The Secret of Pembrooke Park (9 page)

After Eliza departed, Mrs. Hayes tsked and said, “Poor Eliza. Living here in this small house . . . waiting on me like a servant.” She sighed. “How unfair life is.”

“I think she is happy to do it,” Abigail said. “She told me you took care of her after you left Pembrooke Park.”

Mrs. Hayes nodded, expression distant. “Aye. Dark days them were. . . .”

When she said nothing more for several moments, Abigail asked, “Why did Clive Pembrooke’s family leave, Mrs. Hayes? Did you see them go?”

She shook her head emphatically. “I was in my bed. Mindin’ my own affairs. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. I was fast asleep all night.”

The line
“The lady doth
protest too much”
crossed Abigail’s mind. But she said only, “I see. So you were in the house, but when you rose the next morning, they were gone? The whole family?”

Mrs. Hayes nodded. “I was sorry to see the missus go. Always decent to me she was.”

“Had she planned to leave for some time? Mac said you’d all been paid through the end of the quarter and let go.”

Again she nodded. “I think she feared what he would do to us if we were there when he discovered his family had left ’im. He was away hunting, you see. But he came home early and figured out
what she was plannin’—that’s my guess. And tried to put a stop to it.” She shook her head. “Poor Master Harold.”

“Master Harold?” Abigail said. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. I saw nothing.”

“Mrs. Hayes, what do you
think
happened that night, if you were to guess?”

“I think he found her valise. Packed to leave. And her purse full of the money she’d been saving. Either that, or one of the boys gave it away. Not the girl. Not one for talkin’, she weren’t.”

“And what did Clive Pembrooke do when he found out they were planning to leave him?”

“Don’t know exactly. I may have heard a gunshot that night. Or maybe it was only a lightning strike. In the morning, after everyone had gone, I found blood on the hall floor.”

Abigail sucked in a breath. “Blood? Whose blood?”

“Can’t say for sure. I may have peeked, or I may have only dreamt it.”

“Are you saying Clive Pembrooke shot someone?” Abigail asked in horror. “Someone of his own family . . . ?”

“I never said that. You didn’t hear it from me. In the morning, everyone was gone. All gone! I saw the blood, see. But no body. So I must have dreamt it, hadn’t I?” Her voice rose. “Don’t tell a soul, miss! Not a soul! We don’t want Master Clive to come back and exact vengeance, do we?”

Abigail swallowed and shook her head. She glanced through the open door into the kitchen to gauge Eliza’s reaction. Eliza had gone to prepare tea, but at the moment she sat at the worktable writing something.

Abigail lowered her voice, trying not to rile Mrs. Hayes further. “Did they take the carriage? Were the horses gone?”

“Aye. The coach and carriage horses were gone. And Black Jack.”

“But they took none of their belongings?”

“Oh aye, the mistress and the children took one valise each. But not one thing was missing from Clive Pembrooke’s room. I even asked Tom to come in and look, to see if he agreed.”

“Tom? Tom who?”

“Tom Green. The footman. Everyone knows that.” The old woman frowned. “Now, what was your name again?”

Eliza came in with a tray, and Mrs. Hayes’s attention was soon fully focused on her tea and toasted muffin. Abigail decided not to press the matter any further for the time being, and the conversation turned to more general topics of weather and parish life. When Eliza offered her more tea, Abigail noticed she no longer wore the brooch.

“Your brooch is gone,” she said. “I hope you didn’t lose it.”

Eliza ducked her head. “No, I only took it off. Didn’t want it falling into the soup.”

“What? Who fell?” Mrs. Hayes asked. “He said Walter fell to his death, but I know better. He was pushed.”

Walter?
Was that the name of the valet who died in Pembrooke Park, Abigail wondered, trying to remember what Polly had told her.

“Hush, Auntie. Miss Foster admired my brooch—that’s all.”

Mrs. Hayes nodded over her teacup. “Ah. E for Eliza. That’s right.”

