The Secret of Pembrooke Park (40 page)

William looked at her in concern, and grimaced. “Apparently I judged wrong in telling you. Please believe my motives good even if my decision poor.”

She turned to face him. “No. You were right to tell me. It explains several things . . . things she has said about Andrew Morgan and her reluctance to visit Hunts Hall, so apparently some unpleasantness along these lines passed between them. I will speak to her. Perhaps she is unaware of the extent of her breach of propriety. Hopefully her reputation is not damaged beyond repair.”

“Likely she didn’t realize,” William agreed kindly. “She is very young, after all.”

“Yes. She did write in one of her letters that all the attention from gentlemen had gone quite to her head.”

“Understandable. And you were not there to guide her. Along with your mother, of course.”

“I don’t know that I would have been an effective guide, even had I been there. I am no great expert in deflecting the admiration of multiple suitors.”

He lifted one auburn eyebrow. “Are you not? For I can count at least three admirers at present. And that is only here in tiny Easton.”

Abigail ducked her head, her cheeks now heating for a far different reason. “Careful, Parson, you don’t want all that flattery to go to
my
head.”

“I don’t fear that for a moment, Abigail Foster. You are far too modest for that, sensible, lovely girl.”

Pleasure and relief washed over her.

Even as concern for her sister nipped at her breastbone, Abigail’s thoughts whirled now on a far happier axis. William Chapman did not admire Louisa. And even if he thought her sister pretty, which was undeniable, he was not smitten with her. In fact he saw her as a wayward young girl to be set upon the right course, not as a woman to court or love or marry.
Thank you, God!
Abigail thought, not bothering to stifle the smile that curved her lips.

“What’s made you smile, Miss Foster? I am relieved you are not angry with me, but what have I said to so amuse you?”

Dare she tell him the truth? Would his respect for her dim if she revealed her insecurity? Besides, it didn’t change the fact that she had no dowry and didn’t deserve an educated, devoted, handsome clergyman paid far less than he was worth.

He sat up straight and looked at her in bewilderment. “Wait a minute . . . Don’t tell me you feared I’d fallen under her spell?”

Abigail shrugged. “It had crossed my mind. You should have seen your face when you saw her! Gaping like a hooked fish, all wide-eyed and tongue-tied.”

He shook his head. “And here I thought you’d guessed the truth of my dismay, or had somehow wrongly heard that I had been among those speaking ill of her.”

Abigail was embarrassed to recall her earlier words about how
obvious
his reaction had been when he’d laid eyes on Louisa. She had been completely wrong! She had seen what she’d feared—no, what she’d expected to see.

“So that’s why you’ve been, shall we say, chilly of late,” he said. “I was afraid it had something to do with Mr. Scott. I saw him embrace you in the library and assumed, well . . .” His sentence trailed away on a shrug.

Mr. Scott.
Odd that she had barely thought of him during their entire conversation. No wonder Gilbert had been irritated with and cold toward Louisa—if she had acted the wanton flirt with multiple gentlemen at every event of the season.

“And here all along you assumed I admired your sister.” He
tsked and took her hand in his. “My dear Abigail, I thought you knew me better than that.”

She managed a wobbly smile and said quietly, “I once thought I knew Gilbert Scott better than that as well.”

He looked at her, suddenly serious. “I thought the scales had fallen from his eyes at last where you and Louisa were concerned. That he had become disillusioned with Louisa and . . . enamored with you.”

Yes, Gilbert had certainly changed toward her. But would his feelings for her last once his disillusionment and anger with Louisa faded? She said, “He’s asked to court me, but I’m not certain how I feel.”

William squeezed her hand. “Well, I am quite certain how I feel about—”

She met his gaze, hope rising in her breast, but William winced and looked away. “But unfortunately, I am not in a position to do anything about those feelings.” He expelled a ragged breath. “You are so appealing, Miss Foster, every bit as beautiful as your sister—more so, to me—that I almost lost my head. I want nothing more than to let this romantic current sweep us along. This chance meeting. This moonlit night. Your tantalizing bare toes . . .”

