, asking God to help him choose his words wisely and well. He began, “What would you do if your house burned to the ground? Perhaps it has. Which of us can forget the Wilsons’ fire of five years ago? So much loss. What if
you
were to lose all your worldly possessions because of fire, or theft, or financial tragedy?”

Mr. Foster, he noticed, shifted uncomfortably.

“Are your dearest possessions fireproof? Your valuables safe forever? Do you spend your time in the constant quest of attaining more?”

His father read from the sixth chapter of Matthew. “‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.’”

William looked out at the congregation. “And, I might add, where fire destroys.”

Again his gaze snagged on Miles Pembrooke. William hoped he was not using his sermon as a chance to bludgeon the man indirectly. For Mr. Pembrooke was a treasure seeker, whether or not he’d had anything to do with the fire.
Lord, guard my
mind and tongue.

“Some of us go through life spending a great deal of effort accumulating possessions or wealth, saving for a rainy day or an uncertain future. And if our means are modest, we spend our energies thinking about where our next meal will come from.

“Don’t misunderstand me. Those of you who are husbands and fathers are right to think ahead, and take care of your families. And I commend you for it. But there is a difference between providing for our families and laying up treasures. Longing after riches. Or searching for some mythical treasure “out there” somewhere to try and make ourselves happy. But we all know that earthly treasure will never satisfy the deepest longings of our souls, don’t we? I can hear Mr. Matthews say, ‘No, Parson, but it sure would help feed my five strapping sons.’”

A few chuckled, including the blacksmith himself.

William continued, “And yes, adequate means make life easier. Or so I hear.” He grinned at that. “Though often
need
draws us close to God like plenty never can.”

At this point, William hesitated. Should he? Dare he confront the issue directly? Taking a deep breath, he plunged ahead. “Throughout history, stories and myths have included the lure of treasure—whether chests of pirate gold or the goose that laid the golden egg. And local lore whispers about hidden treasure much nearer at hand.”

Miss Foster blinked up at him. Mr. Pembrooke’s eyes shone with amused irritation. Around the nave, people exchanged uneasy glances.

“Can you imagine the waste of a life spent searching for a treasure that doesn’t exist? Or of hiding a treasure, only to have thieves break in and steal it? Or to finally unearth the long-sought treasure, only to find it rusted and destroyed? Worthless?”

Miles Pembrooke frowned.

“Where are you investing your time, attention, love, and talents?” William asked. “In earthly matters or eternal ones? Where do your affections lie? What does your heart seek above all else?”

He nodded to his father, who read, “‘But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”

When he finished, William said, “When I discovered the parsonage was in flames—my bed, my belongings, my books—of course I tried to put out the fire. And because the parsonage belongs not only to me but to the entire parish, I perhaps tried even harder than I would have done, were it mine alone. But I can honestly say, that my thoughts during those tense moments were not for my belongings. I was thinking of those dearest to me. Of the safety of those helping me. Of what it would do to my family were I injured or killed. And the loss to all of you, should the fire spread to the church itself.

“No, I am not happy that my favorite green coat was burned
or my university gown ruined. You shall grow tired of seeing me in my black forms, no doubt.” Again he smiled. “But I am not devastated. The parsonage does not hold my real treasure. My faith, my soul, my greatest treasure lies not within four walls, or my purse, nor any possession. My hope is in God alone.” Again he let his gaze travel slowly over his parishioners. “And I pray the same for each of you.”

Abigail released a long breath and unclenched her hands, relieved the uncomfortable sermon had ended. Mr. Chapman turned next to the offertory, and Mac collected the alms for the poor. Holy Communion followed, but Miles, she noticed, did not go forward to receive the bread and wine. Did he see himself as unworthy? Weren’t they all?

When the service concluded, people didn’t linger as long as usual, eager to walk over to the Chapmans’ to be first in line for tea, cider, and biscuits.

“You two go ahead,” Miles said. “I’m going back to the house. I’ve caused enough stir for one day, I think. My work here is done.” He winked. “And on the Sabbath no less.”

Her father said, “You know, my dear, I am not sure I am eager for a community-wide chat just now either.”

“Then no need,” Abigail said. “We’ll all go home. We may have to wait for our dinner, however, for I wouldn’t dream of asking Mrs. Walsh and the others to forgo the pleasure.”

