The Secret of Pembrooke Park (8 page)

An odd wistfulness clouded his green eyes. “The residents of the manor have always sat here, lass. It’s good to have someone sitting here again, even if it’s not who it should be. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

With that dour benediction, Abigail took her seat. She noticed Andrew Morgan and an older couple seated across the aisle from her in the other place of honor.

A whisper hissed from a few rows back. “Miss Foster!”

Abigail looked over and saw Kitty Chapman, pretty in ivory frock and straw bonnet. The girl beamed and waved enthusiastically until her mother laid a gentle hand on hers and admonished
her to sit quietly. Kate Chapman sent an apologetic smile Abigail’s way, and Abigail smiled in return. Leah, beside her mother, nodded politely in her direction.

Abigail glanced up and saw the candles in the chandelier above her had been lit for the service. She wondered if William Chapman was even now in the vestry wiping the soot from his hands before donning his white surplice. She felt a grin quiver on her lips at the thought.

A moment later a side door opened and that very man entered. She blinked at the sight of ironic and playful William Chapman in white cleric’s robe. Hands clasped, he beheld his congregation with a benign closed-lip smile before making his way to the altar. For a moment his gaze landed on her. Did a flicker of doubt cross his fair eyes? She hoped he was not sorry to see her, nor that he had guessed her secret motive for attending.

Mac, in his role as clerk, pronounced in a loud voice, “Let us sing to the praise and glory of God the forty-seventh psalm.”

Abigail found it strangely affecting and edifying to hear the small clutch of congregants in this humble parish church raising their voices together in the praise of their Maker. In the soaring London church, there had been instruments and professional singers, but somehow the music here was all the sweeter for being performed by the peaceful and pious inhabitants of this rural village. The congregation sang and prayed alternately several times. The tunes of the psalms were lively and cheerful, though at the same time sufficiently reverent. William Chapman read the liturgy. The responses were all regularly led by his father, the clerk, the whole congregation joining in one voice.

Mr. Chapman looked at his father meaningfully, and Mac took his cue, rising to stand at the reading desk and positioning spectacles on his long, narrow nose. He traced his finger along the page of the book, already open on the stand, and read in a deep voice. “A reading from the first chapter of James, the last two verses. ‘If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain. Pure
religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.’”

William Chapman nodded his thanks to his father and then climbed the stairs into the pulpit. “Good morning, everyone,” he began informally, smiling at the congregation, looking from face to face. He turned his smile on Abigail. “And welcome, Miss Foster. We are pleased to have you among us. Those of you who have not yet met our new neighbor will wish to do so after the service.”

He glanced down at his notes, cleared this throat, then began his sermon.

“A man I recently met told me that he was not interested in religion because religious people were a bore, not to mention hypocritical, pretending to be righteous while inwardly being as selfish and sinful as the next man. And during my years at St. John’s College in Oxford, I heard many fellows and professors espousing that very view. Bemoaning the fact that Sunday services are often attended only for appearance sake, while our churches echo empty during the week on high days and holy days.

“Jesus himself clashed with the religious leaders of his day, namely the Pharisees, who were guided by their own tradition and man-made rules and less by love for God or their fellowman. Jesus wanted fellowship with them, but they were not willing to come to Him, nor to receive Him. Relying instead on their outward adherence to the law.

“Are you religious? Am I? If being ‘religious’ means following a set of rules so we can impress others, so that we can
appear
righteous—instead of cultivating a deep relationship with the Savior himself—then I agree with the detractors. I am not interested in that sort of religion. And, I suggest, neither is the Lord. Jesus offers forgiveness and love to all who truly seek Him, believe in Him, and worship Him. Regardless of which pew we sit in on a Sunday morning. Or our annual income. Or our family connections.”

Abigail slid lower in her seat. Was that comment directed at her?

