The Secret of Pembrooke Park (11 page)

“I like the first part of that verse but not the second,” Kitty said.

“Does God really do that?” Abigail asked. “Visit the iniquities of the father upon his children for generations to come? That doesn’t seem fair.”

Mr. Chapman took her question seriously. “I don’t believe children are guilty of their parents’ wrongdoing. But we have all seen people who suffer because of their parents’ neglect or abusive behavior, or other wrongdoing. And children often follow in their parents’ footsteps.” He shrugged. “Like it or not, sin has consequences. Which is why God lovingly warns us against it. Thankfully, He is merciful and ready to forgive if we ask Him. But that doesn’t erase natural consequences of our actions. Cause and effect.”

Abigail thought of her own father. He might forgive her—and hopefully, someday, Uncle Vincent as well—but that didn’t erase the consequences he and the entire family would suffer. Oh, how she wished she could correct the mistake before it affected her sister and herself, not to mention their children and children’s children.
What kind of inheritance could her father, could any of them, leave for future generations now?

Kitty frowned. “Another depressing verse. And I can’t see that it’s any sort of clue about a secret room or treasure.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Abigail said, sharing a sad smile with the girl. “I’m sorry our discovery didn’t turn out to be more amusing.”

“This may not be a clue about a secret room,” William agreed, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a message.”

Abigail felt foreboding prickle through her. “Or a warning.”

That night, Abigail lay in bed as she often did with drawing pencil and sketch pad in hand. She sketched idly, this and that. Plus signs and numbers giving way to letters of the alphabet. She began sketching the letter E—Eliza’s brooch. She hesitated, turning the pad on its side, and suddenly remembered where she had seen a pin very like it. Had Duncan taken it from the jewelry box on Mrs. Pembrooke’s dressing table to give to his lover? Her stomach cramped at the thought. The footsteps in the night, the candle lamp on its side, Duncan not wanting her in his room . . . It all rushed back through her mind, and with it the distasteful conclusion that Duncan had stolen the brooch. She hoped she was wrong. She would check the jewelry box, and if the brooch was missing . . . well, she would talk to Mac. He would know what to do.

In the morning, she returned to the mistress’s bedchamber and opened the jewelry box, expecting the worst. Instead, there lay the brooch—not an M or W as she’d originally thought, but an ornate E, exactly like the one she’d seen Eliza wearing. Apparently the design was more common than she’d thought. Guilt and self-recrimination made her feel nauseated. She had misjudged Duncan and would endeavor to be kinder to him in future.

Later that day, Abigail received two letters. The first, a terse reply in Mr. Arbeau’s neat hand.

Miss Foster,

I am in receipt of your letter but cannot satisfy your request. I have been instructed to not divulge the name of my client until he or she directs me to do so. I have contacted my client to communicate your wishes, but the request has been denied for now. My client neither confirms nor denies knowledge of the letters you mention. I do not intend to begin a guessing game with you, Miss Foster. But assuming this is your first and last guess, I can tell you that I have no client by the name of Miss Pembrooke.

I remain,
Henri Arbeau

The second letter was another missive in that now-familiar feminine hand. A newspaper clipping had been enclosed in the outer letter. She first read the handwritten note, addressed to her personally.

Miss Foster,

If anyone named Pembrooke comes to the house and asks for entry or shelter, I beg you refuse his request—despite his surname and likely protestations of his rights and even assertion that he is the owner of the place. For my sake and for your own well-being, as well as your family’s, resolutely send him on his way. If he demands to know on whose authority you refuse him, you may refer him to the solicitor who let the house to you. He is paid well to deal with such difficulties.

This advice differed somewhat from what Mac had asked of her, but it held a similar edge of warning. After this note, a space had been left blank, followed by another single line.

In case you have not yet learnt this history of your newly acquired home, I thought I would send the enclosed to you.

Abigail picked up the clipping from a newspaper. In faded ink, someone had handwritten in the corner:
4 May 1798.

Stabbed? Good heavens. Mac had mentioned nothing about a stabbing. The report made Abigail feel queasy. She could not help but imagine her reaction had thieves broken in to their London home and stabbed her father when he caught them in the act. How awful. Robert Pembrooke had been everything a gentleman should be, if Mac Chapman’s account was not overly biased. What a tragic waste of life.

According to the newspaper, officials had wanted to question the valet. Had they suspected him of foul play? Mrs. Hayes had rattled on about “Walter’s” fall at Pembrooke Park. Clearly, the report of his death had not reached London quickly, if ever.

