The Secret of Pembrooke Park (25 page)

Abigail took a deep breath and asked gently, “Did one of the Pembrookes do something to hurt you in some way?”

Leah glanced at her with troubled eyes, then looked away. “Me? How could they hurt me . . . ?”

Abigail bit her lip. “I don’t know. But again, I am sorry.”

“I know you are. And I forgive you.” Leah managed a smile and took her arm. “Now, let’s finish our walk.”

When she returned to the manor, Abigail walked into the servery, hoping for a cup of tea, and stopped midstride, taken aback to see Duncan and Molly standing shoulder to shoulder, heads together.

“What is going on here?” she asked, her tone sharper than she’d intended.

Molly straightened and whirled, face suffusing with color. “I . . . Sorry, miss. We were only talking for a minute. Honest.”

Duncan slowly raised his head, sending her a lopsided grin. “I was showing Molly a most interesting book.” He lifted a thin, well-worn volume in his hands.

The girl’s eyes begged for understanding. “That’s right, miss. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Molly. Go about your work, please,” Abigail said.

The maid bowed her head and hurried from the room.

When they were alone, Duncan said, “It’s an old copy of
Steele’
s Navy Lists
. You might find it interesting as well. It’s most telling about your houseguest—a man who passes off his limp as a war wound to gain sympathy from females.”

Abigail frowned. “Mr. Pembrooke is
not
pretending to have a limp, I assure you.”

“Pretending, exaggerating, I don’t judge. It worked, didn’t it? He looks harmless—the poor injured war hero—and is invited in to stay like some wounded pup.” He shook his head. “Probably murder us all in our beds.”

“Duncan. I don’t appreciate your attitude, or your gossip.”

“Ain’t gossip, miss. I know you don’t think much of me, but you have to give me credit. I did my research. He’s right here on page 72. Served on the
Red Phoenix
. Do you know anything about the
Phoenix
, miss?”

She shook her head.

His eyes glinted. “One of the only ships to escape the war with barely a scratch.”

Abigail’s stomach soured. “Perhaps he was injured in a land skirmish then, or during training.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, miss.” Duncan’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Far be it from me to discredit a
war hero
.”

Later that afternoon, Abigail received the new edition of the Lloyds’ magazine in the post and took it into the morning room to read while she drank her tea. The magazine held news articles,
fashion prints, poetry, and short stories. She read the magazine mostly out of loyalty to Susan Lloyd, and because it made her feel closer to her friend to recognize her “voice” in an editorial, or piece of society news, although most of the articles were written by others.

Abigail flipped past the fashion prints and skimmed the table of contents.

One author’s name caught her eye. Condensed as the type was, she at first misread the name as Pembrooke, but then looked closer:
E. P.
Brooks.

Ah! The local author . . .

She turned to the gothic story, entitled “Death at Dreadmoore Manor.” She skimmed through the introduction of a young woman, the daughter of an earl, kidnapped after his murder and raised as a lowly housemaid by plotting relatives. Unprotected, the poor young woman was left to her own defenses when an evil rake came calling. Would someone discover her true identity and rescue her in time?

The story reminded Abigail of Cinderella stories she’d heard, and a French opera,
Cendrillon
, she’d seen in London. The young heroine of the story was selfless and unbelievably good-natured in the face of hardship. The preening, mustachioed villain with a maniacal laugh came across as nearly comical instead of terrifying, as the author no doubt intended. Although she was no expert, Abigail thought the writing quite good, despite its flaws.

Again, she regarded the author’s name, E. P. Brooks—or rather, her pseudonym—as Susan had told her most female writers submitted under a
nom de plume
.

She thought again of Eliza’s ink-stained fingers and the periodicals she had seen in her kitchen. Could it be . . . ?

Abigail decided to pay another call on Mrs. Hayes and Eliza. The older woman was napping in a sitting-room chair when she arrived, but Eliza invited Abigail into the kitchen to wait while she put the kettle on. “She’ll rouse herself when the tea kettle whistles.”