He managed a grin, but it fell away nearly as soon as it formed. He shook his head. “But that would be unfair to you. Dishonest even. For the truth is, my current income barely supports me. And with Mr. Morris’s nephew waiting in the wings, I cannot realistically hope my situation will improve anytime soon. If ever. It would be wrong of me to ask you to wait without a clear hope of a future. Especially with Mr. Scott in your life once again—waiting in the wings as well.”

Her hope plummeted. Yes. How much better for him to marry a wealthy widow like Rebekah Garwood. And she could marry Gilbert. That should make everyone happy. Then why did she feel like crying instead?

His eyes widened as he watched her. “You look so sad.”

“Do I? That’s . . . silly. I’m fine.” She forced a smile, which only served to push a hot tear from each eye.

“I’m fine too,” he whispered. He leaned near and touched a finger to her cheekbone, tracing the tear. Then he leaned nearer yet and brushed his lips against her cheek.

Abigail’s heart pounded. Her chest tightened until she found it painful to breathe. Every particle of her being longed to reach for him. To lift her face. To press her mouth to his. Dare she? Was this her last chance? Would she regret not doing so for the rest of her life?

She turned toward him. He stilled, inches away. She slowly raised her eyes to his, willing him to see all she felt but could not say aloud.

“Abigail . . .” he breathed, his eyes lowering to her mouth.

She reached up a shaky hand and laid her palm against his face, her finger brushing his earlobe. The skin smooth above his cheekbone and beginning to bristle near his jaw. She lifted her thumb, caressing the groove along his mouth, then traced his upper lip.

He half sighed, half groaned.

“William,” she whispered, liking the feel of his given name on her tongue.

He stared at her. “Say it again,” he whispered back, voice tight.

“Wi—” But she had no more puckered her lips to form the W than his mouth pressed to hers. Firmly, warmly, deliciously. She tentatively returned the pressure, and he angled his head to kiss her more deeply.

Her pulse raced, every nerve quivering to life. Her first kiss. Not with Gilbert Scott, as she’d always dreamed and hoped. But with William Chapman, a man who had just said he could not marry her.

He broke the kiss as if reading her thoughts, and rested his forehead against hers, catching his breath.

“Miss Foster, forgive me. I—”

“Shh . . . I know.”

She heard distant footsteps crunching on gravel and sucked in a breath, afraid to be discovered alone with a man at night. She looked past his shoulder, and what she saw frightened her even more.

A figure in a long hooded cloak furtively crossed the drive carrying a lantern, its flame turned down low.

William turned to follow her gaze and instantly stiffened. He
began to rise, but Abigail grasped his arm. She didn’t want him to go rushing headlong into danger, to confront whomever it was without a weapon, not to mention without shoes or coat.

He looked at her in question, seeming torn, but allowed her to stop him. “You’re right. I would never want to expose you to scandal.”

That wasn’t what she was most worried about. But she did not correct him, glad he was safe.

They watched the figure disappear around the side of the manor. Headed where? Finally, he could restrain himself no longer and rose, pulling her easily to her feet. “You slip back inside through the front. I’m going to follow him around back—make sure he isn’t on his way to the cottage.”

“William, be careful.”

He gave her one last regretful look and said very gently, “Perhaps you ought to call me Mr. Chapman from now on.”

He didn’t say it to hurt her, she knew. But it hurt, just the same.

Pausing long enough to make sure Miss Foster entered the manor safely, William then ran around the corner. Brutus started barking in the distance, increasing William’s alarm. He ran all the way to his parents’ cottage and found his father already at the front door, lantern in hand, hollering at the dog.

Seeing him, Mac asked, “What is it, Will?”

“The man in the hooded cloak . . .” William panted to catch his breath. “I saw him coming this way.”

His father’s jaw clenched. “Here. You take the lantern. I’m getting a gun.”

