The Secret of Pembrooke Park (16 page)

I put flowers on Eleanor Pembrooke’s grave. After all, it is her bedchamber I occupy. Her canopied bed I sleep in. Her dolls’ house I amuse myself with. She and her mother died in an epidemic that swept the parish last year. Although she was younger than I, I wish I had known her.

Father was keen to see the birth and death dates for his
brother’s wife and offspring, so he looked for the family Bible but could not find it. He then went and spoke to the rector, asking to see the parish records. He says familial feeling drives him. A longing for communion and closure. But I know better. He wanted to see the proof with his own eyes that his brother’s family are all dead. He found the proof he was looking for, but I wished he had not.

I admit I sometimes wonder who put Robert Pembrooke in his grave. They say some nameless thief killed him. But as I listen to my father rant and hear the scurrilous things he says about his brother, I have to wonder if the thief has a name after all. A name I know all too well.

Heart pounding, Abigail read the final paragraph again. Did it imply what she thought it did? Then she remembered Mac’s warning about Clive Pembrooke.

Perhaps it meant exactly that.

William called on ailing Mr. Ford. Afterward, he thought he might stop by and see Mrs. Hayes. He had not visited the woman in some time but knew his father often did so. He glanced up at the ominous sky, hoping the rain would hold off a little longer.

As he approached the house, he was surprised to see his father dropping an armload of chopped firewood near the door with a hollow clunk.

“Papa. I could have done that. Or Jacob.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I was just going to call in. How is she?”

“About the same, physically. Though her mind is slipping.” His father wiped a handkerchief over his brow and said, “You know, Will, I think it best if you leave the visiting to me.”

“Oh, why?”

Mac shrugged. “We’re old friends, she and I. Worked together at
Pembrooke Park. Unless . . .” He glanced at the house and lowered his voice, asking, “Or is it Eliza you were hoping to see?”

“Not especially, no.”

Eliza was a pleasant, pretty woman, whom William had known since childhood. In fact, one of his earliest memories was playing hide-and-seek with her belowstairs in Pembrooke Park. He might once have considered courting her—before Rebekah had turned his head and broken his heart. Before Miss Foster . . .

“Good.” His father continued, “You don’t want to encourage a girl like Eliza, or give others the impression you are courting her.”

“What do you mean, ‘a girl like Eliza,’” William asked. “An orphan?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Mac grimaced. “Never mind. I would simply prefer to call on her and her aunt myself. All right?”

There was more going on than his father wanted to tell him, William realized, but he decided not to push the matter.

“Very well, Papa. I shall leave you to it.”

On his way home, a heavy rain began to fall. William put up his umbrella and braced himself for a damp walk. A short while later, he drew up short at the sight of Abigail Foster standing huddled beneath a mulberry tree on the edge of the Millers’ farm.

“Miss Foster?” He diverted from the road, stepping over a puddle to reach her. As he neared, he noticed the rain had curled the hair around her face into spirals. She looked both miserable and charming. His eyes were drawn to her lips, stained dark red. The sight of those unusually red lips, in such contrast with her fair skin, captivated him. He found himself staring at her mouth. Wishing he might kiss her.

Instead he asked, “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I went out for a walk and wasn’t paying attention to the sky. This tree doesn’t offer much protection, I fear, but some.”

“But it does offer refreshment, I see.”

“Oh. Yes.” She ducked her head and tucked stained fingers behind her back. “I did eat a few mulberries. Well, more than a few. I’m wet and cold but at least not hungry.” She glanced down at
a stained hand. “I didn’t want to spoil my gloves. This will come out, won’t it?”

“Eventually.”

“I must look ridiculous.”

“On the contrary. You look charming. I confess I’ve never eaten mulberries. But on you they look delicious.” Good heavens, had he just said that aloud? He felt his ears heat. Just what he needed—to draw more attention to his prominent ears.

He collected himself. “Would you care to share my umbrella, Miss Foster? I hate to see you catch your death. We have a ball tonight, remember.”

“Thank you.” She took a step nearer, and he positioned his umbrella over the both of them.

“And what are you doing out in the rain?” she asked.

“Calling on Mr. Ford. Recovering from an apoplexy, poor soul.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“It appears he’ll be all right in time. Thank God.”

“Do you pay calls in all weather?”

“When the need arises, yes, my trusty umbrella and I venture bravely forth.” He smiled, hoping to make light of the comment, not wishing to boast.

“You are very kind, Mr. Chapman. Very good.”

“Kind, perhaps, but only God is truly good. I am all too aware of my failings to allow you to saint me just yet.”

A gust of wind blew the rain at a sharp angle, down Miss Foster’s neck. She shivered.

“Here.” He repositioned the umbrella directly over her head.

“But now you are getting wet,” she protested. “Stand closer,” she insisted, and he was only too happy to comply.

He should have simply given her his umbrella, or walked her directly home. But he was enjoying her company too much to do the practical thing. The rain fell around them like a curtain, blurring out the landscape around them.

“It’s like we’re all alone in the world,” she said. “Under a little canopy of our own.”

“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes again lingering on those berry-stained lips.

“I like the rain, actually,” she said, looking across the pasture. “The way it makes the colors of the leaves and flowers more vibrant. The way it smells. The way it makes you feel thoughtful and yet more alive . . .”