Abigail casually wandered around the kitchen while Eliza set the tea tray. With a jolt of recognition, she saw the latest edition of the Lloyds’ magazine on the table, and ventured, “I read this as well.”

Eliza glanced over. “Do you? I thought I was the only one in the county who subscribed.”

“No.” Abigail added tentatively, “In fact, the editor is a friend of mine.” She watched the woman’s reaction.

Eliza’s hands momentarily stilled over the sugar bowl. Then she said, “Oh? How interesting.”

“Yes, she finds it very interesting work. Do you . . . enjoy the magazine?”

“I do, yes, when I find the time.”

Abigail was disappointed Eliza didn’t take the opening she’d offered but decided not to press her. Perhaps she was mistaken in the matter.

Eliza picked up the tray. “Come, Miss Foster. Let’s join Auntie and have a nice visit.”

Abigail followed the woman into the sitting room.

The old housekeeper looked up eagerly at their entrance. “Another visitor? Has Master Miles called again?”

“No, Auntie, it’s Miss Foster.”

“Oh . . . too bad.” The woman’s expression fell, and she turned her attention to the tea.

Eliza explained, “Mr. Pembrooke called here a few days ago.”

“Did he?” Abigail asked, taken aback.

“Indeed he did,” Mrs. Hayes said over her teacup. “And how well he has turned out. So charming and well spoken. Twice the gentleman his father ever was. But you didn’t hear me say a word against the man.” She turned sightless eyes toward the door, as though Clive Pembrooke himself might be hovering nearby.

Eliza held up the plate. “Here, Auntie, have a biscuit.”

She took one, adding, “And so attentive to Eliza.”

“He was only being polite,” Eliza insisted, pouring another cup.

Mrs. Hayes shook her head. “I may be blind, but even I could see he was interested in you.”

Eliza sent Abigail a pained look, silently shaking her head to signal her disagreement.

Abigail took her hint and changed the subject. Lifting her teacup, she began tentatively. “You mentioned your aunt raised you, Miss Smith. May I ask about your parents, if that is not too painful a question?”

“Painful, no, though perhaps a bit uncomfortable for delicate ears.”

Abigail tipped her head back in surprise. “Oh? How so?”

“My mother was housemaid at Pembrooke Park until she came to be with child.”

“Oh.” Abigail swallowed, the hot tea scalding her throat and her eyes watering. “I . . . see . . .”

Eliza looked at Mrs. Hayes. “And we don’t talk about my father—do we, Auntie?”

“Your father was a good man,” Mrs. Hayes insisted. “He let her stay on at Pembrooke Park far longer than many a master would have.”

Abigail stared.
Good
heavens.
Was she insinuating Robert Pembrooke was Eliza’s father? Or even . . . Mac? Is that why he visited so often? Helped around the house? No, it couldn’t be. She reminded herself that Mrs. Hayes wasn’t in her right mind.

The former housekeeper took a noisy sip, then turned in her general direction. “You do know that Robert Pembrooke had more than one daughter, don’t you, Miss Foster?”

No, that was one rumor she hadn’t heard.

“Auntie . . .” Eliza warned, with a worried glance at Abigail. “We are not to talk about that.”

Mrs. Hayes sipped again, then set down her cup with a clank. “Miss Foster living in Pembrooke Park. It isn’t right! Not when another young woman deserves it so much more. E for Eliza. E for Eleanor . . .”

Did Eliza fancy herself a Pembrooke? The astounding question was on Abigail’s lips, but she swallowed it down with hot tea and bile.

Eliza gave Abigail a tight smile. “You mustn’t listen to her, Miss Foster. Lord knows, I don’t most days.”

Abigail forced a smile in return. “Your mother died when you were very young?”

“Yes. I was only five.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eliza shrugged. “I don’t remember her very well. Or my father for that matter. Though Auntie tells me he passed on his way with words to me.”

Abigail thought again of the local writer’s pseudonym: E. P. Brooks. A play on E. Pembrooke, perhaps? Maybe neither aunt nor niece were quite sound of mind.

