The Secret of Pembrooke Park (45 page)

“We heard Mr. Morris was coming, but not you.”

“Mr. Morris? No, sir, he is not—”

Mr. Foster interrupted, brow puckered. “But I am quite certain Mrs. Scott mentioned the rector of our former parish would be attending. . . .”

“Ah, yes. You see, I have recently been granted the living. Mr. Morris, you may not have heard, passed on a fortnight ago.”

“Oh, no. I had not heard. I’m sorry. But I thought his nephew was angling for the living.”

“He was. But the owner of Pembrooke Park—in whose benefice the living lies—grants it to the man of her choosing. And Eleanor
Pembrooke chose me.” He gave a self-deprecating grin. “I suppose you think it terribly unfair.”

“Not at all—you mistake me. I think your sister an excellent woman and an excellent judge of character. She chose wisely and well. Allow me to offer my sincerest and heartiest congratulations.”

Charles Foster offered his hand, and William shook it.

“Thank you, sir. I plan to hire young Mr. Morris as my curate, to help conduct services in outlying churches of the parish and in visiting the sick.”

“Well again, congratulations. The rest of my family will be happy to hear the news as well. Though I am afraid Abigail may not be joining us.”

“Oh?” William hoped his disappointment wasn’t too obvious, especially with Gilbert Scott in attendance. Had she entered into an understanding with Mr. Scott during the intervening weeks? He’d not had leave to write to her but thought she would have mentioned it in one of her letters to his sister. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

“Yes, I’m afraid we’ve kept her quite busy arranging the housekeeping and things for the new place. Quite worn off her feet. Louisa wagers she will be too tired to come.”

“I am sorry to hear it. I had hoped to see her before I left Town.” There was something he very much wished to say to her.

Mr. Foster excused himself to go and find his wife.

A few moments later Louisa Foster and Gilbert Scott approached.

“Mr. Chapman!” Louisa beamed. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

William bowed. “Miss Louisa. Mr. Scott.”

“I’ve been talking to Andrew Morgan and hear congratulations are in order,” Gilbert said.

“Thank you, yes. I am very grateful for the opportunity.”

Louisa said, “Too bad Abigail isn’t here—she will be so sorry to have missed you.”

“Yes, I am sorry to have missed her as well.”
More sorry than you know.

The door opened behind them, and a butler announced in an affected voice, “Miss Foster.”

Heart leaping, William turned. The smile instantly lifting his mouth fell away. He blinked and stared again, his heart beating erratically. Here she was, Miss Abigail Foster. The girl of his fondest memories and fonder dreams, yet somehow altered. Head high, posture erect as she entered the room, her gaze slowly sweeping the assembled company. She met the varyingly pleased and surprised looks with a gentle smile and stopped to greet her host and hostess.

She wore a luminous green-and-white gown with a beguiling neckline and a ribbon sash under her bosom which accentuated the fullness above and slenderness below. Her hair was piled in a high mound of soft curls, flattering her delicate features and making her eyes seem larger. Twin spirals danced along each cheek, emphasizing her fine cheekbones and the heart shape of her face. Her dark eyes shone like chocolate, her small lips pleasingly pink. He drew in a ragged breath. Had he actually kissed those lips once upon a time? His chest tightened at the memory.

At her neck sparkled an emerald necklace which drew his attention to her long pale neck, the fine delicate collarbones he’d give anything to kiss . . .

Stop it,
he told himself. But his thoughts refused to yield. This was the woman he loved. The woman he wished to marry. To be one with. Such feelings were not wrong; they were a gift. But did she feel the same? He glanced at Gilbert Scott standing to his right. He, too, had stopped and stared, not dragging his gaze from Abigail for all her sister’s tugging on his arm.

Did Abigail still nurture feelings for the man? William’s happiness dimmed at the thought.

Unaccustomed to having so many people looking at her, Abigail took a deep breath and reminded herself she was among friends. She glimpsed Louisa leaving Gilbert’s side to talk with Andrew Morgan. And there were her parents, and Susan and
Edward Lloyd. She did not yet see Mr. Morris but, then, wasn’t all that eager to do so.

Her mother and father walked forward to welcome her.

He took her hands. “My dear, you look beautiful.”

Abigail smiled, self-conscious but pleased at his praise. “Thank you, Papa.”

“I am glad you decided to come,” her mother said. “I began to fear you had worn yourself out and would stay home. I am sorry I left all of that to you. It is only that you are so capable. But I shall endeavor not to shift my responsibilities to you in future. It isn’t fair to you.”

“Thank you, Mamma.”

Her mother’s eyes fastened on the gemstones. “I see the jeweler delivered the necklace at last.”

“Yes, Marcel brought it up to me not long after you left.”

“Louisa will be disappointed.”

Abigail met her mother’s look with a gentle one of her own but made no offer to remove the necklace. And no apology.

Her sister would have many other chances to wear it, Abigail knew. Tonight was her turn.

Louisa approached, gaze riveted on the necklace. “You are wearing it?”