Mr. Morgan senior stopped to talk to her father, so Miles and Abigail waited on the edges of the exiting crowd. Several people, she noticed, stopped to thank Mr. Chapman for the sermon, warmly shaking his hand. She was happy for him. True to form, Mrs. Peterman stopped to give her opinion as well, and from the look on her face, it was not favorable.
Poor William.

Miles said, “I think our friend Mr. Chapman has missed his calling. He ought to have been one of Wesley’s itinerant preachers. You don’t suppose that sermon was directed at anyone in particular—do you, Miss Foster?”

She noticed the twinkle in his eye, and said, “Perhaps. But I think it had something to say to all of us.”

“Not you, Miss Foster. Surely you have not been tempted after treasure?”

She sent a guarded glance toward her father, and seeing him still engrossed in conversation, quietly admitted, “It has crossed my mind.”

His brows rose. “Delightful! Nothing like a little healthy competition.”

She shrugged. “No point for me to search, really. The treasure wouldn’t be mine to claim. I would no doubt have to surrender anything I found to the estate.”

“Ah. Then you don’t know about the reward?”

She looked at him, not believing they were having this conversation right after Mr. Chapman’s sermon.

Miles explained, “My father was so convinced there was a significant treasure, possibly an entire room full of treasure, that he put up a portion of his own prize money and offered it as a reward, hoping some reluctant servant would suddenly recall the location of the supposed treasure. The reward has never been retracted; it is still held in trust by the solicitor, ready to be claimed.”

Abigail took it in. If true, it put a different perspective on things. There might be hope for the Foster finances—and her dowry—yet.

He leaned near and whispered a sum. The reward was sizeable. It would not replace all the money her father had lost, but it would allow her to make some recompense. And yes, she could replace her dowry. Not enough to draw fortune hunters, but if a man already held her in high regard, might a tidy sum sweeten her charms and win over any reluctant parents?

Leaning on his stick and staring at the house across the drive, Miles Pembrooke murmured on a sigh, “Sometimes I can’t believe I am really back here. . . .”

Realizing the man had grown weary standing there, Abigail
said, “Come, Mr. Pembrooke. You and I can head back. Father will catch up when he’s ready.”

Miles drew himself up. “Whatever you like, dear cousin.” He offered his arm, and thinking he might need the support more than she did, she linked her arm with his.

As they slowly made their way to the house, Miles began, “The treasure and the reward would be enough for me. If I find it, you are welcome to keep the house, as far as I am concerned. Truth be told, I would probably only sell it if it were mine. But if I came into a fortune, it would be within my largesse to allow you to remain in the house at such ridiculously generous terms.”

He squeezed her arm and sent her a sidelong glance. “Don’t misunderstand me. Harriet explained why she chose to funnel the income from the estate back into its coffers—paying for the servants and repairs and upkeep—so you wouldn’t have to. She assures me it was a sound investment, that otherwise the house would have continued to disintegrate past the point of redemption, becoming worthless to either inherit or to sell.”

They let themselves in and retired to the drawing room to wait for her father and their dinner. Settling into a cushioned armchair, Miles smiled at her as she straightened her skirts on the chair next to his.

“So you see, I am quite happy to let you remain here, Miss Foster. Perhaps I might visit now and again. Or perhaps you would like to come with me when I leave . . . ?” He watched her with an expectant lift of his brow.

“Mr. Pembrooke!”

“I realize I am older than you are, but I am young at heart. You cannot deny it.”

“No, I certainly cannot.”

“And you are old for your age.”

Abigail huffed in offense.

He laid a cool hand on her shoulder. “Now, now. I don’t mean you look old. Of course not. You look charming, as you well know. But I do think you are an old soul. At the very least, mature for your age.”

“I cannot deny it has always been said of me.”

“There, you see? We are perfect for each other.”

He was teasing her, surely. Or was he? Abigail slowly shook her head, regarding the man with amusement, begrudging fondness, and . . . distrust.

William returned to Pembrooke Park after a long day of sermon-making, too much tea, and too much talking, followed by a Sunday school full of children who’d eaten too many sweets. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. For all his belief in the Scriptures and God’s command to rest on the Sabbath, for William, Sunday was the most tiring day of the week.