The Secret of Pembrooke Park (30 page)

“Miles,” she called after him, then waited until he had turned before asking, “You didn’t fall down the stairs, did you?”

He smiled easily. “Oh, but I did. I told you.”

“I mean . . . it wasn’t an accident, was it. You were pushed.”

His smile fell. He looked at her, nostrils flared, fist clenched on the handle of his stick. But his voice when he spoke was incongruously gentle. “Who . . . told you that?”

Abigail swallowed, not wanting to reveal her source. She said quietly, “You were not the only person your father pushed.”

“Ha.” A cracked little laugh escaped him. “Only the youngest.”

She felt tears sting her eyes. “I am sorry, Miles. Truly.”

His mouth, his entire face, twisted in displeasure. “I don’t want your pity, Miss Foster. That is the last thing I wanted you to feel for me.”

The next day, Abigail sat in the window seat in her bedchamber, looking idly out over the back lawn and gardens beyond. She was bored and lonely. William Chapman had gone off to London for a few days with Andrew Morgan, and the house, the neighborhood, seemed empty without him.

Suddenly she saw something through the window, and her heart banged against her ribs. She bolted up and pressed her nose nearer the glass. There was the veiled woman again. What was she doing in the garden, behind the potting shed? As if sensing she was being watched, the woman began walking away.

Abigail’s nerves tingled to life. This was her chance to test her theory of the woman’s identity. She rushed around, finding her slippers, tripping in her haste on the woven carpet and nearly falling. She dashed out into the corridor and toward the stairway. Duncan came carrying two huge cans of water up the stairs—her father must have requested a bath—so she had to wait at the top of the
stairs. When the manservant and his heavy load finally passed by, she skimmed down the stairs and across the hall, hoping the woman had not already disappeared.

She eagerly threw open the front door, and it banged loudly against the wall.

In the drive, two women stood in conversation. The veiled woman and . . . Leah Chapman?

Both whirled at the sound. The veiled woman turned away and stalked toward the barouche waiting just outside the gate.

Abigail jogged across the drive, but Leah grasped her arm and hissed, “Abigail, don’t.”

The woman called something to the coachman—Abigail heard only her last word, “Quickly!”—and then let herself inside without waiting for help. The coachman cracked his whip and urged his horses to “Get up.”

“Who was that?” Abigail asked.

Leah appeared shaken. “I’m not sure. I saw her as I was leaving the churchyard.” She shivered. “I found it eerie, talking to that woman, her face covered in that heavy veil.”

Abigail watched the barouche pull away and rumble over the bridge. If she ran fast enough, she might be able to overtake it before the horses picked up speed, but what would she do then? Leap up on the footboard and demand admission? She was no highwayman. “You didn’t recognize her?”

Leah shrugged. “I don’t think so . . . I could only see her eyes, and her mouth when she spoke. But it was her voice that struck me. Strange and yet familiar all at once. She asked me who put flowers on Robert Pembrooke’s grave.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I . . . didn’t. I wasn’t sure I should. Eliza Smith leaves them now and again.”

“Yes . . .” Abigail remembered seeing her near his grave that day. “Do you know, I think Eliza believes Robert Pembrooke might have been her father.”

Leah frowned. “She told you that?”

“Not directly, but her aunt hinted at it. Eliza as well.”

Leah winced. “Papa told me Mrs. Hayes has become confused in her old age, and talks about a connection that doesn’t exist. He thought Eliza knew better than to listen, but apparently not.” She sighed. “Leave it with me, Miss Foster. I’ll speak to Papa. He’ll know what to do.”

“And the veiled woman . . . Any idea who she might be?”

Leah shook her head. “She reminded me of someone, but no, I could not place her.”

But Abigail had a definite idea of who she might be.

After talking with Leah a few minutes longer, Abigail returned to the house. On an impractical impulse, she decided to write an anonymous letter of her own. Going into the library, she sat at the desk, pulled forth a small sheet of note paper, and paused to think.