Later, as she walked home, Abigail reviewed what she’d learned from the letters, along with the information she’d gleaned from Duncan, Polly, Mac, and now Mrs. Hayes. Abigail wondered where Clive’s family was now. The letter writer was apparently his daughter. The “Miss Pembrooke” Mrs. Hayes had mentioned. Abigail thought again of Eliza bent over quill and paper. She should have asked her what she was writing.

When she returned to Pembrooke Park, Abigail decided to do a little writing of her own. She went into the library, retrieved paper, quill, and ink, and wrote a letter to the solicitor.

Dear Mr. Arbeau,

I would like to ask the name of your client, the executor you mentioned of Pembrooke Park. I would also like an address so that I may write to this person. Or more accurately,
so that I may write back in reply to her letters. You see, Mr. Arbeau, someone is writing to me here. Someone who has lived here before and is evidently female. I deduce the person must be Miss Pembrooke, though I suppose I may be wrong. In any case, would you please give me the name and direction of your client? Or if you prefer, ask your client if I may contact her?

Thank you for your assistance in this matter.

Sincerely,
Miss Abigail Foster

Molly knocked on the open library door and brought in the day’s post—a letter from Mamma.

“Thank you, Molly.” Abigail opened it and read.

Dear Abigail,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits, and settling well into Pembrooke Park. Your father gives a good account of your efforts, but says it is well Louisa and I were not there to see it in its initial, neglected state. I know you will endeavor long and admirably to put it to rights for us before we arrive at the end of the season.

Speaking of the season, your sister has made quite an impression, I can tell you. Several well-connected gentlemen of means have expressed their admiration. She is enjoying herself tremendously, and you would be thoroughly proud of her. She sends her love, as does dear Aunt Bess, who has been the most gracious hostess during our stay here.

Your father asks me to tell you that he intends to return at month’s end, but if you need him sooner for any reason, you are to write and let him know. He trusts you are well looked after by the servants and the protective former steward he told us about. I assured him you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and with the maids to
attend you, there should be no concern for propriety. Why, here in London Louisa ventures into Hyde Park with only one servant as escort, and there you have a staff of five! But if you are uneasy without your father there with you, do let us know.

Before I forget, I wanted to mention that Gilbert Scott has returned from Italy and accepted a position with an esteemed architect here in London. With his new polish and promising future, Gilbert is turning many heads, including our Louisa’s. He has called at the house once or twice and sends his regards. I am still holding out for a title at present, but your sister could make a worse match.

Abigail’s heart pounded. Gilbert . . . back in England. If only she were in London to see him. How she longed for her old friend’s company—to hear all about his travels and see his latest drawings and plans. To see him smile at
her
 . . . But was she fooling herself? If he had set his sights on pretty Louisa, he would be directing his smiles at her from now on. She recalled the letters Gilbert had written to her, in which he’d asked her why Louisa had not replied to his letters. Abigail had allowed herself to hope that Louisa’s apparent interest in Gilbert Scott had faded. But now that he had returned more “polished and promising” than ever, had her hopes been dashed?

Abigail sighed and pulled forth another piece of paper. Ignoring the little stab of loneliness, she wrote back to assure her parents that she was just fine on her own.

After the Sunday service, the congregation waited until the clergyman and those in the front boxes exited before filing out behind them. So Abigail was the first to greet Mr. Chapman at the door and then step outside. As she walked toward the manor, she glimpsed movement in the churchyard and was surprised to see Eliza Smith
turning from one of the graves. Abigail paused where she was while the young woman walked her way, wearing a pretty bonnet and blue overdress, her brooch peeking out from beneath her shawl.

Eliza looked up at her in surprise. “Church out already?”

“Yes, another short sermon today.” Abigail wondered why Eliza and her aunt, apparently such favorites with Mac Chapman, had not attended church.

“And how is your aunt today?” Abigail asked politely.

“About the same. I don’t bring her to church anymore. Never know what might come out of her mouth and disrupt the service.”

