see inside the dim room on the sunny day, she stepped away from his view.
Later that afternoon, Abigail buttoned a spencer over her day dress—preparing to go out for a walk—when someone knocked on the front door. Since the servants had not yet returned from their day off, Abigail jogged lightly down the stairs and answered it herself, hat and gloves in hand. She felt a momentary hesitation about opening the door to a stranger—or possible treasure hunter—while she was alone in the house, so she was relieved to recognize the caller as William Chapman, basket in arms. Nothing about his fashionable green coat, patterned waistcoat, or simple cravat marked him as a clergyman.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
He glanced behind her toward the empty hall. “Servants abandon you already?” A wry glint shone in his boyish blue eyes.
“No,” she assured him. “Not at all. They are enjoying a day of rest.”
“That was generous of you.”
“Your father’s idea.”
“Ah. Yes, he isn’t shy about offering his ideas on how I ought to conduct things on Sundays either.”
“Oh?”
“He is the parish clerk, after all. So . . .” He shrugged helplessly.
“You poor man,” she teased. William Chapman was handsome, she decided. His hair was darker than his father’s, more auburn than red. And he was nearly as tall. His features were pleasing—straight nose, broad mouth, and fair skin.
He held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for my father. But he can be a bit . . . overbearing at times. I wouldn’t want you to think you were the only one on the receiving end of his . . . suggestions.”
He smiled, causing vertical grooves to frame his mouth and his large eyes to crinkle at the corners. Abigail felt a flutter of attraction.
“Here, this is for you. A welcome basket from my sister.” He held forth the basket, bulging with gifts: embroidered hand towels, homemade soap, tins of tea and jam, a loaf of bread, and a mound of muffins.
“My goodness. Did she make all this herself?”
“Most of it, yes—even the basket—though Kitty helps with the soap, Mamma is the baker, and my father is famous round the parish for his jams.”
“No . . .”
“Oh yes. Walking about as land agent, he’s discovered all the best patches of wild strawberries, gooseberries, and blackberries. Plus, he’s long had the run of the Pembrooke orchards. I hope you shan’t tell the new tenant. . . .” He winked.
“His secret is quite safe with me. Especially since he shared his jam. But . . . why didn’t your sister come herself? I would have liked to thank her in person.”
He grimaced as he considered his reply. “Leah is a bit . . . not shy exactly, but cautious around strangers.”
“Oh. I see. I did wonder, when I saw you escorting her away the day we arrived. Actually, when I saw you with her and a younger girl too, I thought they were your wife and daughter. . . .”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms behind his back and rocked on his heels. “No, I am not married. I have not had that privilege. Though I was—” He broke off, and she thought she saw pain flash across his eyes before he blinked it away. “You saw my two sisters, and I have a brother as well. Kitty looks young for her age, but she is twelve.”
“I see.” Abigail stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure whether she ought to ask him in. “I would invite you in to share this with me, but as I am alone in the house, I . . .”
He waved away the offer. “No, no. I have no intention of begging an invitation and wouldn’t dream of depriving you of a singlebite. Though if you share the jam with Mrs. Walsh, you shall have a friend for life.”
She smiled up at him. “Then I shall indeed.”
Duty discharged, William Chapman knew he should excuse himself, but felt oddly reluctant to part ways with the lovely newcomer. He forced himself to say, “Well, I can see you are dressed to go out, so I
Later that afternoon, Abigail buttoned a spencer over her day dress—preparing to go out for a walk—when someone knocked on the front door. Since the servants had not yet returned from their day off, Abigail jogged lightly down the stairs and answered it herself, hat and gloves in hand. She felt a momentary hesitation about opening the door to a stranger—or possible treasure hunter—while she was alone in the house, so she was relieved to recognize the caller as William Chapman, basket in arms. Nothing about his fashionable green coat, patterned waistcoat, or simple cravat marked him as a clergyman.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
He glanced behind her toward the empty hall. “Servants abandon you already?” A wry glint shone in his boyish blue eyes.
“No,” she assured him. “Not at all. They are enjoying a day of rest.”
“That was generous of you.”
“Your father’s idea.”
“Ah. Yes, he isn’t shy about offering his ideas on how I ought to conduct things on Sundays either.”
“Oh?”
“He is the parish clerk, after all. So . . .” He shrugged helplessly.
“You poor man,” she teased. William Chapman was handsome, she decided. His hair was darker than his father’s, more auburn than red. And he was nearly as tall. His features were pleasing—straight nose, broad mouth, and fair skin.
He held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for my father. But he can be a bit . . . overbearing at times. I wouldn’t want you to think you were the only one on the receiving end of his . . . suggestions.”
He smiled, causing vertical grooves to frame his mouth and his large eyes to crinkle at the corners. Abigail felt a flutter of attraction.
“Here, this is for you. A welcome basket from my sister.” He held forth the basket, bulging with gifts: embroidered hand towels, homemade soap, tins of tea and jam, a loaf of bread, and a mound of muffins.
“My goodness. Did she make all this herself?”
“Most of it, yes—even the basket—though Kitty helps with the soap, Mamma is the baker, and my father is famous round the parish for his jams.”
“No . . .”
“Oh yes. Walking about as land agent, he’s discovered all the best patches of wild strawberries, gooseberries, and blackberries. Plus, he’s long had the run of the Pembrooke orchards. I hope you shan’t tell the new tenant. . . .” He winked.
“His secret is quite safe with me. Especially since he shared his jam. But . . . why didn’t your sister come herself? I would have liked to thank her in person.”
He grimaced as he considered his reply. “Leah is a bit . . . not shy exactly, but cautious around strangers.”
“Oh. I see. I did wonder, when I saw you escorting her away the day we arrived. Actually, when I saw you with her and a younger girl too, I thought they were your wife and daughter. . . .”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms behind his back and rocked on his heels. “No, I am not married. I have not had that privilege. Though I was—” He broke off, and she thought she saw pain flash across his eyes before he blinked it away. “You saw my two sisters, and I have a brother as well. Kitty looks young for her age, but she is twelve.”
“I see.” Abigail stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure whether she ought to ask him in. “I would invite you in to share this with me, but as I am alone in the house, I . . .”
He waved away the offer. “No, no. I have no intention of begging an invitation and wouldn’t dream of depriving you of a singlebite. Though if you share the jam with Mrs. Walsh, you shall have a friend for life.”
She smiled up at him. “Then I shall indeed.”
Duty discharged, William Chapman knew he should excuse himself, but felt oddly reluctant to part ways with the lovely newcomer. He forced himself to say, “Well, I can see you are dressed to go out, so I
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