shan’t keep you.”
“I was only going for a walk,” Miss Foster said. “I have been indoors all day and haven’t had a chance to explore the grounds yet, so . . .” Her words trailed away.
Was she hoping he would join her? Unlikely, yet there was only one way to find out.
“A beautiful day for it,” William agreed. “Would you mind some company?”
“Not at all.”
He smiled. “A walk is exactly what I need after Mamma’s roast dinner.”
She returned his smile with apparent relief. “Just let me set this inside and put on my things.”
A few moments later, she joined him in the courtyard wearing gloves and a straw hat.
“After you.” He gestured her toward the side of the house, and they walked around it. “Other than the church, everything I love is back here.”
Behind the house, lush green vines with white flowers climbed the manor walls. In the rear courtyard, a terrace overlooked a neglected rose garden, overgrown topiaries, and a lily pond.
He said, “It isn’t as beautiful as it once was, of course.”
“Perhaps when the house is ready, I might give the gardens some attention.”
“Mamma would be happy to help. She loves a garden. And Papa would be eager to offer you many suggestions of how to go about it.”
The two shared another grin.
They passed a walled garden, potting shed, and orchard. Williampointed toward a large pond beyond. “That’s the fishpond. Robert Pembrooke left Papa the use of it, along with ownership of our cottage, in his will.”
“Robert Pembrooke . . .” Miss Foster echoed. “Is that who lived here before us?”
“Not immediately before. He died twenty years ago.”
William did not expand on his reply. His father didn’t want him inviting questions about the manor’s former occupants.
As if sensing his reserve, she asked instead, “Where is your family’s cottage?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Then I’ll just point it out to you. You should know where it is, in case you ever need anything, or if there is ever any . . . trouble.” Lord willing, there would not be, William thought, though his father was full of dire predictions and warnings.
He led her past the former gamekeeper’s lodge, then along a well-worn path through a grove of trees, carpeted with green-and-white wood anemones. Nestled in a clearing sat his family’s white cottage with a thatched roof.
She paused to look at it from a polite distance. “How charming,” she murmured.
He regarded the place fondly. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
After a moment, she asked abruptly, “Is your family as happy as they seem?”
He considered her unexpected question, pursing his lips in thought. “Yes, for the most part we are a happy lot. Or perhaps content is the better word. We have our squabbles like any family, but woe to anyone who tries to harm a Chapman.” He tried to smile but felt it falter. “If only Leah . . .”
She regarded him in concern. “If only Leah, what?”
Why had he said anything? “I am not criticizing,” he hurried to assure her. “But Leah has struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. I wish I could help her. Scripture says fear not.And perfect love casts out fear, but nothing I say—or pray—seems to make any difference.”
“Love without fear . . .” Miss Foster murmured, considering the notion. “It doesn’t sound very practical, I’m afraid. For the more one loves, the more one has to fear losing.”
He looked at her, a grin tugging his mouth. “Impractical, maybe. Difficult, yes. But what a beautiful way to live.”
He cocked his head to one side, allowing his gaze to roam her lovely face. “You value practicality, I take it, Miss Foster?”
“Yes, I do.” She drew herself up. “Speaking of which, perhaps I ought to get back to the house and let you return to yours. I am certain you must be tired after services.”
“A little weary, yes. But nothing a quick nap
“I was only going for a walk,” Miss Foster said. “I have been indoors all day and haven’t had a chance to explore the grounds yet, so . . .” Her words trailed away.
Was she hoping he would join her? Unlikely, yet there was only one way to find out.
“A beautiful day for it,” William agreed. “Would you mind some company?”
“Not at all.”
He smiled. “A walk is exactly what I need after Mamma’s roast dinner.”
She returned his smile with apparent relief. “Just let me set this inside and put on my things.”
A few moments later, she joined him in the courtyard wearing gloves and a straw hat.
“After you.” He gestured her toward the side of the house, and they walked around it. “Other than the church, everything I love is back here.”
Behind the house, lush green vines with white flowers climbed the manor walls. In the rear courtyard, a terrace overlooked a neglected rose garden, overgrown topiaries, and a lily pond.
He said, “It isn’t as beautiful as it once was, of course.”
“Perhaps when the house is ready, I might give the gardens some attention.”
“Mamma would be happy to help. She loves a garden. And Papa would be eager to offer you many suggestions of how to go about it.”
The two shared another grin.
They passed a walled garden, potting shed, and orchard. Williampointed toward a large pond beyond. “That’s the fishpond. Robert Pembrooke left Papa the use of it, along with ownership of our cottage, in his will.”
“Robert Pembrooke . . .” Miss Foster echoed. “Is that who lived here before us?”
“Not immediately before. He died twenty years ago.”
William did not expand on his reply. His father didn’t want him inviting questions about the manor’s former occupants.
As if sensing his reserve, she asked instead, “Where is your family’s cottage?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Then I’ll just point it out to you. You should know where it is, in case you ever need anything, or if there is ever any . . . trouble.” Lord willing, there would not be, William thought, though his father was full of dire predictions and warnings.
He led her past the former gamekeeper’s lodge, then along a well-worn path through a grove of trees, carpeted with green-and-white wood anemones. Nestled in a clearing sat his family’s white cottage with a thatched roof.
She paused to look at it from a polite distance. “How charming,” she murmured.
He regarded the place fondly. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
After a moment, she asked abruptly, “Is your family as happy as they seem?”
He considered her unexpected question, pursing his lips in thought. “Yes, for the most part we are a happy lot. Or perhaps content is the better word. We have our squabbles like any family, but woe to anyone who tries to harm a Chapman.” He tried to smile but felt it falter. “If only Leah . . .”
She regarded him in concern. “If only Leah, what?”
Why had he said anything? “I am not criticizing,” he hurried to assure her. “But Leah has struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. I wish I could help her. Scripture says fear not.And perfect love casts out fear, but nothing I say—or pray—seems to make any difference.”
“Love without fear . . .” Miss Foster murmured, considering the notion. “It doesn’t sound very practical, I’m afraid. For the more one loves, the more one has to fear losing.”
He looked at her, a grin tugging his mouth. “Impractical, maybe. Difficult, yes. But what a beautiful way to live.”
He cocked his head to one side, allowing his gaze to roam her lovely face. “You value practicality, I take it, Miss Foster?”
“Yes, I do.” She drew herself up. “Speaking of which, perhaps I ought to get back to the house and let you return to yours. I am certain you must be tired after services.”
“A little weary, yes. But nothing a quick nap
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