The Secret of Pembrooke Park (33 page)

As they rumbled up the drive to Hunts Hall, Abigail saw Harriet Webb in the distance, strolling with a parasol across the front lawn. Seeing her arrive with Mac, Mrs. Webb turned abruptly and walked in the opposite direction. To avoid her . . . or Mac?

When Mac had gone off with the men, Abigail sought her out alone.

“Good morning, Mrs. Webb.”

She inclined her head. “Miss Foster.” She hesitated. “I thought you might bring Miss Chapman along.”

“I invited her, but she declined.”

“Ah.”

“She did, however, confide in me a closely held secret. She led me out to the walled garden and told me about a secret friend she used to meet there.”

Harriet’s eyes sparked with tentative hope. “Did she indeed?”

“I think she would consider meeting you again. But I have not suggested it. She has already chastised me for trying to play matchmaker with gentlemen, so I doubt my attempt to reunite old friends would meet with better success.”

Harriet nodded and asked, “And the letter I gave you?”

The sunny day suddenly seemed less fair. A ragged cloud passed over, marring the otherwise blue sky. “I read it, of course,” Abigail said. “But I hope it doesn’t mean what you seem to think it means.”

“I hope so too.”

Abigail looked across the roped-off building site and saw Gilbert shaking Mr. Morgan’s hand and handing him a shovel to scoop the first token of earth. She waved to him, and he beamed across the distance at her. For a moment their gazes held, and much passed between them in that long look. Past disappointments. Dreams. Apologies. Hopes for the future.

Abigail said, “Let’s not talk about the past any longer. New beginnings are always exciting, are they not? So full of promise.”

“If you say so.”

On the opposite side of the site, a group of onlookers cheered politely. Then the group drifted over to the blankets and makeshift plank tables covered with fine linens, where a picnic feast awaited them.

Harriet and Abigail remained where they were, isolated by the noise of the laborers—the clank of pickaxes, the sharp cut of shovels, and the jingling tack of mules, hauling away loads of dirt.

She felt Mrs. Webb’s gaze on her profile and glanced over.

Disapproval tightened the woman’s lips, and she said tartly, “That little hat of yours may look smart, but it offers very little protection from the sun. Here.” She sidestepped closer and repositioned the lacy parasol over Abigail’s head as well.

Her brusque concern reminded Abigail of Mac’s cranky thoughtfulness and pierced her heart. Standing there shaded by Harriet’s parasol, Abigail was momentarily transported back to the idyllic moments she had shared under William Chapman’s umbrella. . . . She then recalled their more recent conversation.

She began, “I have been thinking about what you said about marriage. How it gave you a fresh start. That people no longer judged you by what your father did, because you had a new identity.”

“Yes . . . ?” Harriet agreed warily.

“But you also admitted it wasn’t enough. That you are still unhappy—guilty over the past . . . and frightened for the future.”

“What of it?”

Abigail’s heart burned within her. She had never spoken like this to anyone but felt compelled to do so now. “You long to redeem the wrongdoings of your family. But Mr. Chapman says we can never
pay
for the sins of others, let alone our own. That has already been done, once and for all.”

How Abigail wished William were there. He would have said it so much better than she could.

“God is merciful and ready to forgive,” she continued. “He gives us a new identity in Christ.
That
is the real second chance you long for.”

Abigail shook her head. “I am sorry. I am saying this very poorly, I know. And I don’t mean to give the impression I am a perfect Christian, for I am not. Far from it. But I see how unhappy you are. How much you long for peace. And that’s the one treasure I know how to find.” Steeling herself for rejection, she reached out and pressed the woman’s hand.

Harriet Pembrooke blinked in surprise. For a moment she allowed Abigail to hold her hand, as stiff and cool as marble, and then she gently extracted it.

“Thank you, Miss Foster,” she said flatly. “I know you mean well. I am not one for church myself, but I do know that some things are too big for religious niceties to overcome.”