“He is waiting for you to come to Him,” he continued. “To rely
on His guidance and goodness. To listen and obey and serve. Are you listening—spending time reading His Word and seeking His guidance in prayer? Are you serving Him and your fellowman—the widows and orphans among you? I hope you will this week.”

Did
she
spend time listening, obeying, and serving? Abigail asked herself. Not really. Not enough, at any rate.

“Let us pray . . .”

Abigail blinked as around her heads bowed and eyes closed and Mr. Chapman led them in prayer in preparation for the offering and Communion. She didn’t recall ever hearing a sermon so brief and to the point. If she had, she might have attended more often. Around her the whole congregation joined in solemn prayer, and the sound of it touched Abigail’s heart.

William had meant to go on to expound on several verses in Matthew 23 and John 5, but having Miss Foster there in the front box, staring at him with those keen dark eyes, had unsettled him, and he’d quite forgotten. His parishioners, especially the older ones, already gave him grief about his short sermons. And he would hear about this one, no doubt.

After the service concluded, he proceeded down the aisle to bid farewell to his parishioners at the door and to receive their comments. Although the title officially belonged to the rector, most called William
Parson
as a term of fond respect. But there was one exception.

“I must say, Mr. Chapman, that was an exceedingly short sermon today,” Mrs. Peterman began. “Could you not be bothered to compose a longer one? I do wonder what we are paying you for.”

“You pay him nothing, Mrs. Peterman,” Leah tartly retorted, coming to stand near his elbow. “And the rector pays him a very small sum indeed.”

Mrs. Peterman humphed. “Apparently you get what you pay for.”

“You are correct, Mrs. Peterman,” William admitted. “The sermon I delivered today was shorter than I intended, and I apologize. Did you have any concerns about the content itself, or only its brevity?”

“I didn’t much care for the content either. I have half a mind to write to Mr. Morris and tell him his curate spends insufficient time in his duty. Perhaps you ought to spend less time fawning over pretty girls from the pulpit, and more time making sermons!”

“He only welcomed Miss Foster,” Leah objected. “He certainly did not fawn over her.”

William’s mother joined the trio and, with a keen look at William, took the older woman’s arm. “I would be happy to introduce you to Miss Foster, if you’d like, Mrs. Peterman,” she offered. “A charming young woman.”

Mrs. Peterman sniffed. “I think she’s received more than enough attention for one day.”

The woman’s husband spoke up at last. “Now, my dear,” Mr. Peterman soothed, “you overstate your case. Our good parson did nothing improper.” He gave William an apologetic look. “And I for one appreciate short sermons.” He winked.

William nodded. “I shall keep that in mind, sir.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Mrs. Peterman protested. “The only saving grace of your short sermons is that my husband hasn’t sufficient time to fall asleep and embarrass me.”

The old man clucked and gently led his wife into the churchyard.

William glanced at his sister, eyebrows raised. He had never heard her speak so sharply to anyone.

“I am sorry, William. But she vexes me no end.”

“I understand. And I appreciate your loyalty. But remember that she is one of my flock, and I am supposed to love and serve her.”

“I know. But I cannot stand to hear her criticize you. I don’t think she has any idea how hard you work and how much you do for your
flock
, as you call them.”

“At least she has the courage to tell me what she thinks to my face.”

“Unlike most of the sour tabbies who merely grumble and gossip behind your back?”

“Precisely.” He grinned. “Though I wouldn’t say it quite so . . . colorfully.”

“I hate to see you ill used,” Leah said. “You’re easily twice the clergyman Mr. Morris is. Were it in my power, I would see you had the living in this place.”

“Shh . . .” Mrs. Chapman said, eyes round in concern and laying a hand on her daughter’s sleeve. “That’s enough, my dear.”

Leah glanced around at her mother’s gentle warning, as if suddenly aware of the listening ears around her. “You’re right. Forgive me. Like the Pharisees, I apparently need to learn to bridle my own tongue.”