“My goodness, Miss Foster. That is quite poetic. And here you call yourself a practical creature.”

“I am. Usually.”

“Well then, I am glad I’m here to share this rare moment with you.” He held her gaze a moment, then said, “Do you know, I have always thought of mulberries as bird feed.”

“You’ve really never eaten them?”

He shook his head.

“Then you must try one.” She reached out and plucked another from the tree.

“Oh no.” He held up his last pair of good gloves in defense.

“Allow me. My hands are already stained.”

Who could resist such an offer? He allowed her to feed him a berry, enjoying the intimate act of her delicate fingers near his lips, placing a berry in his mouth.

“Well?” she asked in eager anticipation.

He chewed, concentrating as though very serious. “Difficult to tell. A bit sour, and crunchy. Consistency of a grub.”

“That’s the seeds. But it shouldn’t be sour. I must have given you one that wasn’t quite ripe.” She searched until she found a deep purple berry. “Here, try this one. It will be delicious, I promise.”

He ate the berry. Then, unable to resist, he captured her upraised hand in his, bringing her purple fingers to his lips for a slow, lingering kiss.

She sucked in a little gasp of surprise, but not, he thought, displeasure.

“You’re perfectly right,” he said. “Delicious.”

Her voice thick, she whispered, “Would you like more?”

He looked into her wide brown eyes, innocent yet unknowingly
alluring. His gaze dropped to her red lips. Oh yes, he wanted more. And knew her lips would be far more to his liking than even her fingertips had been. Instead he cleared his throat. “I never knew mulberries could be quite so tempting. But for now, you and the birds are welcome to them.”

He noticed her shiver again. “Here, take my coat. . . .”

“No, I couldn’t.”

He handed her the umbrella. “Hold this for me a moment.” He shrugged out of his long greatcoat, the cold air biting his bones even through his fitted wool coat. He whipped it around her and settled it over her, enjoying the excuse to allow his hands to linger on her shoulders.

“I don’t want to drag it on the ground,” she said plaintively, glancing down at her ankles. Being several inches shorter than he, it grazed her hem but remained above the damp ground.

“It’s fine,” he assured her.

“But we can’t have you catching cold. I have been here long enough to see how many people depend on you. I would never forgive myself if I caused you to fall ill.”

A
small price to pay for one of your smiles,
he thought.

Seeing the admiration shining in her deep brown eyes, satisfaction thrummed through him. His hand reached out of its own accord and stroked her cheek. “You had better take care or your words will quite go to my head and there will be no living with me after that.”
Living with me?
Where had that come from?

She chuckled awkwardly, ducking her head, but he noticed pink tinge her complexion.

“Only teasing, Miss Foster.”

“Yes. I have come to realize how much you enjoy teasing me.”

“It is quite bad of me, I know.” He swallowed. “But if we stay huddled out here alone much longer, I shall be tempted to do much more than tease you.”

She flashed a look up at him from beneath her lashes. What did he see there? Alarm, fear . . . hope?

He cleared his throat. “Come, Miss Foster. The rain has let up
a little. Allow me to walk you home before I lose my head.”
Or my heart
.

Again, that nervous little chuckle. “I cannot imagine the respectable clergyman doing anything improper.”

“Your confidence is misplaced, Miss Foster. I daresay you are safe with me, yes. But though I may be a clergyman, I am still a man. And you, as I hope you know, are a very attractive young woman.”

She blushed and averted her gaze.

He grinned. “I shall never see a mulberry again without thinking of you.” He angled away and offered her his arm. “Come.”

With a wobbly smile, she put her arm through his, allowing him to escort her home.

When she returned, Molly greeted her at the door. Abigail wondered briefly where Duncan was.

“Miss Foster. There you are. There’s a caller come. Your father asks that you join them in the drawing room as soon as may be.”

It reminded Abigail of a similar summons when Mr. Arbeau had first come to them in London. Had he returned?

“Who is it?”

Eyes wide and expectant, the girl lowered her voice and said, “A Mr. Pembrooke, miss.”

Abigail started and felt her pulse race as though a ghost had been announced or a man come back from the dead.
Foolish girl,
she chastised herself. Not Robert Pembrooke. Hopefully not his long lost brother either, but some other more distant relation.

She met the housemaid’s curious gaze as evenly as she could. “Mr. Pembrooke?” she repeated, needing to confirm the name.

The girl nodded almost frantically.

“Very well. Thank you, Molly.” She thought again of Mac’s warning, and the letter writer’s plea that she send away anyone named Pembrooke. But he had arrived while she was out. Was it too late?

Molly helped her remove her wet things and brought a cloth for her hands and face. Then Abigail stepped to the hall mirror and tidied her hair.

The drawing room door opened, and her father came out, flushed and harried looking.

“Abigail! There you are. Thank heavens.” He closed the door behind himself. “You won’t believe it. A Mr. Pembrooke is here. I fear he may be the rightful owner of the place and has come to tell us he wants his house back.”

Abigail’s heart pounded.
Oh no
 . . .
Had he really come to ask them to leave when they had barely settled in? After all the work to ready the place—was someone else to enjoy the fruit of their labors? But if he was the owner, whose estate funds had paid for the renovations and servants, who were they to complain? Would they have to begin their house search all over again? It would be a rude awakening indeed to have to move into some small cottage or townhouse after living in magnificent Pembrooke Park.