The Secret of Pembrooke Park (7 page)

William took up his whisk and readied for the challenge. “Ready. Steady. Go!”

“Back up, Miss Foster,” his mother warned, “or you’ll end up wearing your pudding.”

He and his brother began whisking, now and again each looking at his rival to check his progress, only to grimace in effort once again.

“I don’t want butter, mind,” his mother said. “There, that’s enough.”

“Who won?”

His mother declared it a tie.

“May I taste?” Kitty blinked up at him.

“You may.” William extended the whisk toward her, and she stuck out her tongue, but at the last moment, he tapped it to her nose instead, leaving a dollop of whipped cream on her small pert nose.

Taking the teasing in stride, Kitty fingered the cream from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tongue and pronounced it delicious.

After the filling meal, flavored with plenty of conversation around the table, William suggested a walk to stretch their legs. Miss Foster offered to help with the dishes but his mother refused, insisting both Leah and Abigail accompany him for a walk and
leave the dishes to the rest of them, to the groans of Jacob and cheerful compliance of Kitty.

While the women collected their bonnets and wraps, William stepped outside to wait for them, drawing in a breath of cool evening air, refreshing after the warmth of the small house.

A man on horseback approached, causing Brutus to launch into ferocious barking.

“Brutus!” William hollered, but the dog paid little heed.

As the rider neared, William recognized Andrew Morgan. Seeing his old friend gladdened his heart. Andrew’s father had recently inherited nearby Hunts Hall from a cousin, after the man’s death. Before that, the two young men had become acquainted when Andrew’s family visited Hunts Hall over the years. Later, they were at school together.

Andrew dismounted and tied the rein to the gate, the horse jigging a bit, clearly unsettled by the barking dog. His father came out and, to the horse’s relief, quieted Brutus far more successfully than William had done.

Andrew came up the path, hand outstretched. “William, you old devil. Though I suppose I ought not call you a devil, your being a clergyman now. Good to see you, old man.”

“You as well, Andrew. How are you?”

“Excellent. Enjoyed traveling about, but I’m glad to be back.”

“I’m sure your parents are glad as well.”

“Yes, Mother wants more grandchildren. Talks of little else.”

“And do you mean to oblige her?”

Andrew cocked his head to one side. “Oh, I see how it is. Hoping for rich fees for performing the marriage and all those christenings, ey?” Andrew grinned. “What about you? Any progress in that area?”

William felt his smile falter. “No. I’m . . . afraid not.”

Andrew sobered. “Sorry, Will. Have I brought up a sore subject? If it helps, last I saw Rebekah she was as big as a mother bear and half as cheerful. Though she has since been delivered of a strapping son.”

“Yes, I heard.” William shifted, and said awkwardly, “And I am
not suffering in that regard, Andrew, I assure you. Though I was sorry to hear about her husband.”

“Were you?”

“Of course.”

The door opened behind him, and Leah and Miss Foster stepped out, wearing bonnets and pelisses and pulling on gloves as they came. William was struck again at Miss Foster’s beauty. The bonnet framed her face and softened her angular features. Her dark eyes contrasted strikingly with her creamy skin. Beside him, Andrew Morgan stared as well. Had he imagined his friend’s sharp intake of breath? He glanced over and found the man’s gaze riveted on the ladies—or had one lady in particular caught his eye?

His sister stilled upon seeing his companion, her smile falling away, her features stiffening to the wary lines she always wore when confronted by a person not of close acquaintance.

“Leah, you remember Andrew Morgan, I trust?” William hastened to reassure her. She had met Andrew a few times in the past when he’d visited his father’s cousin, though it had been more than a year since the two had seen one another.

Leah curtsied. “Yes. How do you do, Mr. Morgan.”

Andrew bowed. “I am well, thank you, Miss Chapman. And you . . . you are in good health, I trust?”

“I am. Thank you.”

William was surprised by the stilted greeting, especially on his gregarious friend’s part.

Recalling his manners, William turned to Abigail. “Miss Foster, may I present my friend Andrew Morgan. Mr. Morgan, our new neighbor, Miss Foster.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Foster. It is a rare thing to have a new neighbor in this sleepy parish.”

William explained, “Miss Foster and her family have let Pembrooke Park.”

Andrew’s eyebrows rose. “I had heard the old place was occupied at last, but I must admit I assumed by some undertaker or ghoul—not a lovely young lady like yourself. You are quite alive, I take it?”

Miss Foster shot him a bemused grin. “Quite alive, I assure you.”

“Excellent. Well, welcome to the neighborhood.”