She dipped a quill in ink and, remembering Harriet Pembrooke had not used her real name, wrote:

Dear Jane,

I would like to talk to you. Will you meet me here in person?

Abigail did not sign it.

Nor did she suggest a specific meeting time. She left the note behind the loose brick in the garden wall, not knowing when, or if, it would be found.

T
he following week, Abigail again sat in the library, large drawing pad and pencil in hand, architecture books spread around her, as well as the renovation plans of Pembrooke Park for inspiration.

“Good day, Miss Foster.”

Startled, Abigail looked up. There stood William. She hadn’t heard him enter. “Mr. Chapman, you’re back!” She quickly rose to her feet. “How was your time away?”

“London made for a nice change of pace for a few days, but I am glad to be home.”

“Me too. That is, uh . . . Mr. Morris’s sermon was twice as long as yours.”

He grinned, then glanced over her shoulder. “What is it you’re working on?”

She quickly turned over the drawing pad. “Oh. Nothing. Just sketching.”

“Looked like a building of some sort—what I saw of it. Glad to see you haven’t given up your interest in architecture.”

She smiled vaguely.

“Is it a plan for a house?” he asked. “Or . . . ?”

“Yes. That’s it. Just playing around.” She cleared her throat and asked, “How did the repairs progress in your absence?”

“Well enough, I suppose, though Papa thinks the entire front wall should be torn out and replaced. The old window is warped anyway and does little against a fierce wind, and it leaks whenever the rain comes from the south. His opinion is that we ought to take advantage of the damage to do some other repairs as well.”

“I agree with him,” Abigail said eagerly. “How would you feel about an entry porch or small conservatory to shield the sitting room from the worst of the weather whenever the front door is opened? Or you might even add a study, with an extra bedchamber above. . . .”

He raised a quizzical brow. “Is that what you’ve been drawing? The parsonage?”

She ducked her head, hoping to hide her blush. “I was only playing around, as I said.”

He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

“No, it’s nowhere near ready for anyone to see. Merely rough sketches for my amusement.”

He looked at her with a fond smile overtaking his face. “I am touched by your interest, Miss Foster. And if it were my personal home, I would trust your judgment implicitly and eagerly discuss your every idea. But as it is, I would have to get the rector’s approval, who in turn would likely have to get the approval of the estate executor or trustees. I doubt they’d approve or finance any more than rudimentary repairs.”

He tilted his head and looked at her, eyes warm as they lingered on her face. “I must say, I quite like the idea of adding rooms to the parsonage. If I had someone to share it with me.”

Abigail felt her cheeks heat, pleasure and embarrassment warring within her. She found she could not hold his intense gaze.

He stepped nearer. “Miss Foster . . . Abigail . . . May I call you Abigail?”

“I . . .”

“Abby!” her father called, rushing into the library, waving an
open letter in the air. He drew up short at seeing William. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Chapman. I did not know you were here.”

“That’s all right, sir,” William said, stepping back.

“We were just discussing repairs to the parsonage,” Abigail said. “What is it?”

“A letter from your mother. She and Louisa will be joining us early next week. Is that not good news?”

Louisa is coming already?
Abigail’s stomach sank. She said, “But that is sooner than we expected. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. But I gather they are weary of the constant rounds of balls and callers. And your mother may have hinted that too much of dear Aunt Bess can be tiring as well.” He grinned.

Abigail nodded. “She is a dear, but yes, I can imagine it must be difficult to be a houseguest for so long. . . .” She looked at William. “I don’t refer to you, of course, Mr. Chapman. You have only been here a short while.”

“And I shan’t be in your way much longer.”

“No hurry at all.” She looked back at her father. “What day do they plan to arrive?”

“Monday, if they can hire a decent coach. If not, Tuesday.”

