The Secret of Pembrooke Park (5 page)

She hesitated. “Very well.”

“Thank you. I can’t now,” he said. “I’m off to read the newspaper to Mr. Sinclair. But perhaps tomorrow?”

“If you like,” Abigail agreed, wondering if she ought to have put him off until her father returned. And propriety was
not
what most worried her.

T
he next afternoon, Duncan found Abigail in the library and announced that she had callers. “Will Chapman and his sister,” he said, a slight curl to his lip.

She rose. “Oh yes, he mentioned wanting to see the house. Though I am surprised Miss Chapman came along.”

“It’s not Miss Leah. It’s the younger girl.”

“I see.” She supposed Mr. Chapman brought his sister along as a chaperone of sorts and wondered if he was concerned about propriety more for her sake or his. “Will you let them know I shall be there in just a few minutes? I need to get this letter in today’s post.”

He stiffened, then said, “Very well, miss.”

“Where have you put them?” Abigail asked, dipping her quill.

“I left them in the hall. Only a curate, isn’t he? Not so high and mighty, whatever he or his father might think.”

Abigail was taken aback by the servant’s bitter words, but he had already turned on his heel and left the room before she could fashion a suitable reply. She quickly finished her letter, put it with the rest of the day’s outgoing post, and hurried into the hall.

Mr. Chapman and Duncan stood talking in terse tones, while Kitty sat on the sofa beside the door several feet away, idly flipping
through a magazine. As Abigail neared, Duncan turned and stalked toward the back stairs, avoiding her gaze as he passed.

She looked at William Chapman, her brows raised in question. “Is . . . anything the matter?”

He pulled a regretful face and stepped nearer to speak to her out of earshot of his sister. “Not really. Duncan isn’t fond of me and did not enjoy having to wait on me like a servant.”

“But he is a servant.”

“Yours, yes, but not mine. At any rate, it’s nothing you need be concerned about, Miss Foster. It’s all in the past.”

He drew himself up. “Now, enough of that. Here I am, ready for our tour. I’ve brought Kitty along. I hope you don’t mind. I knew she would enjoy seeing the place.”

“Not at all. She is most welcome.”

His sister looked up at her words, and Abigail greeted her. “Hello.”

“Kitty, this is Miss Foster,” William said. “Miss Foster, my younger sister, Katherine.”

The adolescent wrinkled her nose. “But I am only called Katherine when Mamma’s vexed, so Kitty will do nicely, thank you.”

Abigail smiled. “Kitty it is. Now, what would you like to see first?”

The girl rose eagerly. “Everything! You can’t imagine how I’ve wondered about every room, walking by this place my entire life and never seeing inside.”

“Then every room you shall see.” Abigail squeezed her hand. And for a moment it was as if she were looking into Louisa’s face at Kitty’s age. A Louisa who had often looked up at her with fond affection, trust, and even admiration. Abigail’s heart ached a little. Sometimes she missed those days. Missed their formerly close relationship. Missed
her
.

Abigail gave the two Chapmans the grandest of grand tours. Using information gleaned from the book of Pembrooke’s history she’d found in the library, she described the house, its style, and the approximate ages of various additions with enthusiasm, incorporating architectural details she’d learned from Gilbert.

In the salon, Abigail noticed Kitty’s attention stray. She cut short her monologue and instead gestured toward the old pianoforte, inviting Kitty to play the neglected instrument. The girl sat down and plunked out a few tentative notes.

Abigail became aware of Mr. Chapman’s curious look. “Sorry,” she said. “I got a little carried away.”

“Not at all. I am only surprised by how much you know about architecture. Most impressive.”

She shrugged, self-conscious under his admiring gaze. “It’s nothing, really. I have always been fascinated by the subject.”

“May I ask why?”

“I had a neighbor growing up, a boy named Gilbert. His father made his fortune in the building trade, and Gilbert planned to follow in his footsteps by becoming an architect. His enthusiasm was contagious, I suppose. I found myself borrowing his books, going with him to observe construction sites and the like.”

“I see . . .” He studied her with measuring interest. “And where, may I ask, is this Gilbert now?”

She darted a glance at him, feeling her neck heat. She hoped she hadn’t revealed her feelings—embarrassing feelings better kept hidden.

“In Italy. Studying with a master architect.”

“Ah. And do you wish you were with him?”