Had the valet fled the scene of his crime? But then, why return to Pembrooke Park? Or had he returned to report the news of his master’s death, only to somehow fall to his own death?

Again Abigail wondered why Miss Pembrooke—in spite of Mr. Arbeau’s denial, Abigail still believed it could only be her—was writing to her, sending her information from the past and warnings
for the future. Good heavens. If Clive Pembrooke had not bothered to come knocking in eighteen years, he surely wouldn’t do so now out of the blue, during the very first month she happened to live there. That would be too much a coincidence to be believed. Unless . . . Might the house being opened and occupied be the very trigger to raise the sleeping threat from unconcerned slumber at long last?

Where had that thought come from? Abigail shook her head at the fanciful notion. Very unlike her usual pragmatic nature. It was time to organize the larder, or sort her belongings, or . . . something.

T
he day of Andrew Morgan’s welcome home party arrived, and Abigail found herself looking forward to it more than she had looked forward to anything in a long time. It was to be her first social event with her new neighbors, other than the homey meals she had shared with the Chapmans. She planned to wear a pretty evening gown and ask Polly to help her dress her hair a little more elegantly than the quick, serviceable coil she usually preferred.

Andrew Morgan was an amusing, handsome man and would no doubt be a charming host. But Abigail especially looked forward to spending the evening with William Chapman. And she looked forward to seeing Leah in a different setting as well—dressed formally and the object of Mr. Morgan’s attentions, if she didn’t miss her guess. She was quite certain Mr. Morgan admired Miss Chapman. How wonderful if the two fell in love and were married. She would like to see Leah Chapman happy, and believed it was her family’s fond wish for her as well.

True to her word, Mrs. Morgan had included Charles Foster in her invitation, but Abigail’s father had yet to return.

Midmorning she received a note from him, apologizing but saying he had been detained in London even longer than he’d originally
expected—called in again by the lawyers and Uncle Vincent in the dreaded bankruptcy proceedings.
Poor Papa . . .
Abigail sighed upon reading the words and the unwritten frustration between them.
And poor Uncle Vincent.

She sent Duncan over to Hunts Hall with a note to Mrs. Morgan, modifying her earlier response, expressing her father’s regrets but reiterating her anticipation of the evening.

William Chapman had told Abigail that he and Leah would stop by in their gig at six and the three of them would drive to Hunts Hall together.

Abigail began getting ready hours early. Polly and Duncan carried up pail after pail of hot water so she could have a real bath in a tub in her room, instead of the sponge or hip baths she usually made do with to avoid causing them extra work. She bathed and washed her hair, Polly coming in to help her rinse it with a reserved jug of clean warm water.

Later the maid helped her cinch long stays over her shift, before helping her into her gown. The dress Abigail had chosen for the evening was not as formal as a ball gown but was one of her finer evening dresses: gauzy white muslin with narrow blue stripes, a scalloped flounced hem, and crossover bodice. Polly curled her hair and pinned the curls high atop her head, with several braids looped like garlands at the back. Abigail missed the family jewels, which would have looked so well with the dress and its V neckline, but she made do with a single string of blue glass beads.

“You look beautiful, miss,” Polly breathed.

“Thank you, Polly. If I do, the credit goes to you.”

Abigail pulled on long gloves, then tucked a handkerchief into a reticule, stringing the small bag over her wrist. She carried a bright woven cashmere shawl for the ride home, should the evening grow cold, and made her way downstairs five minutes before the appointed time.

It felt strange to wait alone for callers—and to be attending a social event without family present. She hoped her father would not disapprove of her going alone. She didn’t think he would and
wondered again how soon he would finish his business and be able to join her.

She glanced out the hall windows, and there came the Chapmans’ old grey harnessed to their gig. As Morgan’s land agent, Mac had the use of a fine bay, leaving the rest of his family to share their old carriage horse. The small open carriage would be snug with the three of them, but Leah had assured Abigail that the entire family regularly traveled in it, though two had to sit on the back gate and Mac rode alongside.

Leaning forward to better view the gig, Abigail frowned. William Chapman sat at the reins, as she’d anticipated, but no one sat beside him. Abigail let the drapery fall as her thoughts raced and her stomach sank. Was Leah ill? Had William come to tell her they would not be going after all?

Duncan crossed the drive with unusual speed to hold the reins as Mr. Chapman hopped nimbly down. Was it her imagination, or did Duncan appear disappointed as well to see only Mr. Chapman in the gig? Abigail had mentioned to him in passing that both were expected, to emphasize the propriety of the arrangements.