Time to start sheilding her heart. She squared her shoulders. “Well, I have a great deal to prepare. Thank you for letting me know so promptly, Papa. Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Chapman . . .”

“Of course.” William’s eyes narrowed in concern as he studied her face. “Are you . . . Is everything all right?”

“Of course.” She smiled brightly but could not leave the room fast enough.

William felt restless. His first night sleeping in the parsonage again after his few days in London and his nights at Pembrooke Park. Living under the same roof as Miss Foster, he’d been ever aware of her movements. Where she might be at various times of the day, looking for her to come down the stairs in the morning,
and anticipating shared meals with pleasure. Yes, he’d had to put up with Miles Pembrooke at those meals, but it had been worth it to be in her company.

Now he was back living on his own. The roof and walls temporarily patched. He felt the emptiness, the solitude of the place, as he never had before. He’d missed her in London and he missed her now. Which was ridiculous, he told himself, because she was right across the drive. Even so, he missed being near her.

He paced his small sitting room for a time and then, giving up, peeled off his coat, shirt, shoes, and stockings. He would go for a nighttime swim. He used to swim often in the river in summertime. But with people living in the manor, he’d been less willing to do so. Why not? It was late and still warm, and the moon was full. Mr. Brown had removed his restrictions on bathing during his last visit. His arm was healed and his shoulder well on its way to recovery.

He took a threadbare towel with him and quietly slipped from the parsonage. Pembrooke Park was quiet. No lights shone in the windows. He was safe from discovery.

He found his old spot where the bank gradually sloped to the water and waded in, then dove beneath the gently moving current.
Ahh . . .
The cool water felt good on his skin, on his shoulder, on his every part. Peace enveloped him. He was able to forget, for a little while, his troubles, his suspicions, and a certain female neighbor.

Abigail stopped in her tracks and stared. Was she hallucinating? There beneath a tree along the riverbank hovered a ghostly white figure. Heart lodged in her throat, Abigail could not scream. The pale figure did not look like a mortal man. No dark coat or boots marred the unbroken white of his being.

There is
no such thing as ghosts,
she told herself.

Even so, she stood there, unable to run, every muscle tense, waiting for the specter to fly at her, to pounce, to—

“Miss Foster . . . ?” a voice asked. It was not a ghostly voice
but rather an earthly one she easily recognized. Relief was quickly replaced with . . . shocking awareness.

“Are you na—dressed?” she squeaked. The word
naked
refused to come.

“Uhhmm . . . not really, no. I didn’t expect to encounter anyone. I am wearing breeches, never fear.”

“Oh. Well. That’s all right, then.” A lame chuckle bubbled from her lips. As if those snug breeches, low on his hips and as pale as his skin, were all the clothing required for this season’s well-dressed man.

He stepped out from under the tree, and moonlight shone on him more fully. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help herself. She had no brothers. She had never seen a shirtless, half-naked man before. And she might never again, once Louisa arrived.

He slowly walked toward her, and her mouth went dry. His shoulders were broader than she would have guessed, even without the aid of a well-cut and padded frock coat. They curved in a smooth bulge of muscle above equally taut and strong-looking arms. His shoulders angled deeply to a narrower waist, his chest defined, his abdomen flat and masculine. She was glad the darkness hid her blush.

She had noticed his lean but defined legs before—fitted pantaloons regularly revealed all. But she had never seen the shape and contours of his upper body. He must help his father around the grounds, or row, or ride a great deal. Or perhaps he chopped great piles of wood and played ball with his friends for hours on end.

Moonlight glistened on his damp bare skin. She swallowed and dragged her gaze to his face. His wet hair hung in dark tendrils across his brow. He lifted his arms, and she realized he held a small towel in his hands. He rubbed it over his hair and face. Lifting his arms like that caused his biceps to swell, his chest to rise, his abdomen to elongate. So impossibly fair. Were all redheads so pale?

“Perhaps you could . . . em, wrap that towel around yourself.”