After the service, Andrew Morgan led his parents across the aisle toward Abigail and introduced them. Mr. Morgan senior was a rotund, handsome man with a smile as broad as his son’s. Mrs. Morgan, a thin, sharp-featured woman, had shrewd eyes that instantly put Abigail on her guard.

“Ah yes. Miss Foster. I have heard of you.”

Abigail smiled uncertainly. “Have you?”

“Yes. Well. A pleasure to meet you. Andrew tells us he has invited you to our little dinner party.”

“Your son is exceedingly polite, Mrs. Morgan. But do not feel obligated—”

“I don’t feel obligated—in this case. It is a pleasure to extend an invitation to you. Your father is in London, I understand?”

“Yes, but he should return soon.”

“And your mother?”

“She remains in Town with my younger sister, guiding her through the season. They are staying with my great aunt in Mayfair but will be joining us at season’s end.”

“Mayfair, ey? Well. I shall include your father in the invitation as well. Tell him he is most welcome.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. You are very kind.”

The woman was impressed, Abigail saw. She was familiar with prestigious Mayfair but not, apparently, with her father’s financial ruin. Her good opinion—and her invitation—would likely evaporate if she learned the truth.

After bidding the Morgans farewell, Abigail walked out of the church alone.

“Miss Foster!” Kate Chapman called a cheerful greeting and, leading William by the arm, walked over to join her. “I’m so glad you came today. Doesn’t our William make excellent sermons?”

“Indeed he does,” Abigail agreed sincerely, though she had not heard all that many.

“Short sermons, I think you mean, Mamma,” William said good-naturedly.

“Brevity is a virtue in my view, yes,” Abigail said. “But I also found the words convicting and to the point. Virtues as well.”

“Not all would agree with you.”

“Well, Miss Foster,” Mrs. Chapman said, “you must join us for dinner later this afternoon. Cook has left us a roast of beef and several salads. I shall not even have to put you to work this time.”

Abigail hesitated. “I would love to, truly. But Mrs. Walsh has left me a tray, and I don’t think . . .”

Leah said, “You can save it for supper. Mrs. Walsh can’t mind that.”

“Actually, she could,” Kate Chapman said with a little frown. “Tell you what. Join us next Sunday instead. That will give you plenty of time to give Mrs. Walsh notice—all right?”

“You
do
plan to attend church again next Sunday?” Leah asked.

Abigail hadn’t meant to commit to every Sunday by attending once, but she found she didn’t mind. She had enjoyed it, actually. “Yes, I do.”

Leah smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

How pretty and young Leah Chapman looked when she smiled. Abigail thought attending church and gazing at Leah Chapman’s brother every week would be a pleasant price to pay for the woman’s approval. And hopefully her friendship.

O
n Tuesday, the post brought the promised invitation from Mrs. Morgan, and a third letter from Bristol in that ornate feminine hand. Pulse accelerating, Abigail took the journal page into the library to read in private.

Her portrait is missing. How strange. I don’t think anyone else has noticed. I suppose it’s not surprising I had not noticed it earlier. For I have not dared to enter Father’s bedchamber before today. But he has gone to London on some business or other related to his brother’s will. So I felt safe in entering.

I have been in Mamma’s rooms often enough. And over the mantelpiece in her bedchamber hangs a portrait of a handsome gentleman in formal dress. When I asked who it was, she said, “Robert Pembrooke,” and we both stared up at it.

It was the first time I had laid eyes on my uncle Pembrooke’s face. And considering he was dead, it was the only way I would ever see him.

“Did you ever meet him?” I asked.

“Once. Years ago,” Mamma replied. “The day your father and I were married.”

“Was this his wife’s room, then?”

“Yes. So the housekeeper tells me.”

My father had claimed Robert Pembrooke’s room, but I know better than to think he’d done so in a nostalgic attempt to be close to his older brother after their long estrangement and his recent passing. No, I have heard him rail against the injustice of being a second son too often to think so.