“Me? Studying in Italy? Women don’t do that sort of thing, as you know.”

“I didn’t mean studying,” he clarified. “Though it’s a shame you could not. I meant, do you wish you were with
him
?”

The burning flush crept from her neck into her cheeks, and she could not meet the man’s blue eyes.

“I . . .” She hesitated. “Actually, I think it may be my sister he admires now.” Agitated, she rushed on, “I don’t know why we are talking about this. We are to be talking about Pembrooke Park.” Abigail redirected her attention toward Kitty, walking closer to the pianoforte while the girl played a simple piece by rote.

Moving to stand at her elbow, Mr. Chapman said quietly, “For
give me, Miss Foster. I should not have asked so personal a question. A professional tendency, I’m afraid.”

She formed a vague smile but avoided his eyes. “I understand. Now . . . shall we continue?”

Kitty rose and asked to see her bedchamber. “You were given the pick of all the rooms, William told me. I want to see the one you chose.”

“Then you shall. But I hope you won’t be disappointed. I did not pick the grandest room.”

“No?”

Abigail looked at the adolescent’s wide, shining eyes. It wouldn’t be long until Kitty raced toward womanhood, but for now, she was still in large part a little girl. “No. But when you see what’s inside, I think you will approve my choice.”

Abigail led the way upstairs.

At her door, William hesitated. “You two go ahead. I shall . . . wait here.”

Another nod toward propriety, Abigail guessed. But as soon as she gestured Kitty into the room, she wished he had been there to witness his sister’s delight.

“Oh, my goodness!” Kitty enthused over the dolls’ house. “Look at this! It’s wonderful.”

“Yes, someone worked very hard on it and collected a great many pieces.”

Kitty knelt before the open rooms, then looked back at Abigail over her shoulder. “I suppose I shouldn’t touch anything?”

“You may touch whatever you like, but I would ask that you return everything to where you found it.”

“I shall. I promise.”

“There are dolls in the drawer below,” Abigail offered.

Kitty eagerly opened the drawer. Her smile changed to a questioning frown as she slowly drew forth the headless doll.

“I found him that way,” Abigail explained. “I haven’t had a chance to repair it yet.”

Kitty set it aside and began experimentally opening doors and cupboards, admiring all the tiny utensils and bowls in the kitchen.

She held up a miniature woven basket. “I have one very like this. Leah made it for me for my birthday.”

“Yes, I have seen the fruits of her labors,” Abigail said. “I hear I have you to thank for the sweet-smelling soap in my welcome basket.”

Kitty shrugged. “I helped—that’s all.” She opened the door of a small wardrobe and extracted something. “Look, here’s another doll.”

Ah.
The “sister” doll Abigail had wondered about had been hidden inside a miniature wardrobe. Another boy’s prank, she guessed.

For a few minutes more, Abigail watched Kitty with pleasure. But then she remembered her brother waiting alone in the corridor. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and the girl gave a distracted nod without looking up from the dolls’ house.

Abigail stepped back into the corridor and walked into the central staircase gallery. But she did not see William Chapman. Where had he wandered off to?

Across the gallery, she noticed an open door to one of the two large bedrooms—the one she’d chosen for her mother—and walked over to it. Inside, she found Mr. Chapman staring up at a portrait over the mantel.

He glanced over and noticed her there in the doorway. “I hope you don’t mind. The door was open, and you left me to my own devices for quite some time.”

Abigail did not remember the door being open but didn’t press him.

“Kitty is investigating an old dolls’ house.”

“Ah. That explains it.” He folded his hands behind his back and looked around the room. “Was this Robert Pembrooke’s room, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“My father is forever talking about Robert Pembrooke. Robert Pembrooke this. Robert Pembrooke that. He was master of the place when Pa first came to work here.”

“It might be. It’s one of two large bedchambers facing the front of the house. So yes, I imagine one of them was the master’s bedchamber. I suppose your father could tell us for certain.”

Glancing around, Abigail noticed a drawer of the dressing chest left ajar and felt suspicion nip at her.

“Here you two are,” Kitty said, stepping into the room. She followed her brother’s gaze toward the framed oil painting over the mantel—a portrait of a gentleman in formal attire. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Robert Pembrooke,” Mr. Chapman replied. “There’s another portrait of him in the church, hung there to honor him, since he and his family were its primary benefactors. Miss Foster and I were just theorizing that this might have been his bedchamber when he lived here.”

