The Secret of Pembrooke Park by Klassen Julie

Author:Klassen, Julie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC042030, FIC042040, FIC027070, Single women—England—Fiction
ISBN: 9781441264824
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2014-11-24T16:00:00+00:00

On Sunday morning, Abigail glanced at her father, intently slicing his sausages, then looked across the breakfast table at Miles.

“Mr. Pembrooke,” she began, “I . . . don’t suppose you’d want to go to church with us?”

Miles opened his mouth. Closed it again. And then smiled at her fondly. “Thank you for inviting me, Miss Foster, however equivocally done.”

“I did not mean to—”

He held up a hand to forestall her protests. “I understand. And don’t worry—I am not offended. I did not plan to go in any case. I could not stand to face him.”

Her father spoke up. “To face Mac Chapman, do you mean? Come, Miles. I hope you don’t mind, but Abigail mentioned the rumors about your father all those years ago. Stuff and nonsense the lot of it, I imagine. But you cannot let a few small-minded busybodies keep you from living your life and going where you will.” He laid down his knife and fork with a clank.

“You are kind, Mr. Foster. But I don’t stay home to avoid Mac or any one particular person. I meant that I dare not face God.” He added in apparent good humor, “It is His house, after all. And I am definitely not an invited guest, if you know what I mean. I don’t belong there.”

“Of course you do.” Abigail’s heart twisted to see the wounded vulnerability on the man’s face, beneath his humorous façade. “Church is for everyone,” she said. “And so is God. Did Jesus himself not eat with sinners and tax collectors?”

“You flatter me, Miss Foster.”

“I don’t mean that you—”

“Heavens, you are fun to tease.” He patted her arm. “No, no. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and shall consider what you say. But for now I will stay here. I will not interrupt the worship of all those good souls, and you can’t pretend my attendance wouldn’t do so. It is not as though I could sneak into the place, what with a mere two dozen parishioners?”

“Give or take,” Abigail allowed.

“There, you see. But I shall wait here for you. And . . . if you thought to include me in your prayers, I should not mind.”

“I shall indeed,” Abigail earnestly assured him.

After Sunday school that day, Abigail took Leah’s arm, planning to walk her home and hoping for a private chat on the way. She began, “If you are determined not to see Andrew Morgan, then I should like you to meet Miles. I know you don’t like strangers, but he isn’t—not really. He is a distant relative of my father’s and your former neighbor. And yes, he is a Pembrooke, but he’s very agreeable—and quite handsome.”

Leah protested, “Miss Foster, I don’t—”

Abigail looked up and paused, surprised to see the very man in question on the path. “There he is now. Come, let me introduce you.”

She tugged, but Leah froze like a statue, her arm as yielding as a stout branch.

Seeing them, Miles Pembrooke smiled and walked over, his limp less noticeable. Perhaps he made more effort to conceal it when meeting new people, or at least when meeting pretty ladies.

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