The Secret of Pembrooke Park (4 page)

In the morning, Abigail stayed in bed later than usual, having slept poorly. It was Sunday, but Abigail decided against attending church. She wasn’t ready to meet all those strangers, to feel their stares as she, the newcomer, entered. And what if they did things differently in the country? She would feel uncomfortable and uncertain what to do. Her family had attended divine services only sporadically in London, when they had not been out too late the night before, or when her mother decided they ought to show up for appearances’ sake, especially if a prospective suitor was known to be devout. Besides, Abigail had several letters to write, and she would finally have the time to do so.

Polly brought up a breakfast tray and helped her dress before leaving to attend church herself. Mac had strongly suggested the servants be given a day of rest on the Sabbath, so they might attend church and visit their families. Abigail had agreed, wishing her own family were there so she would not be alone.

After breakfast, Abigail reread a letter she had received at the inn the day before from Gilbert’s sister. Susan expressed regret that Abigail had left Town and concern over her family’s new situation. She had also added a postscript:

You described Pembrooke Park as being a remote place near the tiny hamlet of Easton and the village of Caldwell. Interestingly enough, Edward and I have heard of Caldwell. One of the magazine’s regular contributors lives there. What a small world it is!

Abigail idly wondered who it was. She dipped a quill in ink and began her reply, trying to sound optimistic about the change
in their circumstances, to ward off her friend’s pity or worry. She was fine. They were fine. She asked the name of the local writer, in case she encountered this person.

But she soon found herself distracted and rose and crossed the hall to her father’s room. From his window, she saw a few wagons and gigs stopping on the other side of the bridge. The habit of leaving horses and vehicles was well ingrained, she saw, though Mac had finally agreed to removal of the barricade. Duncan had not enjoyed the task, she knew.

Other families came on foot from nearby Easton, greeting one another as they passed through the gate. The church bell rang, startling Abigail after the silence of the empty house. The last of the parishioners disappeared inside, and with a sigh Abigail returned to her letter.

Later, when the service ended, Abigail again rose to watch the congregation depart. As the small crowd diminished and trickled away over the bridge, she finally saw the Chapmans emerge—Mac, a middle-aged woman who must be his wife, William, Leah, the younger girl, and a red-haired boy as well. They talked and laughed as they walked across the courtyard on their way home. Mac’s cottage was somewhere just beyond the estate grounds. William, she’d gathered, had recently moved into the small parsonage behind the church, though clearly he still spent time with his family.

The dog, so fierce when she’d first seen him, bounded over and joined the family with a lolling tongue and wagging tail. The tall red-haired boy of perhaps fifteen tossed a stick to him and then went chasing after the dog. His younger sister followed suit. Mac called some ireless admonishment after them, while his wife laughed and took his arm. Behind their parents, Leah took William’s arm as well. The sweet picture of familiar affection caused a little ache in Abigail’s heart. Her own family was not terribly affectionate. But she’d always secretly hoped that she and Gilbert would make up for it with their own children someday. Tears bit her eyes, and she blinked the painful thought away.

As though sensing he was being watched, William Chapman
glanced back, looking up at the house. Although she doubted he could 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 single
bite. 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 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. William
pointed 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 can’t fix.” He turned and gestured for her to lead the way back.

As they walked, she said tentatively, “Thank you for not pressing me about attending church.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He
had
been a bit disappointed when she hadn’t come but had no intention of pressuring her. Instead, he sent her a sidelong glance and said wryly, “You’ll come when you’re ready. I hear the sermons are quite . . . interesting.”

She shot him a puzzled look. Had he piqued her interest? He certainly hoped so.

T
hat night, Abigail went up to bed early, weary from sleeping so poorly the night before and hoping she would sleep better her second night at Pembrooke Park.

Polly helped her undress, cheerfully chatting about church—“Mr. Chapman preaches the shortest sermons. Witty too. Some folks don’t appreciate it, but I do . . .”—and about the afternoon she and Molly had spent with her parents and brothers out on their family farm. She also mentioned Duncan had just returned from visiting his mother in Ham Green, several miles away. As Abigail listened to the girl’s happy account, she was glad she had heeded Mac’s advice and given the servants the day off.

After Polly left, Abigail crawled into bed with a book she’d found in the library—a history of the Pembrooke family and manor. But she’d read only a few pages before her eyelids began drooping. She set aside the book and blew out her bedside candle. Lying there, Abigail thought back on the day’s conversation with Mr. Chapman. They had touched on so many topics—family and fear and church . . .

Engulfed in darkness, her ears focused sharply, trying to catalogue every sound. For once identified, she would no longer need to fret about it. That howl? The wind through the fireplace flue.
That rattle? A window shaken by the wind. Telling herself she would grow used to the sounds in time, she determinedly pulled the bedclothes to her chin, pressed her eyes closed, and willed sleep to come.