I tiptoed into the master bedchamber, assuming I would see Elizabeth Pembrooke’s portrait above the mantelpiece as I had seen Robert Pembrooke’s over hers. I was wrong. The rooms are quite similar in other respects, though the furniture is heavier and the bedclothes more masculine. Had her portrait never been painted? Or had it been removed for some reason?

Whatever the case, in its place hangs a portrait of an elderly matron with drooping features and mob cap—someone’s grandmother, perhaps.

I asked Mamma if she had ever seen Elizabeth Pembrooke. No, she had not.

“Why not?” I asked. “What happened between Uncle Pembrooke and Papa to cause such a rift between them?”

“It’s the old story, I imagine,” Mamma replied. “Rivalry and jealousy. But I don’t know the details. He never told me. And I’m not sure I want to know.”

A postscript had been added to the page in a darker ink color.

I found a portrait of a beautiful woman hidden away, and think it might be Elizabeth Pembrooke. I wonder who hid it. And why.

Where had she found it? Abigail wondered. And where was it now? Gooseflesh prickled over her as she reread the words. She felt as if someone had been watching them the day she, William, and Kitty looked for Mrs. Pembrooke’s portrait and found the one of the old woman instead. Was someone secretly observing her
movements and then sending journal pages related to her comings and goings?

Did the writer live nearby? Near enough to see her? But what about the Bristol postmark? Heaving a sigh she shook her head. She wasn’t going to figure it out on her own.

Abigail went in search of Mac Chapman and found him oiling his guns in his woodshed.

“Mac, what can you tell me about the former residents of Pembrooke Park? Not Robert Pembrooke—I mean the people who lived here after his death. His brother’s family, I believe.”

He shot her a wary look, then returned his focus to his task. “What about them?”

“Their names, to begin with. And how long they lived here.”

He began, “After Robert Pembrooke and his family died—”

She interrupted him to ask, “How did they die?”

Mac huffed a long-suffering sigh. “Mrs. Pembrooke and her wee daughter died during an outbreak of typhus, as did many that year. Robert Pembrooke was laid very low indeed and died the following year. A fortnight after his death, his brother, Clive, moved in with his family. But they were here only about two years.”

“Why did they leave so soon after moving in—and so suddenly?”

“I don’t know. I never pretended to understand Clive Pembrooke, and I cannot pretend I was sorry to see them go.”

“Were you there when they left?”

Mac shrugged and re-oiled his cloth. “I showed up as usual one morning to meet with Clive Pembrooke, only to find the place deserted. The housekeeper at the time told me the missus had let all the servants go without notice, though she paid them their quarter’s wages in full. We have’na seen the family since.”

“So Mrs. Pembrooke knew in advance they were leaving? And that’s why she sent the servants away?”

He turned to study her, eyes narrowing. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“I . . . am only curious.”

Should she tell him about the letters? Instead she asked, “Is there
a portrait of Elizabeth Pembrooke somewhere? I’ve seen the one of Robert Pembrooke, but not his wife.”

He frowned. “Why do you ask me that?”

She shrugged. “You were the steward—you knew the family. And the old woman in the portrait in the master bedchamber . . . Who is she?”

“Robert Pembrooke’s old nurse, I believe. But again, why are you asking? Why do you care?”

“It’s only natural I should care about what went on in the place I now live.”

His green eyes glittered like glass. “You know what Shakespeare said about ‘care,’ Miss Foster?”

She nodded. “‘Care killed a cat.’”

“Exactly.” He tossed down his cloth. “Look. I don’t want to talk about the Pembrookes or the past, Miss Foster. Not with you, nor with anyone. Let it lie.”

Abigail held his gaze a moment, then turned to go.

Mac called her back. “Miss Foster . . . if Clive Pembrooke should ever show his face at the manor, promise me you’ll let me know directly. I know it’s unlikely. But, I never thought the house would be occupied again after all this time either, and here you are.”