“Yes. The jeweler delivered it after you left. Marcel brought it up to me.”

“And did your hair as well, I see.”

“Yes,” Abigail acknowledged, calmly holding her sister’s gaze and ignoring the slight irritation glittering in her fair eyes.

“Well . . .” Louisa seemed torn between vexation and reluctant admiration. “It looks very well with your new dress, I own.”

“Thank you, Louisa.”

“In fact, I don’t mind saying you look very pretty tonight, Abigail.”

“Thank you. That means a great deal, coming from the most beautiful girl in the room.”

The two sisters shared a tentative smile, and then Louisa pressed
her hand. “I’d best not keep Mr. Morgan waiting. He says he has news to share.”

Yes,
Abigail thought. But not the news her sister probably hoped for.

When Louisa walked away, William took a deep breath and approached Abigail. How elegant the well-dressed creature looked. It made him miss the bedraggled girl in mud-spattered wool cape with damp hair falling from its pins. But he couldn’t deny she looked beautiful.

“Miss Foster. How pleased I am to see you. I began to fear I’d begged an invitation in vain.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Mr. Chapman. William. I am pleased to see you as well. I’d heard someone from Easton was attending, but I dared not hope it was you.” She gave him a soft smile. “Had I known, I would have come sooner.”

His heart warmed. “Then I am very glad indeed I begged that invitation.”

Her smile widened. “Andrew Morgan is here as well, I see.”

“Yes. I am in Town as his guest. He is here purchasing wedding clothes.”

“Wedding clothes?”

“Yes. He and Leah—excuse me, I shall never grow accustomed to calling her Eleanor—are recently engaged and soon to be married. I thought you knew.”

“I hoped, but I had not yet heard the news.”

“No doubt my sister has written to you and I have stolen her surprise. She shall box my ears when I get home.”

“I think she would forgive you anything.” She added, “Have his parents come round to the idea, now that they know who Leah is?”

“Yes. Though, after Leah’s brush with death, I don’t think anything would have stopped Andrew from making his feelings known—and making up for lost time.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Miss Foster, speaking of making up for lost time, I wonder if I might have a private word . . . ?”

Her dark brows rose. “Of . . . course.”

Gilbert Scott suddenly appeared between them. “Abby, how beautiful you look. I almost didn’t recognize you when you came in.”

“Thank you, Gilbert.”

“And Mr. Chapman. When Miss Pembrooke is ready to discuss refurbishments for Pembrooke Park, tell her I would be honored to offer my services.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scott. But I believe my sister hopes to gather Miss Foster’s ideas first, before proceeding and hiring a builder. We also plan to implement her scheme for the parsonage.”

William noticed her quick look of surprise and pleasure.

“Ah. Well. Of course.” Scott conceded, “Abby has always had an excellent eye.”

“Not always,” Abigail allowed. “But I think I recognize excellence now when I see it.” She looked at William with shining eyes.

Mr. Scott looked from one to the other. “Abby, Louisa insists we have dancing after dinner. Do say you’ll dance with me. For old times’ sake.”

She smiled at her old friend, but then she lifted her gaze to William, her dark eyes meeting, melding with his.

“Actually, I fear I may be engaged,” she said. “Is that not right, Mr. Chapman?”

William felt his chest expand with hope and pleasure. “You are engaged for the entire evening,” he said earnestly. “And for every evening after that, if I have my way.”

At his words, Abigail’s whole body thrummed in anticipation. She tucked her hand under his arm. “Then indeed you shall.”

Without removing his gaze from hers, William Chapman said, “If you will excuse us, Mr. Scott?”

Not waiting to hear Gilbert’s reply, William led her out of the drawing room and into the quiet vestibule, her heart beating hard
with each step. She fleetingly recalled coming upon Louisa and Gilbert in this very vestibule last year. And now it was her turn to stand there in a private tête-à-tête.

William turned and solemnly faced her. “Miss Foster. Abigail. I know I said I was in no position to marry. That it would be wrong to ask you to wait until my situation improved—”

“I’ve thought about that,” Abigail interrupted. “But I don’t care about the living. I care about you.”

He stepped nearer. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.” His blue eyes shone. “But then I gather you haven’t heard . . .”

“Heard what?”

“Mr. Morris has passed on.”

She felt her smile falter. “I am sorry to hear it. And his nephew?”

“Leah—Eleanor—has granted the living to me.”

“Ohhh . . .” Abigail breathed, thoughts whirling. Perhaps she should have foreseen that possibility, but she had not.

He took her hand in his. “Will you marry me, dearest loveliest Abigail?”

The question sent a thrill of pleasure through Abigail, and she gazed at him in wonder. “Of course I shall. Nothing would make me happier. For I love you with all my heart.”

Flushed with happiness, she wished she had some token of her love to give him. A miniature, a lover’s eye, a lock of hair set in a ring. She had none of these things, so she took his face in her hands and drew his head down, pressing her mouth to his in a passionate kiss.

And judging from his reaction, the gift was very much appreciated.