Thus armed, the two men searched the area, the cottage itself, and the outbuildings. They found the door to the old gamekeeper’s lodge ajar but no evidence of anyone lurking about. Eventually, they ended their search and called it a night, Mac taking extra ammunition into the cottage with him, and double bolting the woodshed, where he kept his rifle and fowling pieces. He offered a gun to William as well, but he declined. However, then and there,
William decided that the next time Miss Foster was out, he would pay a quiet visit to Pembrooke Park. Just to be safe.

Finally, father and son parted ways, though William doubted either of them would get much sleep that night.

The disturbance did have one benefit—it distracted William from his regret over Miss Foster. At least for a time. Before tonight, he had all but decided to bow out of Miss Foster’s life. But after that kiss . . . heaven help him, it would take every ounce of strength he had to do so.
Thy will be done. But
please, God, have mercy on your besotted servant. . . .

T
he following day, Eliza Smith came to call, face pale, eyes damp and red. Without preamble, she began unfastening the E pin from her fichu. “I should never have accepted this.”

“Did Duncan give it to you?” Abigail asked.

Eliza nodded. “He didn’t see it as stealing. He thought I was entitled to some memento—some . . . recompense.” The latch snagged on the muslin, and she worked to free it. “He believed me, you see, about who my father was. He said there were two pins and one wouldn’t be missed. Robert Pembrooke must have had the matching pins made for his wife and daughter. I thought that’s why Mamma had given me an E name. That perhaps it had been his suggestion, like Eleanor and baby Emma. His quiet way of acknowledging me privately if not publicly. But no. I was fooling myself.” She yanked the pin free, taking several threads with it.

Her chin trembled. “But now . . . Mac’s told me the truth. I didn’t want to believe him, but I know him to be an honest man. It’s just that . . . Auntie told me several times that my father lived in Pembrooke Park. That’s where Mamma met him. And that much was true. But the man wasn’t Robert Pembrooke, it was the butler. It’s his mother’s house we live in now. He signed it over to Mamma before he left town. Left us.” Tears filled her eyes.

Abigail said gently, “I’m sorry you grew up without a father, Eliza. But it’s your life now, to do with as you will.”

Eliza shook her head. “I’ve struggled for so long to make something of myself, to have something to show for my supposed heritage . . . and for what?” She thrust the pin toward Abigail. “Here, take it.”

Abigail accepted the pin. “But look at the good that’s come of that striving,” she soothed. “You’ve pushed yourself to succeed. You singlehandedly support yourself and your aunt. That is an accomplishment to feel proud of—one few women can boast of.”

“Proud is the last thing I feel.”

“Well then,
I
am proud of you. Proud to know you. You are quite a good writer, Miss E. P. Brooks, if I do say so myself.”

Eliza looked up at her in wary surprise.

“You
are
someone, Eliza. Someone valuable—just as you are. God has blessed you with gifts, and talents, and abilities.” Abigail squeezed her hand. “Make the most of them.”

Mr. Chapman stopped by the house later that afternoon. Abigail’s heart rose to see him at her door, but her happiness was quickly dampened by the look on his face.

“Good afternoon, Miss Foster.” His dull eyes belied his fleeting smile.

“What happened last night?” she whispered. “Did you find that man?”

He shook his head. “No. No sign of him. But that’s not why I’m here. You haven’t seen my father, have you?”

“No. Not since yesterday. Why?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “He has gone out to look for Mr. Morgan’s hound again. Mamma expected him back by now.” He sighed. “No doubt checking fences or something, to make the best use of his time while he’s out.”

“Sounds like your father. Never one to idle.”

“Exactly.” He gave a little chuckle, but it sounded flat to Abigail’s ears.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Abigail assured him.

“No doubt you’re right, and I shall feel a fool for worrying.”

She smiled gently and said, “Our parson is very fond of quoting the verse ‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee. . . .’”