Abigail inwardly groaned. Oh, she
had
made a muddle of it! “I am not talking about religion,” she insisted. “And there is nothing ‘nice’ about God’s Son dying a cruel death to pay for our sins. I am talking about forgiveness and freedom. True new life, whether you ever enter a church building or not.”

“Again, I thank you for your concern. And now, if you will excuse me.”

Mrs. Webb lifted the parasol and turned and walked away, disappearing into the house—not even joining the rest of the party or partaking of the picnic. Guilt swamped Abigail, and she heaved a dejected sigh.

Andrew Morgan waved Abigail over to join them, and she obliged, though with a heavy heart. She felt terrible for spoiling the day for Harriet. She had done herself no favors either, for the few bites she nibbled were like wood shavings in her mouth, though she smiled encouragement to Gilbert whenever he looked her way.

When the party began to break up later, Abigail was surprised to find Mrs. Webb standing beside her once again. “Will you do me a favor and give this note to Miss Chapman for me?”

Abigail hesitated. “Whom shall I say it’s from?”

“I sign it as Jane, but you may tell her who it’s really from—though it may mean she won’t accept my request to meet, especially if her father finds out. You are welcome to read it first and proceed as you think best.”

With that, Harriet turned and retreated into the house once more.

Abigail tucked the letter into her pelisse pocket to read later, just as Mac came and asked her if she was ready to head home.

Entering the hall of Pembrooke Park a short while later, Abigail distractedly laid aside her hat and gloves and pulled out the folded, unsealed note. The outside was blank but inside it was addressed to Lizzie:

Dear “Lizzie,”

You may well be shocked to receive a letter from me after all these years, but I hope it is not an unhappy surprise.

I have thought of you so often, always hoping you were well and happy. I imagined you with children of your own, perhaps even playing in our secret place. Having now visited Easton on a few recent occasions, I must say I was disquieted to discover you were still unmarried and, if I may say so, looking ill at ease and even afraid of your own shadow. Or perhaps . . . of someone else’s shadow?

When we met as girls, you likely knew my real name and where I lived. But I wanted to thank you for overlooking it
back then, when no one else would. Those hours we shared between the potting shed and garden wall were the happiest I spent in Pembrooke Park. Nay, they were the only happy memories I have of those years.

I did not like seeing you looking troubled. Or to hear Mrs. Morgan speak to you in such a horrid manner. You have a good heart, and deserve better than that. If there is anything I can ever do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Miss Foster will know how to contact me.

Fondly,
“Jane”

Abigail called on Leah after dinner and asked to speak to her alone. The two women sat outside on the garden bench in the fading sunlight. Abigail handed her the letter and waited quietly while she read it.

Leah looked up at her with tear-bright eyes. “Please don’t tell my parents. Especially Papa. He forbade me to have anything to do with her.”

“But certainly now, after all these years . . . What can it matter?”

“It can. It does. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Very well. Do you want to see her again?”

“I’m not sure. You have talked with her, I take it? What is she like now?”

“You spoke with her as well. The woman in the veil?”

Leah’s brows rose. “That was her? I thought her voice was familiar.”

“You may have met her too. I know William has. She is Mrs. Webb now, Andrew Morgan’s aunt by marriage.”

“That’s who she was!” Leah stared off thoughtfully. “Andrew’s aunt . . . I only saw her from a distance. I told William she looked familiar at the ball, but it never crossed my mind she could be my Jane.”

“Yes. She married Nicholas Webb when she was quite young.
By then, she and her mother had begun going by her mother’s maiden name.”

“Which explains why we never heard of a marriage with anyone of the Pembrooke family.”

“Yes. She was eager to cut all ties to this place and to the Pembrooke name.”

Leah’s face dimmed. “How sad. To lose all ties to one’s family. To her home. Her name . . .” Pain shone in her eyes.

“Harriet said she was glad to take a new name. It was like a second chance at life for her. A new beginning.”