Suddenly eager to quit the place, Abigail thanked the women for tea and took her leave, feeling queasy from the bitter cup and uncomfortable conversation.

When she neared the bridge on her walk home, a black barouche rumbled past, forcing Abigail to step to the far edge of the road. She had seen the equipage before, she thought, but she couldn’t remember where. Heavy draperies hung on the windows, obscuring her view of the occupant.

Continuing on her way, Abigail became aware of an acrid odor. She sniffed and walked on. Was someone burning brush? Crossing the bridge, she looked ahead to the estate. A crow shrieked and flew away, drawing her attention skyward as she followed its flight. Her heart thudded. A roiling column of grey and black smoke spiraled upward . . . from the church? No, behind it. The parsonage!

For a moment Abigail remained frozen, mind whirling.
William.
She looked this way and that and saw no one to call to. Then she hitched up her skirts and ran—through the gate and around the church to the parsonage.

Flames shot from the rear window. Abigail pushed through the door and looked inside. There was William, trying to beat out the flames leaping up the window curtains.

Seeing her, he yelled, “Ring the bell!”

Why hadn’t she thought of that? She ran back through the churchyard, jumping over abandoned gardening tools and a watering can, and hurried into the porch. Hands quaking, she reached for the rope spooled on spokes high on the wall away from youngsters’ reach, and nearly too high for her as well. Rising on tiptoe, she managed to uncoil the rope. She gave it several jarring pulls, the
clang, clang, clang
lacking the usual solemnity of a service toll. Then she ran back to the parsonage, pausing to snatch up the watering can and carry it with her. Not that one pail of water would do much good against the growing flames, but it was all she could think to do.

Duncan called from Pembrooke’s front door, “What is it?”

“Fire!” she yelled back, pointing toward the billowing smoke.

Duncan gaped upward, then disappeared back into the house. She hoped he had some idea of how to help. Reentering the parsonage, she saw daggers of flame leap from the curtain onto William Chapman’s shoulder and arm.

“William! You’re on fire!” she shouted.

The roar of the fire had grown, and he didn’t appear to hear her. Stepping forward, she sloshed the contents of the watering can onto his shoulder, missing the mark, and getting half of it on his neck and the back of his head. Still, it extinguished the flame.

He whirled at last, stunned.

“Your arm was on fire,” she said. “What else can I do?”

“Gather everyone you can and start a fire brigade. And pray.”

She blinked. She had no experience with one and not much with the other. But she hurried outside to do his bidding.

With relief she saw Mac—stern, competent Mac—barking orders and forming a line down to the river, which was thankfully quite close, encircling most of the estate as it did. Duncan, Molly, Polly, Jacob, Leah, Mrs. Chapman, and even Kitty ran over from the direction of the cottage, stables, and perhaps the potting shed with various pails and cans. Other people ran over the bridge from the direction of nearby Easton and began filling in the line. She recognized several of the older boys from Sunday school among
them, as well as Mr. Peterman, Mr. Wilson, and Mr. Matthews, and several other parishioners she knew by face if not by name.

Her eyes stung from the smoke and the awful beauty of seeing a close-knit community sweating, straining, and working together like the loyal family they were.

Abigail joined the line.

Half an hour later, they’d managed to put out the fire. By then, the greater portion of the rear wall and two interior rooms were all but destroyed.

“Kitchen fire, was it?” someone asked.

Another quipped, “That’s what happens when you give a bachelor his own kitchen.”

“Never leave a cooking fire unattended.” Mrs. Peterman wagged her finger at William. “If you had a wife, she would have known better.”

Her husband added, “Don’t worry, Parson—we’ll help you patch ’er up.”

Patch?
Abigail thought incredulously. It would take far more than a patch to repair the damage.

William said little, neither confirming nor denying their theories. He stood, hands on hips, staring at the ruined parsonage, jaw tense and soot-streaked, his red hair marled with black.