“Sounds a wise man, your parson.” He managed a grin, then pressed a hand to his midriff. “Just can’t shake this feeling that something is wrong.” Again he tried to joke it off. “That’s what I get for eating my own cooking again today.”

An hour later, after dinner with her family, Abigail walked over to the Chapman cottage to see if Mac had returned and found William saddling the carriage horse. Nearby, the dog kennel was empty and silent.

“No sign of him?”

He shook his head, all joking and laughter gone from his eyes. “No. And there’s a storm brewing in the west. Not like him to be gone so long, not without sending word to Mamma. He knows she’ll worry. The rest of us too.”

“What can I do? Give me someplace to look.”

He looked at her skeptically. “On foot?”

“I am a good walker. Or I could ask Miles to ride out with you.”

He tossed back the stirrup leather and tightened the cinch. “No need to involve Mr. Pembrooke, Miss Foster. No offense. But perhaps you might walk through the village and ask at the inn and shops if anyone has seen him, or knows where he was headed.”

“Of course I will. What about Hunts Hall? Would someone there know which direction he went?”

“I hope so. I plan to ride there first. And if they don’t know, God help me.”

A gust of wind jerked the bonnet from Abigail’s head. Clutching at the ribbons, she frowned up at the churning grey sky. “Are you sure you should ride out in this alone?”

“If Andrew is willing, I’ll take him along. But either way, I’m
going. I think Papa found the dog somewhere in Black’s Wood last time. But it’s a huge area to cover, and I—”

“Wait!” Abigail grabbed his arm as the memory struck her. “That night I sat with you while Mac was out late searching. I think he said something about a ravine. . . .”

William stilled. “Snake Ravine?”

“Yes! That’s it.”

He grasped her by both shoulders and pressed a sound kiss to her cheek. “God bless you, Abigail.”

He already has.
 . . . She cupped her cheek as though to capture a butterfly, and watched him canter away.

The rain began to fall. Of course it did. William tried not to grumble, but the cold rain matched his mood and dragged it lower. It would not make his search any easier. Was his father all right? William’s spirit remained troubled. Was his own conscience smiting him for some reason? Or was the Holy Spirit actually nudging him to hurry?

In reply, he urged the horse into a gallop across the field. He had to stop at two gates to let the horse through—this old boy was no jumper. And neither was he.

He reached the southern tip of Black’s Wood and followed the road through the scrubby forest, bordered on one side by a winding stream. As he rode farther, the stream narrowed and deepened into a ravine, the current now a mere trickle at the bottom of a steep rocky cut, the thirsty roots of pine and black oaks fingering through the soil of the bank, clawing for water.

William rode carefully along the rim, looking this way and that, but saw no sign of his father or his telltale tartan hat.

“Papa!” he called out. “Mac!” He paused to listen but heard nothing save the wind whistling and the pine trees swaying in reply. Overhead a hawk shrieked and circled. At least it wasn’t a vulture.

Deep in the wood, the sky, already grey on the rainy evening, darkened even more, the faint daylight blocked now by the canopy of trees. As the wood grew more dense, riding on horseback became increasingly difficult.

He was about to dismount and continue on foot, when he saw his father’s horse ahead, its rein tied to a branch. Pulse racing, William urged his horse faster.

Suddenly a dog barked, and his horse lurched in a violent sidestep. Caught unawares, William slid from the saddle, losing his toehold in the stirrups and his grip on the rain-slick reins. He fell, hit angled ground, and rolled, down, down, into the ravine.

Branches scratched his face, and his knee and shoulders banged against rock before he came to a stop against a mound of leaves and dirt, which thankfully stopped his fall before he reached the muddy stream. For a moment he lay there, stunned breathless, then began a mental inventory of his limbs. Nothing seemed broken. He reached out and laid his hand on the mound to push himself into a sitting position. His hand rested on something hard, a rock or stout branch. He glanced down and recoiled instantly, snatching his hand back—it had been resting on a skeletal bone.