“Born again . . .” Leah murmured. Her gaze remained distant, and her thoughts seemed very far away.

Abigail sat quietly, not wanting to hurry Leah or pressure her. She felt comfortable in the companionable silence between them, glad their friendship seemed on better ground at last.

Finally, Leah said, “I will meet her. But only if you will go with me.”

A
bigail’s parents invited Gilbert to Pembrooke Park for dinner to celebrate his first major building project. They decided to limit the party to family and old friends: themselves, Miles, and Gilbert. But Louisa took it upon herself to invite William Chapman to join them.

She justified, “After all, he is our nearest neighbor and our parson and all alone in that forlorn, damaged parsonage just across the drive.”

“Very neighborly gesture,” their father said approvingly.

Their mother looked less convinced, perhaps concerned her pretty daughter might form an ill-advised attachment with a poor curate. Abigail had mixed feelings about him being there as well.

At the last minute, Miles bowed out—to even their numbers, he said. Father tried to convince him to stay. “Don’t leave on that account. We don’t care about that—not at an informal family dinner.”

Miles thanked him but said he was going to again see his sister, who was visiting the area. Abigail wondered if Harriet would tell him about their meetings, but somehow she doubted it.

The dinner passed pleasantly, with much teasing and laughter and toasts to Gilbert’s success, and to friends old and new.

After dinner, Mr. Foster lit his pipe and the others strolled toward the drawing room for coffee.

Gilbert said, “Abby, I’ve been thinking about those renovation plans you showed me. May I see them again?”

She looked at him quickly, and knew he had something else in mind. “Very well.”

Abigail glanced over her shoulder as they walked away. Louisa barely seemed to notice their departure, but William hesitated at the door of the drawing room, watching them go with apparent resignation. Louisa linked her arm through his and led him into the room. No doubt she would soon put a smile on his melancholy face.

Inside the library, Abigail walked over to the map table and pulled out a random drawer. Even if he really had no interest in seeing the plans, they would provide an excuse if someone looked in the open library door and saw them alone together. The act also gave her nervous hands something to do.

Coming up behind her, he touched her arm. His voice was low and warm and somehow made her hands tremble all the more.

“Abby, dear girl, I . . . wanted to talk to you. I—”

“Which did you want to see?” she blurted, pulling out a set of plans without really seeing them.

“Abby, I don’t really . . .” He hesitated beside her. “What’s this?” Gilbert picked up a drawing that had lain beneath the plans. With a start she recognized the drawing he was looking at. Her ideas for the parsonage.

His brow furrowed. “Have you shown these to Mr. Chapman?”

“No . . . not really. He saw me working on them, but I told him they were not for anyone else’s eyes.”

Expression cautious, he asked slowly, “Why . . . are you drawing plans for Mr. Chapman’s parsonage?”

“Because the old one was damaged, of course. And you know me. I couldn’t resist the challenge.”

He looked away as he considered, biting his lip. Then he turned to face her, and said soberly, “Do you know what
I
would think, if you drew a plan for my future house?”

So apparently he
had
forgotten the plans they had drawn together. To conceal the hurt, she jested, “That it was amateurish,
no doubt.” She self-consciously tried to tug the drawing from his grasp, but he held tight.

“No. I would think you wished to live there with me. That you were designing those four snug bedchambers—one to share with me, perhaps, and the other three for our future children. At least, I hope you are the sort of woman who looks forward to sharing a bedroom with her husband, instead of insisting upon having a room of her own.”

Abigail felt herself flush, and mumbled, “I don’t think he would jump to that conclusion.”

He looked at her earnestly. “I even tried to find the house plans you and I drew up years ago, but I could not find them anywhere. I don’t know if Mamma cleaned out my things while I was gone, or if I misplaced them, or—”

“I have them. Upstairs in my room.”