Abigail was surprised by the request but agreed. “Very well, I shall.”

“He may not give his real name,” he warned. “He might come under some guise or assumed name. . . .”

She frowned. “Then how will I know who he is? Is there a portrait of him somewhere, or has he some distinguishing feature?”

“No portrait that I know of. He did look something like his brother, though not as tall, and rather paunchy after two years of idleness, though who knows how the past eighteen years have changed him.”

“That isn’t terribly helpful,” Abigail said.

Mac held up a finger as a memory struck him. “He always wore the same long cloak, left over from his navy days. With a deep hood for standing watch on deck in rough weather. It is unlikely he would
still be wearing it after all these years, but if a man shows up at your door wearing such a thing, be on your guard.”

In spite of herself, Abigail shivered. “I shall indeed.” She remembered the hooded figure she thought she saw on the stairs—but she had only imagined that, hadn’t she?

In spite of Mac’s warnings, Abigail did not let the matter lie. Wondering if any of the former servants still lived in the area, she looked in the library, hoping to find the old household account books or staff records but finding nothing of the sort. Odd, she thought, unless such ledgers had been kept in the former butler’s room or housekeeper’s parlor. She asked Mrs. Walsh if she had come across any old staff records, but she had not.

“Were you acquainted with any of the former servants?” Abigail asked her.

“That was long before my time,” Mrs. Walsh said. “I only moved to the area ten years back.”

Abigail thanked the woman. As she left the housekeeper’s parlor, Abigail paused at the former butler’s room across the passage. Steeling herself, she knocked briskly. The door creaked open. She waited, but no one answered. Through the crack, she glimpsed a rumpled bed, a wad of faded green wool amid the bedclothes, and a pair of discarded trousers tossed on a chair. As mistress of the house, she had every right to look in a servant’s room. Dared she? She placed her hand on the door and opened it a few inches more. . . .

“At my door again, miss?”

Abigail started and looked over her shoulder to find Duncan smirking down at her.

She drew herself up. “There you are. Good. I was looking for the old household account books, or staff records. Thought the butler might have kept them.”

“And why do you want those?”

“Just curious about the former servants. If any of them still live in the area.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Let’s see . . . Not many, that I know of. One housemaid married and moved away, I understand. Another died. As did the old gamekeeper, last year.”

Remembering something Mac had said, Abigail prompted, “Mac mentioned a former housekeeper . . . ?”

“Did he?” Duncan asked, brows high. “I am surprised he would.”

“Do you know her?”

He nodded. “Mrs. Hayes. I am acquainted with her niece, Eliza Smith.”

“Does Mrs. Hayes live nearby?”

“Yes. In Caldwell. She is all but blind now, Eliza says, and her mind isn’t as sharp as it once was. Eliza takes care of her now.”

Duncan obliged her by describing the house and where to find it, ending with, “Be sure and tell Miss Eliza I said hello.”

“I shall.” Abigail thanked him and went upstairs.

Donning hat and gloves, she set out for a chilly walk. The day was sunny, but the wind was brisk. As she crossed the bridge, a heron rose from the river and sailed over the wood, where the ash trees and some of the young sycamores were in full flower and leaf. She walked through nearby Easton and on to neighboring Caldwell, enjoying the sight of vivid bluebells among the trees.

Reaching Caldwell, she easily found the modest, well-kept house and knocked on its door. An intelligent-looking woman in a printed frock, fichu, and apron answered. She had reddish-gold hair, blue eyes, and a rather long nose, and was perhaps a few years older than Abigail.

“Hello. I am Miss Foster, new to Pembrooke Park. And you must be Eliza.”

“That’s right.”

“Duncan asked me to say hello.”

“Did he?” Eliza blushed and looked down awkwardly.

Abigail followed her gaze and noticed the woman’s work-worn, ink-stained hands. She said, “I hoped to pay a call on your aunt. If she is . . . able to receive visitors?”