Another bark startled him, and suddenly Brutus bounded over, wagging his tail and licking William’s cheek. Meanwhile Toby, the Morgans’ hound, sniffed the mound, then lay down and began gnawing on something. A leg bone, perhaps? William shuddered at the thought, relieved that most of the skeleton was covered by silt and leaves.

“Stop that, boy,” he commanded and gingerly rose. His knee throbbed, as did his shoulder, but he thanked God he was otherwise unhurt.

“William . . . ?” came a reedy call. His father’s voice.

“Papa!” William shouted, wheeling about. A muddy hand lifted from the underbrush on the other side of the water. William leapt across the narrow stream and bounded over, heart hammering.

Please let him be all
right. . . .

His father lay on the ground, hat missing, coat askew and mud
streaked. His hair, normally neatly combed back, fell in damp disarray around his pale face.

“Am I glad to see you, lad.”

“What happened?” William crouched beside his father. “Where are you hurt?”

Mac raised himself on one elbow with a grimace. “Fell down the blasted ravine chasing after that hound. I sprained my ankle, I’m afraid. I might have hobbled home with a stick, if that’s all it was, but I think I may have cracked a rib or two in the bargain.”

“Thank God I found you.”

“I do indeed.” He looked beyond William at the sniffing dogs pawing at the mound across the ravine.

“Intended to come down and investigate what has that dog all worked up. I called and called but he wouldn’t leave his find, whatever it is. Now Brutus has the scent as well. Some animal, I take it?”

William grimaced. “I’m afraid not. It’s a human skeleton.”

His father gaped at him. “Human?”

“Yes. I, um, met him when I fell.”

“Sorry, lad. That can’t have been pleasant. Help me over there, so I can have a look.”

“But, Papa, we need to get you home. It’s getting dark. Perhaps I should go straightaway for Mr. Brown.”

A strange light sparked in his father’s green eyes. “First let me see it.”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you worse, trying to move you.”

“Come on now. I’ve lain here too long as it is. Damp through from lying on the ground.”

“Oh, very well.” William half pulled, half levered him to his feet and maneuvered his arm around his shoulder. His father bit his lip to stifle a cry, his fair complexion paling all the more.

“Lean on me, Papa.”

Mac managed a terse nod, and William noticed the sweat breaking out on his forehead and his rigid countenance. The pain was evidently bad indeed. William tried to be gentle as he helped him
across the stream, bearing as much of the man’s weight as he could, apologizing when he stumbled over a rock.

“There.” William nodded toward the mound of dirt. A bony hand protruded from one end and a leg bone from the other.

“Let me down here. I’ll rest a minute,” Mac said, panting.

William complied, and his father sat on a fallen log.

“No wonder the dog returned,” William said. “Poor soul, whoever it is. We shall have to see that he gets a decent burial.”

Mac solemnly nodded, but then his eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his sitting position, focusing on something. Suddenly heedless of his pain or injuries, he lurched forward into a crouch and crawled the few feet between him and the skeleton.

“Look at this. . . .” Mac brushed away leaves and pine needles from the area around the hand. “What do you see?” he asked, his voice hushed in breathless anticipation, as though afraid to believe his eyes.

William crouched beside his father, looking to see what had captured his attention.

“Good heavens,” he breathed.

For the skeletal hand held a rusted pistol.

“And this . . .” Mac picked up a stick and pried up the finger bones.

“Papa, I don’t think you should touch it.”

“Look. Do you not see what this is? Tell me I am not imagining it, that I am not crazy.”

William looked at the finger bones. “It’s a ring.”

“Yes. By God, it is. And not just any ring. This is Robert Pembrooke’s signet ring. Do you know what this means?”

Before William could fashion a reply, his father looked up at him, eyes glinting. “It means we’ve finally found Clive Pembrooke.”

As darkness fell, William managed to get his father up on his horse for the slow, painful ride home. Brutus bounded alongside, with Toby tethered behind, less willing to leave the ravine.