The Secret of Pembrooke Park (27 page)

Abigail was about to blow out her bedside candle when she heard someone pounding on the front door below. She tied on her dressing gown over her nightdress and left her room, pushing her long hair back over her shoulder. Who would be calling at this late hour? She hoped Mr. Chapman was all right.

She descended the stairs and reached the hall in time to see Mac standing at the open front door, talking in a low voice to an adolescent male caller. Mac nodded and shut the door.

Concerned, Abigail asked, “Is everything all right?”

He turned, wearing a grimace. “Nothing to alarm you, Miss Foster. It’s only that Mr. Morgan’s favorite hound has gone missing. Like a second son to the man he is. And as I am his land agent . . .”

Abigail shook her head. “Don’t tell me you’ve been asked to go out and find the man’s dog . . . at this hour?”

“I’m afraid so. William is sound asleep or I wouldn’t go. I think he’ll sleep through the night, especially after the hefty dose of
laudanum Dr. Brown sent over. Still I hate to leave him, should he waken . . .”

“I will ask my father to look in on him. Or Duncan.”

“Thank you, Miss Foster. Don’t disturb your father, but if Duncan will check on him, I think it will be all right to leave for an hour or two.” He retrieved his overcoat from the hall cupboard.

Abigail hesitated. “I’m curious, Mac. Why did you hire Duncan? No offense, but he clearly isn’t fond of working here. If he didn’t treat my father so well, I likely would have dismissed him before now.”

Mac bit his lip, then said, “I was afraid of that. It’s a bitter pill to find himself a house servant. He’d hoped for more. Please be patient with him, lass.”

Abigail studied his earnest face. “Very well.”

“Thank you.” He picked up his hat and turned to the door. “Well, I’m off. Hopefully, the dog will have shown up at Hunts Hall by now.”

“I agree. But don’t worry, we shall look after William until you return.”

“Much obliged, Miss Foster.”

Abigail went belowstairs to talk to Duncan but discovered his room empty. Where was he at this hour? Out drinking at the public house? Meeting Eliza?

Drawn by Abigail’s knocking, Mrs. Walsh peeped out of her own room across the passage, her hair in paper wrappers. Abigail asked if she knew where Duncan was, but the housekeeper said she thought he’d gone to bed and was surprised to learn his room was empty.

Abigail borrowed paper and ink from Mrs. Walsh and left a note for Duncan, asking him to check on Mr. Chapman when he returned, and to take him fresh water in the morning. The note would also serve to let the man know she was aware of—and not pleased with—his late-night absence.

She sighed, resigned to go upstairs and ask her father to look in on William. Remembering Miles’s comment about reputations, she doubted it would be proper for her to do so. Crossing the hall, she
paused outside the morning room door, to assure herself William Chapman slept on, undisturbed. If so, she would let her father sleep awhile longer. Perhaps Duncan would return soon and she wouldn’t have to wake her father. His “lord of the manor” condescension might not extend to middle-of-the-night visits to his houseguest’s sickbed.

She pressed her ear to the closed door, but a groan broke the silence she’d hoped for. Her heart banged against her ribs, and her stomach plummeted. All thoughts of propriety fled.

She inched open the door and peered in. Mac had left a candle lamp glowing on a side table, which illuminated William’s form on the makeshift bed. Seeing he was dressed in nightshirt and covered by bedclothes, she opened the door wider and tiptoed inside. Again she heard a pitiful groan.

She cautiously approached. His eyes were closed, but his face was bunched up in a grimace of pain, or anxiety.

“Noooo,” he moaned. “Leah . . .”

She was startled to hear him calling for his sister. He must be having a nightmare.

Abigail bent near. “Mr. Chapman?” she whispered. “William?” When he didn’t respond, she gently touched his arm. “You’re all right. Just a dream.”

She had heard laudanum could give people horrid nightmares, sometimes even hallucinations. She hoped the surgeon hadn’t prescribed too great a dose.