He paused, expression brightening. “I should have known.” He dropped the drawing and grasped her hand. “I don’t want you to plan his house, Abby. I want you to share mine. I know I was a fool where you are concerned. And Louisa. A blind fool. Susan was right. But I am seeing clearly now, and what I see is the woman I want to share my life with.”

She stared at him, her heart beating like a fluttering bird, unsure whether to nest or to fly away. “Gilbert, I . . .” Words failed her. Her mind swam, struggling to navigate foreign waters, the waves too high, the undertow strong.

He grasped her other hand as well and squeezed both. “You must see it, Abby. Our growing up side by side as we did. Our common interests. We have always understood each another and been the best of friends. It can’t be for nothing. It must be for a reason.”

Releasing her hands, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “I know we should wait for a while before I begin courting you—allow time to pass since my calls on Louisa. But tell me it is not too late for us. Tell me I have not spoiled things between us forever. . . .”

Abigail hesitated in his embrace. Torn between relaxing into the arms of a friend, throwing her arms around him like a long-lost lover, or pulling away.

Over Gilbert’s shoulder, movement caught her eye. She glanced up and saw William Chapman stop abruptly in the library doorway. His dark expression sent her heart plummeting. Before she could react, he turned and left without a word.

With numb fatalism, William turned on his heel and stalked away. He’d been stunned to find Abigail in Mr. Scott’s embrace. But why should he be surprised? He knew Scott was the man she’d loved for years. It had only been a matter of time. Any man would have to be a blind fool not to realize Abigail Foster’s worth, her character, her heart, her beauty. And apparently Mr. Scott had at last done so, as William had feared he would.

He returned to the drawing room, heavy resignation descending over him. He suddenly felt exhausted, as though he’d not slept in days. What could he do? With Mr. Morris planning to do all in his power to assure the living of the parish went to his nephew when he retired or died, William might never be able to support a wife—not as long as he remained in Easton, near his family. At least, not a wife like Abigail Foster, who would expect—who
deserved
—a certain standard of living. There was no point in persisting and no point in staying.

He made his way to Mrs. Foster’s side and quietly thanked her and excused himself early. He didn’t want to be there if that embrace was soon to be followed by an engagement announcement. He wasn’t ready to see Abigail walk into the room on Gilbert Scott’s arm, her face aglow with love for another man. He was not comfortable in flirty Louisa’s company either. Even the thought of Rebekah’s renewed interest provided no comfort.

He would be happy for Abigail someday—he would, with God’s help—but it wouldn’t be today.

The look on William Chapman’s face when he’d stood in the library doorway stayed with Abigail for the rest of the night. What had she seen in his expression? Disapproval of their indiscreet embrace? Disappointment? Resignation? How could she guess his feelings, when she struggled to understand her own?

Gilbert had asked if he might court her, but she’d put him off, telling him she’d have to think about it. How would William Chapman react if she agreed? And how would Gilbert react when she confessed she had no dowry? She hadn’t been brave enough to tell him. Afraid he would withdraw his offer. Afraid he wouldn’t . . .

Though her mind and heart were still unsettled the next day, she went with Leah as promised to see Harriet Webb. Leah had suggested her grandmother’s cottage as a neutral and discreet meeting place, since it was currently unoccupied while the older woman recovered at the Chapmans’. And Abigail had sent a note with place and time to Mrs. Webb at Hunts Hall.

Half an hour ahead of schedule, Abigail walked with Leah to her grandmother’s cottage and waited.

Nervous, Leah tidied the sitting room, and straightened a knitted blanket folded over the back of the sofa. Glancing around the small cottage, she said, “I’ll never forget the first night I came here. Never liked the place since . . .”

“Really?” Abigail asked in surprise. “I think it’s charming. And your grandmother seems so kind.”

Leah sat down at last. “Oh, she is. She’s a perfect dear. The only grandparent I’ve ever known, really.” She grimaced. “I just . . . don’t like her cottage.”

Mrs. Webb appeared alone and on foot at the appointed hour. Abigail opened the door for her.