Outside the two men exchanged a few words, and then William strode toward the door. She should have waited for one of the servants to open it for her, but she was too anxious to know what had gone amiss. She opened it on his first knock, and he seemed slightly taken aback.

“What’s happened?” Abigail asked quickly. “Where is Leah?”

For a moment he stared at her, his gaze roving over her face, her hair, her gown. Slowly he removed his hat. “You look beautiful, Miss Foster.”

“Thank you.” She ducked her head, allowing herself a moment to relish the rare compliment, then asked again, “Is Leah all right?”

His face twisted. “I’m afraid Leah will not be joining us after all. She claims she feels too ill to go.”

“Oh no. What is the matter?”

“My guess is a bad case of nerves and illogical fear. She honestly feels poorly, though whether brought on by anxiety or any real
malady, I cannot say for certain. But she begs that you and I go on without her so as not to disappoint Mr. Morgan altogether.”

“He will be disappointed by her absence no matter what.”

“Yes. And I realize you, um, may not be comfortable going with only me.”

Abigail hesitated, aware of Duncan watching them from the drive and of Molly hovering in the hall behind her.

Abigail drew her shoulders back and said in a pleasant, audible voice, “I am so sorry your sister will not be able to join us after all. But it is perfectly proper to ride in an open carriage to attend a party of respectable people.” She lowered her voice, struck with another thought. “But I am thinking only of myself. What about you? If you prefer not to attend the dinner with me alone, I will understand.”

“Miss Foster, I have been looking forward to this evening all week, and not because of the Morgans or the meal in store for us there. And certainly not to enjoy the company of my sister, dear though she is.”

Abigail’s cheeks warmed at his implied compliment. His striking blue eyes looked directly into hers, and the silence stretched between them.

She looked away first. “Well, if it won’t pose a problem for you . . .”

“It may cause a bit of talk, I can’t deny. But I am willing to brave it if you are.”

“Then I should still like to go, yes. For Mr. Morgan’s sake.”

He raised his auburn eyebrows. “Only for Mr. Morgan’s sake?”

Again she ducked her head.

“You look even prettier when you blush, Miss Foster.”

She refused to meet his playful gaze and instead walked past him. “Shall we go?”

Mr. Chapman easily passed her with his long stride and reached the gig ahead of her, offering his hand. She flicked a glance into his handsome face, laid her white glove in his dark one, and allowed him to hand her up into the carriage. Then he walked around
to his side, climbed in with graceful ease, and accepted the reins from Duncan.

Abigail smiled down at the manservant. “Lock up, will you please, Duncan? We are going to dinner at Hunts Hall, and I am not sure how late I shall be.”

“Very good, miss.”

Mr. Chapman called, “Walk on,” and turned the horse through the gate. They crossed the bridge and followed the narrow, tree-lined road leading to Easton, then turned onto the Caldwell Road. The sun hung low in the western horizon, shining golden through the trees. They passed picturesque thatched cottages and well-tended farms divided by stone walls and blooming hedgerows. Birds called and in the distance a dog barked.

“What a lovely evening,” Abigail said to break the silence.

She felt his gaze on her profile. “Lovely indeed.”

They turned from the road through an iron gate and onto a long curved drive. At its end lay a squat square manor house, not as large as Pembrooke Park but elegant, with shaped hedges and formal gardens flanking its façade.

Ahead of them, a fine black barouche driven by a dignified coachman dropped off its occupant, hidden from their view, and drove around to the rear of the house.
August company,
Abigail thought, reminding herself not to be intimidated. Or at least not to show it.

As the Chapman gig reached the circular drive, a footman in livery and powdered wig exited the house and ceremoniously strode forward, extending a hand to help Abigail down. A groom appeared on the other side to take the horse and carriage to the stable around back.

As they walked to the front door, Mr. Chapman said quietly, “I’m sorry I can’t deliver you in a fine barouche.”

“Don’t be. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Nervous?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Yes,” she admitted. “You?”

“Not in the least. I likely would have been, had Leah been here.
Nervous for her. But you, Miss Foster, can handle yourself in any situation, I think.”

She raised her brows. “We shall see about that.”

William liked the feel of Miss Foster’s hand on his arm. Her presence, he thought, would be sweet enough to compensate for the lukewarm reception he anticipated from Mrs. Morgan. Nor did he look forward to feeling like an outsider among the other guests, most of whom were from a higher social sphere. He was used to such snubs from his years at Oxford, but that didn’t mean he had learned to enjoy being looked down upon for his humble birth.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan stood inside the vestibule, receiving guests. Three women stood nearby, talking in low tones to one another.