He tilted his head to one side, amusement and moonlight
glimmered in his eyes. “I am afraid this towel is barely bigger than a facecloth. Sorry.” He grinned, not looking sorry at all. “What brings you out at this hour, Miss Foster?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, thinking,
And now
I never shall. . . .

“Nor could I.” He raked a hand through his hair, and it remained sculpted off his forehead. He looked different with his hair waving back instead of falling forward. He had such a handsome face.

He stepped closer, and Abigail drew in a shallow breath, pulse quickening. Her flush moved from her face, down her neck.

“Do you often swim late at night?” she asked, to dispel the tension between them.

“When I was younger, yes. But it has been some time. I thought I ought to get in one last swim before more ladies move in and increase my chances of discovery. I promise you I had no intention of shocking maidenly sensibilities.”

He looked at her. “Are you shocked?”

She pressed dry lips together and lied. “No.”

“Well, thank goodness I wore breeches.”

“Yes. Thank goodness. How is your shoulder?”

“Much better.” He twisted his shoulder forward and craned his neck to look at it. “See?”

Her glance skittered over the scarred skin, to his chest and arms once again. He was standing so close now that she could have reached out and touched him.

“How does it look?” he asked, eyes on his wound.

“It looks . . . good,” she murmured, eyes on the rest of him.

“That reminds me . . .” he began, looking back at her.

She guiltily snatched her gaze away from his torso, struggling to meet his eyes. Had he noticed her staring? Even her ears heated at the thought.

“It is because of your quick actions that my burns were not worse. I never thanked you properly for dousing me with water.”

Nervously, she said, “Tell me you don’t plan to douse me in return. . . .”

“A few years ago, I might have done just that. Or picked you up and pretended I was going to toss you in the river. But when I look at you now, those are not the first impulses that come to me.”

“No?” she said breathlessly. “Well. Good.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. . . .”

Her gaze flew to his. He was looking at her with such intensity, such warmth, that her heart ached to see it.

His hand touched hers, and she felt a jolt of surprise. Long fingers encircled her wrist like a pliable bracelet, tickling the delicate skin of her inner wrist with feathery pleasure. Then he bent his head as if in prayer and pressed a warm kiss to the back of her hand. “Thank you, Abigail Foster.”

Her heart raced. Her knees felt soft and unsteady. He had kissed her hand before, but this time no laudanum influenced his actions.

Keeping hold of her hand, he lifted his head and studied her. Then, as if gauging her reaction, he slowly, slowly moved his face toward hers.

Her breathing came shallow and fast as he neared.

His breath tickled the hairs at her temple as he whispered, “I am in your debt forever.”

She stood perfectly still, all of her focus on that spot where his mouth hovered. He pressed a kiss—warm, delicious—on her cheekbone, and she closed her eyes to savor it. When her eyelids fluttered open, he had moved slightly, his eyes on hers and then lowering to her mouth. She looked at his. What would it be like to be kissed on the mouth—by
that
mouth? Kissed by a man? She nibbled her lower lip at the thought.

He stared, riveted. Then he drew in a long shaky breath and took a half step back. She breathed deeply as well and returned her gaze to his injured shoulder. Safe territory.

Her hand reached out, following her gaze. William watched her movements, eyes uncertain.

She touched his shoulder lightly. “Does that hurt?”

Voice thick, he murmured, “Not . . . exactly.”

“I am so glad it’s going to heal.”

She retracted her hand, but he captured it in his, holding it to his heart.

He held her gaze and whispered, “Yes. I believe it will.”

Abigail returned to the house in a warm, weak-kneed daze. But in the morning, in the light of day, without the magic of moonlight and water and a half-naked man, her better judgment returned. What had she been thinking? How was touching William Chapman—allowing him to touch her, to take her hand and kiss her cheek—going to help her? She was supposed to be shielding her heart, preparing for disappointment.

She groaned, sighed, and determined to do better.