“You’re all right,” she repeated, gently shaking his arm.

Slowly, groggily, he opened his eyes. He looked at her with a bleary gaze.

“You were having a nightmare,” she said quietly, kneeling on the footstool. “I only came in to wake you. Are you all right?”

“Leah?” He looked past her, toward the door.

“She is at home in bed. Sound asleep, no doubt. You are here in Pembrooke Park—do you remember?”

“Leah was here too,” he murmured. His expression tightened in alarm. “Hiding in the secret room. He was coming for her.”

Leah, in the
secret room?
Abigail thought.
Someone coming for her?
What a dream for him to have.

“Only a nightmare,” she repeated.

“Was it? It seemed so real.” He sighed. “What a relief.”

His expression relaxed, and he took a slow, deep breath.

“Are you all right now?” she asked. “Are you in pain?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth in a lopsided grin. “The pain is a distant thing—off shore. I feel . . . good.” His gaze roamed her face. “Abigail Foster is at my bedside . . .” His eyes twinkled. “How can I not feel good? In fact, I feel very . . . warm.”

His hand found hers, and he entwined his long fingers around her shorter ones. “Like . . . warm jelly that hasn’t set. My bones are soft. Your skin is soft. So soft . . .” He looked down at her pale wrist as though it were an awe-inspiring sight, and ran a thumb over it.

It sent a thrill of pleasure up her arm.

She supposed she now knew how William Chapman would behave were he ever foxed. And considering he stayed away from liquor, this was likely as close as he would ever come. She hoped he wouldn’t feel the worse for it when the laudanum wore off. She wondered if he would even remember this conversation in the morning.

His voice thick, he said, “I’ve never seen you with your hair down.” He reached out and captured the end of a dark curl and caressed it between his thumb and fingers.

She bowed her head, embarrassed and self-conscious, yet at the same time supremely aware of her femininity, her long dark hair falling on either side of her face and over her shoulders like a veil.

“Sorry. I had already dressed for bed.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to meet his earnest gaze.

He continued to hold her hand, and she continued to let him. His eyes took on that dazed quality once more. He said languidly, “Abigail Foster in my bedchamber at night. I must be dreaming . . .”

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a slow kiss to one
fingertip after another. “Mulberries . . .” he murmured. “I find I like them after all.”

He gave her a roguish grin.

“You are feeling very pleased with yourself,” she observed.

“Of course I am. You are with me, so I am on top of the world . . . yet strangely numb to the world at the same time.”

She gently extracted her hand from his. “I think you are quite well enough for me to leave you. In fact, far too well for me to stay.” She rose.

His head snapped toward the door, and his brows furrowed. “Who’s that?”

Startled, she turned toward the door she had left open, but saw nothing. “Where?”

“Who’s there?” he called.

“I don’t see anyone. Probably only a trick of the shadows.”
And the laudanum,
she added to herself.

He shook his head. “I saw someone—someone in a hooded cloak.”

Abigail walked to the door, her heart beating a little too hard, first from William’s touch and now this scare. If anyone was there, it was likely only Duncan, coming to heed her summons at last. Or perhaps her father. Or even Miles Pembrooke. She hoped not the latter. He would certainly not like finding her in William Chapman’s bedchamber, sickroom or not.

But she saw no one in the hall, even though the moonlight leaking in through the windows left plenty of shadows and dark corners.

She returned to his bedside. “I didn’t see anyone.”

But William had already nodded back to sleep.

Had there been someone there? Abigail wondered. Someone in a hooded cloak? A shiver snaked up her neck at the thought.

Sometime later, Abigail jerked awake to find Mac bent over her, gently shaking her shoulder.

“Hm?” She had fallen asleep in the armchair. Her gaze flew to William. “Is he all right?” Relieved, she saw him sleeping peacefully.

Mac said, “I’m here now. Go to bed, Miss Foster.”

She rose, her neck stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. Massaging it, she murmured, “Find the dog?”