Then she heard something new. A creak, like a door opening nearby. Probably only Polly, she thought, checking to see if the windows in the master bedchamber had been shut after yesterday’s airing.

Faint footsteps reached her ears. In the corridor outside her room? No—it sounded more muffled, like footsteps on carpet and not wood. Was it coming from the next room? The room on that side of the wall was to be Louisa’s. Why would anyone be in there, when they hadn’t even started cleaning it yet?

A scrape—like a chair leg across wood? She was probably imagining things. It was likely only a simple creak of the house, of damp, warped walls and floorboards. After all, it was well past working hours and a Sunday yet.

Sleep,
she told herself, closing her eyes again.
Fear not.

In the morning, Abigail was still sound asleep when Polly came in with hot water and a breakfast tray.

“Oh. Sorry, Polly. I intended to be up before you came.” Abigail pushed back the bedclothes and hurried to the washstand. “I didn’t sleep well last night. The house makes so many odd noises. Have you noticed?”

“What sort of noises?” Polly asked.

“Oh, you know. Creaks and groans. Though last night I heard footsteps, long after you had gone to bed.”

“You likely imagined it.” The girl’s eyes twinkled. “Or perhaps the place is haunted, like the village children say it is.”

“Haunted?” Abigail echoed, drying her face. “By whom? I suppose my father and I have angered some ghost of Pembrooke past by moving in here?”

“Well, someone did die here twenty years ago. Was killed some say. Probably his ghost what does the haunting.”

“Who died here?” Abigail asked. “One of the Pembrooke family?” She recalled Mr. Chapman saying a Robert Pembrooke died twenty years ago.

Polly’s mouth slackened, face growing pale. “No, miss. I never said a word about the Pembrookes, did I? Please don’t tell anyone otherwise. I don’t know anything about the family. How could I? I was talkin’ about a servant—that’s all.”

Abigail regarded the young woman, surprised by her panic. Hoping to lighten the moment, she teased, “Which servant? A cheeky housemaid?”

But the girl did not smile. “No, miss. Robert Pembrooke’s valet. Walter something, I heard his name was, but that’s the last word I’ll say on the subject. I’ve said too much already.”

Abigail blinked. “Very well, Polly.”

The housemaid stepped to the closet. “My mouth will be the death of me yet, and you don’t want
me
hauntin’ the place, flapping my ghostly lips all night. Now, let’s get you dressed. . . .”

When Abigail left her bedchamber a short while later, she paused at the door of the room that would be Louisa’s. The door was closed, as it had been the day before. She opened the latch and inched it open, the mounting creak familiar. Is that what she’d heard last night?

At first glance the room seemed undisturbed. But then, in the morning light slanting through the unshuttered windows, she saw something. She frowned and bent to look closer. Yes, unmistakable. Footprints in the dust, all the way to the wardrobe. She had not even bothered to look inside yet, but someone had. The footprints appeared notably larger than her small shoes. So probably not one of the housemaids checking the windows.

Might it have been their manservant, Duncan? She didn’t like the idea of a man roaming about a lady’s bedchamber at night. Though she supposed he might have checked the windows as a favor to Polly, whom he seemed eager to help. But what business had he opening a wardrobe in an unoccupied room at night?

Later that day, Polly surprised her by handing her a letter—the first to be delivered directly to the house. The letter was addressed to her, in care of Pembrooke Park. Abigail did not recognize the handwriting, nor the crest pressed into its wax seal. It bore a Bristol postmark, but she could not think of any acquaintance who lived there. She peeled away the seal and unfolded the outer page, revealing a second page within. Costly indeed.

The outer page bore only a single line:
I think you are the very person to
read this. . . .

The page within was of a smaller size. One edge was ragged, as though torn from a notebook.

When first I arrived at Pembrooke Park, I was chilled by the tomblike silence of the place, the unnatural stillness. I shall never forget the tea service, spread atop the cloth-covered table, as though the occupants had merely risen to look out the window at the arrival of an unexpected carriage but had been yanked from the house then and there, never to return. The tea was now a filmy residue at the bottom of bone china. The scones hard and dry. The milk soured. The kettle and cups abandoned in haste, like the house itself.

I asked the housekeeper why she had not cleaned the place, and she said she’d been told to leave everything as it was. I wondered if she meant, so the constable could search the house for evidence. After all, someone died there only a fortnight before—an accident, I’d been told. But it was clear she didn’t believe that for a minute.

