The Secret of Pembrooke Park by Julie Klassen Page A

the insinuation.
    “Tonight?” his mother echoed. She raised her eyebrows and pierced him with a startled look. “Did he indeed?”

    The Chapman cottage sat nestled in a wood bordering the estate grounds—on the same side of the river—which allowed Mac to guard the place from outsiders who had to cross the bridge to reach the house, unless they knew the back way through the wood. Abigail had seen the Chapman home from a distance on her walk with William Chapman, but approaching it now, cast in the golden late-afternoon sunlight filtered through a canopy of lime trees, Abigail thought it looked more charming than ever—like a painting in soft hues of gold, green, and ivory. Dark green shutters framed its windows, and tulips and daffodils crowned window boxes beneath. A low stone wall surrounded the cottage, the enclosed space filled with cheerful kitchen and flower gardens boasting blooming herbs and spring flowers. The only object marring the idyllic picture was a high-fenced dog kennel on one side—the dog within barking furiously as Abigail opened the gate.
    She heard Mac Chapman’s voice before she saw him stalking out from a side door, sternly chastising his dog. “Brutus. Quiet. Down!”
    Drawn by the hubbub, a woman in mob cap and apron hurried out the front door. “Sorry about that. Don’t worry. His bark is worse than his bite.” She winked. “The dog’s too.”
    The wink, the grin, the bright blue eyes identified the woman as William Chapman’s mother.
    “You must be Miss Foster,” she said. “I’m Kate Chapman. Apleasure to meet you. What a welcome! Your second inauspicious welcome at our hands! I am surprised you could be persuaded to join us. Come inside, my dear. The dog will calm down when he can’t see you—the scary stranger.”
    Abigail returned the woman’s smile, liking her immediately. Mrs. Chapman was a pretty woman in her early fifties with golden-brown hair and dancing blue eyes. Her teeth were a bit crooked but together formed a warm and welcoming smile. She showed none of her husband’s suspicious nature nor her elder daughter’s wary reserve.
    “William would no doubt have escorted you over, but I’ve sent him to the Wilsons’ for fresh cream. Should have done it earlier, I know, but I’m a bit scattered by the prospect of such august company!”
    “Really—you oughtn’t to have gone to any special trouble.”
    Mrs. Chapman opened the door for her. “Of course I must! And do be sure and notice Mac’s collection of shooting trophies. Knowing you were joining us, he spent the last hour polishing them.”
    “Oh! I feel terrible. Your son assured me you would not mind—that you have guests all the time.”
    “He may have exaggerated just a bit, my dear. To put you at your ease, no doubt. And don’t mistake me—I have been longing to meet you.”
    She took Abigail’s arm and led her through the vestibule and down the passage. “Mary! Check the fish, if you please.” She looked back at Abigail and explained, “We have a plain cook, and she is very plain indeed. We’re attempting a fine dinner for you, my dear, but no guarantees.”
    “What may I do to help?” Abigail asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t much experience, but I am happy to try.”
    “Oh, my dear—I like you already.” She squeezed Abigail’s arm. “Come back to the kitchen.”
    She followed the woman toward the back of the house and into a chaotic kitchen, with a worktable strewn with flour and mixing bowls and a stove covered with pots and stewing pans.
    “Something smells good,” Abigail said.
    Leah looked up from where she sat, shelling peas. “Oh! Miss Foster. We are behind schedule, I’m afraid.”
    “I don’t mind in the least. Give me something to do.”
    Mrs. Chapman snagged an apron from a peg on the wall, whisked it around Abigail, and tied the strings. “Look at that tiny waist! I had one of those once upon a time.” She winked and plunked a bowl of glistening red