“Eventually. In the last place I looked, of course. Snake Ravine. Still don’t know what he was doing down there.” Mac sighed and unbuttoned his Carrick coat.

Her cue to depart. “Well. Good night,” she whispered, stepping to the door.

“Thanks for sitting with him,” he said. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“I thought you were going to ask Duncan . . . ?”

“I couldn’t find him. He was out, apparently.”

“Out? Out where?”

“I don’t know. But I shall ask him in the morning. It’s late. Get some sleep.”

He ran a weary hand over his face. “I’m halfway there already.”

The following morning, when Polly came in to help her dress, Abigail asked her, “Do you happen to know if Duncan saw my note?”

“Aye, miss. He saw it.”

Something in the maid’s tone of voice told Abigail that Duncan had been none too pleased about it either.

When Abigail went downstairs for breakfast, she first diverted to the morning room. She knocked, assuming William would be fully dressed by then, thanks to Duncan’s begrudging help, if not Mac’s.

She expected Mac to answer the door, but instead she heard a muffled “Come in” from inside and tentatively inched open the door.

William Chapman sat on a stool near the desk-turned-washstand, breathing hard and catching his breath. He was dressed—
thankfully—in trousers and shirt, one arm in his coat sleeve, struggling to wriggle his injured arm into the other.

“Where is your father?” she asked.

“He left just after Duncan came in with water. Went home to change—he had an early meeting at Hunts Hall. I suppose he assumed Duncan would help me.”

“So did I. I asked him to do so.”

Mr. Chapman gave up his struggle. “He did bring water and helped me shave, but he has many other duties, so I assured him I could finish dressing on my own.”

She gave him a wry look. “As I see.”
Yes,
she thought. No doubt Duncan enumerated his many
pressing
duties with long-suffering martyrdom.

“I don’t blame him,” William said. “To tell you the truth, I was surprised he did that much. He isn’t exactly fond of me, remember.”

“So I’ve noticed. Are you ever going to tell me why?”

“Let’s just say he once admired Leah, but Father and I discouraged his interest.”

“Ah. Then I am surprised your father recommended him for the position here.”

“Oh, Papa isn’t the type to hold a grudge.”

Abigail gave him a pointed look, and William quickly recanted.

“You’re right, he
is
the type. But in this case, Duncan’s wrongdoing was of the sort men understand. Pursuing a beautiful woman beyond his reach.”

His eyes flashed with pain or longing. She hoped he was not thinking of Andrew Morgan’s sister again.

“I see.” She turned away, toward the small bed, neatly made. “Your poor father. It looks as though he barely slept. Did he tell you he was summoned to go out and find Mr. Morgan’s hound after you fell asleep?”

“No, he didn’t mention it.”

“Yes, I spoke to him before he left.” Abigail explained, “I looked in on you in his absence, since I couldn’t find Duncan anywhere.” She tilted her head to one side in thought. “Perhaps it’s a good thing I did.”

“Did you?” He winced in thought. “I had the strangest dreams last night. . . .”

“Yes, I know you did,” she drawled.

He looked up at her, mildly alarmed. “Oh dear.”

Abigail stepped forward. “Here, let me help you.” She pulled the frock coat around him and helped him angle his arm into the sleeve, gently tugging the lining over the bandages.

“Thank you.” He asked, “Did I . . . talk in my sleep? I sometimes do, Jacob tells me.”

“I’m not sure how much was sleep and how much was the effect of the laudanum.”

“That bad, eh? Not sure I want to ask what I said.”

She playfully narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t so much what you said, as what you
did
.”

His eyes widened, then sparked with humor. “You are enjoying teasing me, I see. Or perhaps
tormenting
is the better word.” He added, “I do hope I didn’t embarrass myself, or you.”

“Nothing to worry about. Shall I help you tie your cravat? I’ve often helped my father.”

“If you like. I’m not sure I can manage with only one good arm, but I can do without or wait for my father, if you prefer.”