Abigail sucked in a breath—stunned by the words, the similarities to her own experience upon entering Pembrooke Park for the first time. No one had died there recently, as far as she knew. Though Polly had said a valet died there twenty years ago. She read it again. The timing seemed different—the writer describing entering the house abandoned for weeks, not years—yet eerily similar all the same.

Was it a page of an old journal, torn out and mailed to her? Or a recent work of fiction? Who had written it, and why?

The next day, Abigail saw Leah Chapman walking across the bridge and hurried to catch up with her.

“May I walk with you, Miss Chapman?”

The woman stiffened, then recovered, saying politely, “If you like.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Taking a basket to Mrs. DeWitt, who is ailing again.”

“Thank you for the basket you sent over for me,” Abigail said. “I wish you had delivered it yourself. I would have asked you in for tea and shared those delicious muffins with you.”

“My mother makes them. They are very good, yes,” Miss Chapman replied, ignoring the implied invitation.

Abigail added, “I’m sure Mrs. DeWitt will enjoy them as well.”

“Oh, for her there is broth and syllabub. Poor dear hasn’t many teeth.”

“I see. How thoughtful.”

Leah shrugged. “It isn’t much. William is the thoughtful one. He visits her every week.”

“Has he lived in the parsonage long?”

She shook her head. “Only since he was ordained. Our rector, Mr. Morris has the living. But he resides in a much larger and newer house in Newbury.”

“So far?”

She nodded. “One of the reasons he doesn’t come here very often. William conducts most of the services, calls on the sick. When he returned after his ordination, Mr. Morris offered him the use of the parsonage. Likely eases the man’s conscience for paying him so poorly. And he knows William will keep the place in better repair than if it remained empty.”

“Yes. I can well imagine.”

Leah slanted her an empathetic look. “Is the manor in very bad condition?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

“No, thank you.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Oh?” The woman’s caramel-colored eyes widened. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve heard the rumors.”

Leah stopped and looked at her askance. “What rumors?”

“Take your pick: that someone was killed there, that the house is haunted—not to mention the threat of treasure hunters and thieves . . .”

“Ah, those rumors.” Leah nodded and walked on. “And do you believe them?”

“Not all of them. But the house does make strange sounds at night. Probably round the clock, but I only hear them at night.” Abigail forced a little chuckle. “I don’t suppose you would come and spend the nights with me until my father returns?”

“I’m afraid that would be quite impossible,” Leah said, lips tight.

“I was only joking,” Abigail defended. “Or mostly joking.” Again she forced a little chuckle, taken aback by the woman’s adamant refusal. It was on the tip of Abigail’s tongue to tell Miss Chapman about the letter she’d received, apparently confirming at least one of the rumors—about someone dying there—but seeing the woman’s wary expression, Abigail decided to keep it to herself.

Abigail bid Miss Chapman farewell at the door of Mrs. DeWitt’s cottage, and returned to Pembrooke Park alone. As she approached, she was surprised to see a man disappear around the side of the house. Her heart gave a little lurch. Torn between locking herself inside the manor and seeing who it was, she crept to the corner of the house and peered around it. There, where a chimney stack jutted from the wall, a man stood, staring up at the windows, hands behind his back. Was this one of the treasure hunters?

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

The man turned, and she was both relieved and disappointed to recognize William Chapman.

He glanced over at her sheepishly. “Ah . . . Miss Foster. Good day.”

Was he embarrassed to have been caught snooping, or guilty of worse? Surely he was not one of the treasure hunters, looking for a way to sneak inside without being seen?

“Are you looking for something?” She glanced up in the direction he’d been staring.

He shrugged. “Just wondering which room they’d put you in.”

She looked at him askance. “And why should you want to know that?”

Had he been hoping for a glimpse of her through her bedchamber window—and him a clergyman . . . ?

“Only curious.”

She said, “Father insisted I choose whichever room I liked for myself.”

“And which did you choose?”

“I hardly think it would mean anything to you even if I told you. Unless . . . are you more familiar with the house than you let on?”

“I haven’t been inside since I was a boy.”

She decided to come right out with her suspicion. “Coming upon you just now, I confess I thought you might be one of the treasure hunters your father warned me about, looking for a way to break in.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “Are you serious?” He gave a little bark of laughter. “I assure you, Miss Foster. Had I wanted to get inside Pembrooke Park, I could have done so at any time.”

“Because your father has the key, do you mean?”

“No, that is not what I mean.”

She waited for him to explain, but instead he ran a hand over his jaw and said, “I promise you, Miss Foster, I shall not
break in
to Pembrooke Park. But . . . if you are willing to give me a tour sometime, I would like to see the old place again. See what all the fuss is about.”

“Would your father approve?”

“Not likely. But I can’t see any harm in it.”