Eliza smiled, which made her somewhat plain features pretty. “How kind, Miss Foster. Come in.” She stepped back, and Abigail followed her into the entryway.

“Auntie so rarely receives callers these days—except for Mac Chapman, kind man that he is.”

Abigail hesitated. “William Chapman, do you mean?”

“No. His son used to come, but now his father comes in his stead.”

“Oh.” That surprised Abigail. She added, “And Miss Chapman, I suppose?”

“No. Just Mac,” Eliza said. “He comes by every week at least. Helps us keep the house in good repair, and brings things for Auntie. But otherwise . . . it’s as if people have forgot her.”

Abigail wiped her feet on the mat. “It’s kind of you to look after her.”

Miss Smith shrugged. “She looked after me, when I was a girl. Raised me as her own after she left Pembrooke Park.”

The young woman didn’t mention her parents’ fate, Abigail noticed, but decided not to ask.

Abigail’s gaze rested on a brooch pinning together the ends of the linen fichu around the woman’s neck. She’d seen something like it before. . . .

“Pretty brooch,” she commented, admiring the letter E in gold, or perhaps brass.

The woman touched it self-consciously. “Thank you, it was a gift. I’d forgot I had it on. If you will wait here a moment, I will see if my aunt has awakened from her nap.” She slipped into the next room.

While she waited, Abigail glanced idly around the entryway, noticing a bonnet and veiled hat on pegs near the door. Then she looked through the open door into a small kitchen. A pot of something sat simmering on the stove, sending savory aromas throughout the house. Upon the worktable lay writing paper, quill, and ink, and what appeared to be a stack of quarto-sized periodicals.

Eliza reappeared and said, “She’s awake.” She hesitated, then added, “I have to warn you, miss. Her memory isn’t very keen. Or her mind. You can’t take everything she says as fact. Or to heart.”

Abigail nodded her understanding and followed the woman into the dim parlor.

“Auntie? There’s someone here to see you. A Miss Foster. She lives at Pembrooke Park now and wanted to meet you.” Eliza began opening the shutters for Abigail’s benefit.

A diminutive white-haired woman sat hunched in an armchair, knitting needles clenched in her gnarled hands. She lifted her head and sightless eyes. “Pembrooke Park? No one’s lived there for years.”

Abigail stepped forward. “My family and I have only recently moved into the house.”

“You live there? You’re not her, are you?”

Abigail hesitated. “Not who, Mrs. Hayes?”

“The girl that used to live there?”

“No. I have only lived in Pembrooke Park for the last month or so.”

“And not a Pembrooke, you say?”

Eliza sent her an apologetic glance. “No, Auntie. Remember, this is Miss Foster.”

“Well, Miss Foster,” Mrs. Hayes said tartly, “does she know you’re living in her house?”

Abigail blinked. “Does who know, Mrs. Hayes?”

“You have to forgive us, Miss Foster,” Eliza said. “It’s a long time ago and we don’t remember details so well.”

“I remember perfectly well,” her aunt snapped. “Miss Pembrooke. His daughter, of course.”

Assuming she was speaking of Clive Pembrooke’s daughter, Abigail said gently, “I have never met her. Do you know where she lives now, Mrs. Hayes?”

“Where who lives?”

Eliza winced in embarrassment.

Praying for patience, Abigail repeated, “Miss Pembrooke?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion. She told me to lock the house and not look back, and I haven’t. Said she wouldn’t look back either, not like Lot’s wife. No matter what.”

Abigail frowned, trying to follow. “Mrs. Pembrooke told you that, do you mean?”

“Not Miss Elizabeth. The other one.”

“Are you talking about Clive Pembrooke’s wife?”

The woman shuddered and crossed herself. “Don’t say his name, miss. Not if you value your life.”

“There, there, Auntie,” Eliza soothed. She glanced up at Abigail. “If you will excuse me a moment, Miss Foster. I need to stir the soup. I’ll make some tea as well.”