Mrs. Morgan welcomed him civilly, if coolly. “Ah, Mr. Chapman. Welcome.”

At the sound of his name, one of the three women whirled, mouth parted in surprise and, if he was not mistaken, alarm. Did she know he was a clergyman and dread his presence? Assume he would spoil their fun? Some people thought so, he knew.

The woman was handsome and dark haired, perhaps thirty or a little older. Her companions were a matronly looking woman in her forties and a young woman of about twenty—a mother and daughter, perhaps.

William pulled his gaze from the stranger’s startled face and said to his hostess, “And this is Miss Foster.”

“Yes, we met at church. A pity your father is unable to join us.”

“Yes,” Miss Foster said. “Thank you for understanding.”

Mrs. Morgan turned to the three women. “Ladies, if you will allow me, I shall make informal introductions.”

The women turned.

“Mr. Chapman is our curate and was at school with Andrew,” Mrs. Morgan began. “And Miss Foster is new to the area. But you know how Andrew is, all goodness. He invited her to join us.”

“Very neighborly, I’m sure,” the youngest woman said.

Mrs. Morgan gestured first toward the handsome dark-haired
woman. “My late brother’s wife, Mrs. Webb. And beside her, my dear old friend, Mrs. Padgett, and her lovely daughter, Miss Padgett, who have come all the way from Winchester to be with us tonight.”

“To welcome dear Andrew home, we would have traveled farther yet,” Miss Padgett said.

“You are very kind.” Mrs. Morgan beamed, then turned to Abigail. “Miss Foster, you are from London, I understand?”

“Yes, born and bred.”

Mr. Morgan spoke up. “Miss Foster is living alone for all intents and purposes in Pembrooke Park, abandoned these eighteen years. Quite a singular young woman to attempt it.”

“And . . . your family is . . . ?” Miss Padgett let the question dangle.

“My father was here with me until recently, when matters of business necessitated his return to Town. He plans to return any day, and my mother and sister will be joining us at the end of the season.”

Miss Padgett and her mother nodded and listened to Miss Foster politely, but William noticed the third woman, Mrs. Morgan’s sister-in-law, kept glancing his way. The woman did not wear mourning so was not a recent widow. Did he make her so uncomfortable? He hoped he had not the opposite effect on her. She was too old for him, and he was there with Miss Foster. . . . No, surely he was mistaken. He turned and met her gaze directly.

A challenging glint shone in her grey-blue eyes. “Mr. Chapman, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me for staring. You . . . remind me of someone.”

“Have we met before, Mrs. Webb?”

She hesitated, lips parted. “I . . . don’t think so.” She turned to Miss Foster and held out her hand. “And a pleasure to meet you, Miss Foster. How are you getting on here? Missing London?”

It was a relief when the woman’s keen gaze shifted to his companion.

“Actually, I miss London far less than I imagined I would,” Miss Foster replied. “Although I miss my family, of course.”

Mrs. Webb smiled thinly. “And how do you find living in the formidable Pembrooke Park?”

“Oh, it’s quite something. A beautiful old house.”

“But surely, after being uninhabited for so long . . . ?”

“It was difficult at first, I own. A great deal of dust and the like. But we’ve an excellent staff and have slowly put the place to rights.”

“I am glad to hear it. No evidence of break-ins or damage?”

“Nothing beyond the usual decay one might expect. Mr. Chapman’s father has taken it upon himself to guard the place, to keep out would-be thieves and vandals. Even repaired the roof himself, in his spare time.”

“Did he indeed?” Mrs. Webb’s thin brows rose, clearly impressed.

Hearing this, Mrs. Morgan said, “Well, he was once the Pembrookes’ steward, after all, and old ways die hard.”

Mrs. Webb ignored her. “That was excessively good of your father, Mr. Chapman.”

Miss Foster glanced at him shyly. “Yes, it was.”

She did not, William noticed with relief, recount how Mac had met them at gunpoint.

“Foster . . .” Mrs. Morgan echoed thoughtfully. “Your father wasn’t mixed up in that awful bank failure business, I trust?” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

Miss Foster’s lip parted to reply, but she hesitated. “I . . .”

Mrs. Webb interrupted, “No, the names were something else, I recall. Austen, Gray, and Vincent, I believe. I thought of investing in their first bank a few years ago—such charming men and so certain of their success. But in the end, Mr. Webb talked me out of it.”