A short while later, they caught their breaths and rejoined the others for dinner. Abigail barely tasted her food, but she enjoyed the company, and the warm congratulations that flowed around them. That evening, she danced every dance and, if her future husband could be believed, outshone every woman there.

She had said yes to William Chapman even before she learned
he had a valuable living. She had said yes to a life of working alongside the man she loved. A life different than the one she’d once imagined—but oh so right. Together they would serve the parish, and God, and each other. Together they would build a practical, happy life.

Abigail realized anew she had never needed a treasure to make herself worthy. How thankful she was to be treasured by God, and the man who loved her.

W
illiam and I stood, hand in hand, watching as the foundation was laid for a large addition to the parsonage. The rebuilding has also begun on Pembrooke Park. True to her word, Leah asked for my opinion on what should be done to the manor house during the refurbishment. She had thought about pulling the place down and being done with it. Washing her hands forever of her childhood home. But she decided in the end that to truly make peace with her past, she had to first embrace it, embrace her role as heiress of Pembrooke Park and lady of the manor. I think she will do credit to the role and be a wonderful patroness of the village and church.

She and Andrew talked at length about what was best to do. He is to have Hunts Hall one day, after all, and the two could reside there instead. But as his parents are sure to remain there as long as they live, Andrew and Leah have decided they will rebuild Pembrooke Park and live in it together as husband and wife for the time being.

Even though Mrs. Morgan seems to approve of “dear Eleanor” now that her true origins are known, Leah prefers to live nearer her family. She says the Chapmans will always be the family of
her heart—Mac, Kate, Kitty, and Jacob. And William of course. Her family feeling and affection now extend to me as well, I’m pleased to say. And I treasure our friendship. It is such a joy to see her well and truly happy. The fears of the past gone. The secrets and hiding with it.

She is free to be who she really is and loved for who she really is. And really, isn’t that what we all want?

Gilbert remains a dear friend, though relations between us are not what they once were. How could they be, when the piece of my heart I’d long ago given him is now fully, soundly in William’s possession? Even so, we are cordial, and I wish him every success in his future. He has yet to marry. For his sake, I wish he would.

Louisa, I think, has learnt the error of her flirtatious ways—praise be to God. She was disappointed that Andrew Morgan married Leah, and that Gilbert has not renewed his addresses. She’s had no offers—well, no offers of marriage from honorable gentlemen, that is, though all sorts of other offers abound. Realizing this, she has become more circumspect in her behavior—quieter and more modest. And I think it suits her well. She is still quite the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance, and now, day by day, her heart begins to match her outward appearance. Blessed will be the man who wins that heart at last.

And Harriet Pembrooke Webb? My breath still catches a little when I think of her and all she has lost. Her parents. Her elder brother. And more recently, her younger brother—her last remaining relative . . . Or so she thought.

I received one last letter from her shortly before I moved back to Easton as William’s wife.

Dear Abigail,

Thank you for your recent letter and your continuing condolences regarding Miles. That you remember him fondly means more to me than you know. I still grieve my brother—all my family, really—even as I rejoice over the wondrous fact that my secret friend is back in my life. And more wonderful
yet, that she is, indeed, more than a friend—my own first cousin. Have I not long wished that Pembrooke Park had a deserving heir? And I cannot conceive of a more deserving heir than Eleanor.

It gave me great satisfaction to relinquish my role as executor, and hand the reins of stewardship to Robert Pembrooke’s daughter. I find solace in the knowledge that I have made some sort of restitution for the sins of my father. Despite the fact that you and the Reverend Mr. William Chapman have assured me I need not do so.

“Christ has made the ultimate restitution beyond what you or I or any person could do,” he often reminds me.

I humbly agree, and I thank God for it every day. But now that Pembrooke Park is in Eleanor’s hands, I sleep better every night.

I have sold my London house and taken a place in Caldwell. Many is the afternoon my cousin and I meet in the sunny spot between the potting shed and walled garden. We have carried away the old rubbish, trimmed the grass, and placed a small wrought-iron table and chairs there, graced by that same colorful glass jar, filled with a fresh bouquet of flowers every week or so.

Now and again, if one of us can’t make it, we leave each other notes in the old hiding place behind the loose brick, rearranging the time, or simply letting the other know we were thinking of her.

And so you see, our private, mismatched friendship continues. We meet nearly every week when the weather is fine. We take tea, talk about our homes and families, the books we are reading. We no longer need to escape into a world of make-believe. But even so, how pleasant to escape for an hour or two into the company of a treasured friend.

When we are in that secret place, we sometimes slip and call each other by our old nicknames, Lizzie and Jane.

Once you have taken up residence here, you must join
us sometime, Abigail. No one else would we invite into our special place. But you, dear girl, are always welcome, for it is thanks to you that we have found each other again. For that, you have my eternal gratitude and affectionate friendship. And I know I speak for, em, Lizzie as well.

I look forward to joining them there soon.

Ah, the weary wonder of this life. Of faith. And family. And friends. The truest treasures we can ever know or possess.