Kitty shook her head, gesturing about her. “But look at this flowery upholstery and those rose-colored drapes and bed-curtains. And that dressing table is a woman’s, to be sure. I think this must have been where the lady of the manor slept, for she would more likely keep a portrait of her husband than he—unless he was a very vain man.”

“Good point, Kitty,” William said. “This does appear a feminine chamber, now you mention it.” He looked at Abigail. “Does her portrait hang in the other large room, then?”

Abigail frowned in thought. “I don’t think so. At least, I don’t recall seeing it.”

“Let’s go look,” Kitty said, whirling toward the door and setting off down the corridor.

“Kitty!” William mildly chastised, following behind.

Abigail laughed. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

Kitty slowed when she reached the room, pushing open the door with apparent reverence. Abigail and William quietly followed her inside.

Sunlight shone through the tall oriel window, dust motes whirling in its angled rays. The second large chamber mirrored the first, with the bed, fireplace, and window in the same positions. They
all looked expectantly over the mantel. There
was
a painting of a lady there—not a young woman, as they’d expected, but rather a matronly looking woman with wispy white hair and deep grooves framing her mouth and crossing her brow. The painting was not as large as that of Robert Pembrooke either. Odd, when everything else about the two rooms seemed symmetrical.

“That can’t be the man’s wife,” Kitty said, clearly disappointed.

“Not unless his portrait was painted in his prime and hers in later years,” Abigail suggested.

“She didn’t live that long,” William said.

Abigail turned to him in surprise. “What?”

He shrugged. “It’s all supposition at this point anyway. That woman could be anyone.”

Abigail said, “Perhaps I shall ask your father.”

William hesitated. “I . . . wouldn’t advise asking him more than necessary, Miss Foster. He doesn’t like talking about the old place or his days here.”

“I thought you said he talks about the occupants a great deal.”

“Robert Pembrooke, yes. But . . . no one else.”

“Why not?”

“I . . . don’t think I ought to conjecture. Papa wouldn’t like to find he’d been the subject of idle talk.”

Abigail let the matter drop. “Well then. Have you two seen enough?”

Mr. Chapman chewed his lip, then said, “I would like to see the servants’ hall belowstairs, if I might, and the workrooms.”

She tilted her head to regard him. “May I ask why?”

“It’s the only area I was allowed in as a boy, and I wonder if it’s changed.”

Abigail shrugged. “Very well. This way.”

She led them downstairs, through the dining room and servery, and then navigated the steep stairs, warning Kitty to be careful.

Belowstairs, they walked along the main passage, with doors opening from it to the servants’ hall, larders, kitchen, and scullery.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Walsh glanced up from her worktable,
frowning to discover unexpected visitors, but her frown melted away at the sight of Kitty.

“Kitty, my love, what a treat to see you. Speaking of treats, come be the first to try my new batch of ginger biscuits. I’m sure the mistress shan’t mind.” She gave Abigail a look sparkling with both humor and challenge.

“Indeed she won’t mind,” Abigail assured her with a grin.

“By the by, miss,” Mrs. Walsh said. “Many thanks for sharing Mac’s jam and Kate’s muffins with us. We all enjoyed them a great deal. . . . Well, most of us.”

“I am glad to hear it. I did as well.”

“You’re a lucky girl, my duckling,” Mrs. Walsh tweaked Kitty’s cheek. “Having two such fine cooks in your family.”

“They’ve nothing on you, Mrs. Walsh,” Kitty said around a bite of biscuit. “Mum’s never tasted half so good.”

Abigail glanced over her shoulder to share a smile with William Chapman, but the threshold where he’d stood was empty. She stepped to the door and peered around the doorjamb, surprised to see him lift a door latch at the end of the passage, only to find it locked.

“Looking for something?” she asked.

He glanced up, his fair complexion flushing. “Just wondered where this leads to. I used to play hide-and-seek here as a boy, but I can’t remember . . .”

Abigail’s stomach prickled with suspicion. First he’d disappeared while they were upstairs, opening doors and drawers and who knew what, and now poking about the cellar? She remembered again what Leah had said about William being paid very ill by the stingy rector. Was he tempted to supplement his meager income with treasure hunting?