Leah rose stiffly and clasped her hands nervously over her stomach. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Webb?”

Harriet regarded her in surprise. “So formal. And how strange to hear my married name on your lips. Do you not remember me—your old friend of the potting shed?”

“Yes, I remember you . . . Jane.”

A flash of a smile transformed Harriet’s weary face, and for a moment she was young and beautiful again.

“That’s better. Thank you,
Lizzie
.” She smiled wryly. “You and I have gone by several names in our lives.”

Leah’s head snapped up, and she looked at Harriet warily. “What do you mean?”

Harriet pursed her lips. “Only that you have gone by Leah Chapman and Lizzie, and I have gone by even more names: Harriet Pembrooke, Jane, Miss Thomas, and Mrs. Webb.”

Leah stared at the woman through narrowed eyes a few seconds longer, as though searching her expression for sincerity or hidden meaning.

“Why?” Harriet asked, brows high. “What did you think I meant?”

But Leah replied with a question of her own. “May I ask, Mrs. Webb, if you have sought me out of your own volition? Or is it at the behest of your father? And why now, after all these years?”

It was quite an onslaught of questions, Abigail thought, but she remained silent.

Harriet tilted her head to one side and studied Leah’s face. She asked quietly, “I know your father resents mine, but what are
you
so afraid of?”

Leah lifted her chin. “You haven’t answered my questions.”

“I have not seen my father in eighteen years, Miss Chapman,” Harriet said, reverting to formal names as Leah had done. “And I would certainly never act as his puppet in this, or anything else for that matter. We assume he is dead. I would even say we hope that is the case.”

Leah asked, “
Why
do you assume he is dead?”

Harriet’s eyes narrowed as Leah’s had. “Why do you wish to know?”

“I want to know for certain that he is gone—that he will not return someday and . . .”

“And what?” Harriet prompted. “Yes, I believe he probably killed
his brother as well as the valet to get his hands on Pembrooke Park. But even if he were still alive, what harm would he do
you
?”

Leah again answered the question with one of her own. “If your father went to such lengths to get Pembrooke Park, why abandon it so abruptly? And why would he stay away all these years?”

Harriet’s eyes hardened. “That is why we believe he is likely dead, though no report of his death has ever reached us. Or perhaps he is alive but fears some evidence of his crimes exists and has fled the country to avoid hanging, never to return.”

“If only we could be sure he was well and truly dead!” Leah’s voice rose on a plaintive high note. Then she seemed to realize what she had said to the man’s daughter and sheepishly ducked her head. “Forgive me. That was an unfeeling thing to say.”

Both Abigail and Mrs. Webb stared at Leah’s tortured expression. Why did she feel this so personally?

Leah swallowed and said, “I was sorry to hear that your mother and brother are gone.”

“Yes. There is only Miles and me now. And you know
I
don’t mean you any harm.”

“And Miles?” Leah asked.

“Why would he?”

Leah feigned a casual shrug. “Do you not find it . . . suspicious, his coming here as he has, so soon after the house was opened and occupied again?”

“Yes, I do,” Harriet allowed. “I worry about that as well, but only because I fear he will follow in our father’s footsteps and carry on his mad pursuit of the supposed treasure. Why would you think Miles means you any harm? He barely remembered you from the old days, is that not right? In fact, he mentioned to me he had no idea why you found him so repugnant.”

Leah looked away sheepishly once more. “I don’t find his person repugnant. I am sorry if I gave that impression. But Papa and I did find his return suspicious and feared he might be here on his father’s behalf.”

“You give Miles too much credit. If Miles is here, it is because Miles wants to be here, because he believes there is something in it for him.”

Abigail frowned. “Did he say as much when he came to see you last night?”

Harriet’s thin eyebrows rose again. “Me? I have not seen Miles in a week or more.”

Abigail felt her brow furrow. “Well, apparently his plans changed. In any case, he’s told me quite emphatically that neither of you had any wish to claim Pembrooke Park or to live in it again.”