“Oh. That’s too bad—for you both.”

Eliza shrugged. “I don’t mind. I come on my own now and again. Sit in the back and slip out early. But today I had another destination in mind. . . .”

Visiting her parents’ graves, Abigail guessed but did not say so.

Eliza glanced across the drive toward Pembrooke Park. Eyes on its windows, she asked, “Which room have they put you in, Miss Foster?

“I have a small bedchamber in the west wing.”

“Ah. The one with the dolls’ house. Miss Eleanor’s old room.”

Abigail hesitated. That was a name she had not heard before. It must be the given name of the Miss Pembrooke Mrs. Hayes had mentioned. “Um, yes, or so I assumed.” She wondered why Eliza was familiar with the room. She asked, “You have been inside the house, I gather?”

“Oh, I . . .” Eliza ducked her head, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, a few times. Mamma died while Auntie still worked here. And now and again when our neighbor was unable to watch me, I would stay with Auntie belowstairs.”

“I see. It must have been hard for you, after your mother died.”

“Yes, and my father gone too . . .” Eliza’s eyes misted over. “The happiest days of my childhood were those spent playing here. I snuck upstairs to explore once, but I slipped and fell. Mr. Pembrooke himself picked me up and patted my head. Instead of reprimanding me, he gave me a sweet.”

“Which Mr. Pembrooke?” Abigail asked, doubting the kindness of the infamous Clive.

“Robert Pembrooke, of course.”

Eliza inhaled a long breath and drew herself up. “Well, if you will excuse me.” She turned to go.

“May I walk with you?” Abigail asked, knowing she had a few hours until her dinner with the Chapmans. “I long to stretch my legs after sitting on that hard bench.”

“If you like.”

The two young women walked companionably toward Easton, on the way to Caldwell. The warm May breeze felt good on Abigail’s skin. Hawthorn blossoms dotted the hedgerows, and two whitethroats chased each other through its branches, singing all the while. The meadows beyond were yellow with cowslips, and the air smelled of apple blossoms.

Abigail drew in a deep, savoring breath. “Spring is so much more vibrant here than in London,” she observed. “Have you been there?”

“No, not yet,” the woman said wistfully. “Maybe someday.”

“I imagine it’s difficult to get away with your aunt needing someone to look after her.”

“Yes, it would be.”

As they passed the public house in Easton, Duncan swept out, then drew up short at the sight of his mistress. “Ah. Miss Foster.”

“Hello.”

“I saw Miss Eliza. And I hoped she might walk with me to Ham Green.”

Abigail glanced at Eliza, saw the flush of pleasure she tried to hide.

“Then I shall leave you to it,” Abigail said with a smile. “A good day to you both. And do greet your aunt for me.”

“I shall, Miss Foster. Thank you.”

Abigail continued her walk alone for a time, then turned and started back. As she strolled again down the tree-lined road, she remembered when she and her father had first arrived in Mr. Arbeau’s carriage and were stopped by the former barricade. Now
she crossed the bridge unimpeded, admiring the marsh marigolds and silvery white lady’s smocks growing along the riverbank.

She looked ahead and was surprised to see two boys run through the churchyard. They threw open the church door, and from within she heard the hum of many voices before the door closed again, muffling the sound. Was there some special service she was unaware of?

Deciding to follow, Abigail entered the churchyard. As she did, she glanced over to where she’d seen Eliza standing earlier. Sure enough, flowers lay on one of the graves. She squinted, but the name on the headstone was not
Smith
as she’d expected. It was
Robert Pembrooke
.

She must have mistaken the spot Eliza had stood. Blinking away confusion, Abigail continued on to the church door. She quietly opened it and crossed the vestibule on the balls of her feet, to keep the heels of her half boots from disrupting the quiet within.

Inside she saw William Chapman sitting amidst several older boys and girls, their heads bowed over slates. Leah was sitting with a group of younger children, heads bent over books. William glanced up, and his quick smile at seeing her lightened her heart.