William explained to her, “Andrew’s parents live in Hunts Hall, on the other side of Easton. Papa is their agent. But Andrew here has been traveling abroad most of the twelvemonth since they moved in.”

Abigail nodded her understanding. “Then you are a newcomer as well, Mr. Morgan.”

“I suppose I am.” Andrew smiled. “I say, what propitious timing. Mother is having a little dinner party in a fortnight to welcome me to Hunts Hall. She’s inviting several relatives and friends of hers, and gave me leave to invite a few friends of my own. Why don’t the three of you join us? Say you will, or I shall be bored to tears.”

William hesitated, glancing at Leah to see how she would react.

She looked away from Andrew’s eager face, clearly disconcerted, and demurred, “Surely your mother did not mean for you to invite just anyone you happened to meet.”

“You are hardly just anyone. William and I were at Oxford together. And you are his sister. And—”

Miss Foster interjected, “Thank you, Mr. Morgan, but you needn’t feel obligated to include me just because I happened to be here. But include Miss Chapman, by all means.”

“Now, no more refusals or polite demurs, I beg of you. I shall have Mamma dash off official invitations as soon as I return home. No filling your social diaries with anything else in the meanwhile, hear?” He wagged a teasing finger.

“Oh yes, a busy social diary indeed,” William agreed wryly. “We shall do our best to squeeze you in.”

Later, after Mr. Morgan had taken his leave, William led the ladies around the gardens. When he suggested it was time to walk Miss Foster home, Leah begged off, leaving William the honor of walking Miss Foster home alone. He did not mind in the least.

As they strolled across the manor grounds, Miss Foster commented, “Your friend seems an amiable fellow.”

“Indeed he is. And he seemed impressed with you, I noticed.”

“Me? Hardly. He only had eyes for Leah.”

William looked at her in surprise. “Did he?”

“Yes. I don’t know how you failed to notice.”

“Hm . . .” William considered her observation. On one hand, he was relieved to know that his handsome and wealthy friend had not already set his sights on Miss Foster, but he was disquieted by the thought of his being smitten with his sister. It would be interesting to see what happened now that Andrew had returned—apparently for good—with the intention of settling down and giving his mother grandchildren. He supposed everyone in Easton considered Leah Chapman, at eight and twenty, on the shelf and there to stay. Would Leah be able to overcome her reluctance and allow herself to be courted?

Whatever happened, William hoped Leah wouldn’t be hurt. He himself knew what it felt like to be disappointed in romance. He had been rejected and lived to tell the tale, but his sister was so much more sensitive and isolated than he was. Nor was her faith the solid rock his had become, a faith that sustained him when disappointments came. He would pray for her. He would pray for them both.

Miss Foster began, “May I ask, Mr. Chapman, about Oxford. How did you . . . ?”

“Afford it?” he glibly supplied. “You may well wonder, considering my father’s background. Even my mother’s.”

“I’m sorry. I meant no offense. I am only curious.”

“You are a very curious creature—asking questions about many things, I have noticed.”

“Forgive me, I—”

“In this instance, I don’t mind in the least. As you know, my father was Robert Pembrooke’s steward, and Mr. Pembrooke relied on him a great deal. It is a great matter of pride—of honor—to my father. A steward or servant who takes pride, reflected though it may be, from the honor or rank of the family he serves is nothing new. But Robert Pembrooke rewarded my father’s faithful service with more than just words. Though not an old man when he died, Robert Pembrooke had already written his will.

“I previously mentioned he left my father the cottage and land it sits on, as well as use of the estate fishpond, but he also left him a tidy sum. Father might have invested that sum and lived off the interest fairly comfortably. Instead he invested that money in my education. I hope he doesn’t regret the investment.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Miss Foster said. “His pride in you is perfectly obvious.”

William shrugged. “Pride makes me uncomfortable, Miss Foster.”

“I only wish my own father . . .” She stopped, allowing her sentence to trail away unfinished.

He glanced at her troubled profile. “Wish what?”

“Never mind,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

They reached the front of the house and stood awkwardly at the door.

She glanced away across the courtyard, toward the gate and river beyond, and frowned. “Who’s that?”

He turned to follow her gaze and saw a figure in a green cloak cross the bridge and disappear from view.

His stomach tightened. “I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse.”

But that one glimpse was enough to make him uneasy. It brought back a boyhood memory—lads telling ghost stories about a faceless man in a hooded cloak, coming to kill anyone who got in his way.

T
hat night, as Abigail went about her usual bedtime routine, she thought back to dinner with the Chapmans. She realized that at some point during the cream whipping and teasing and conversation between William Chapman and his family, she had come to dismiss the fleeting suspicions she’d had about the man. She liked him, and liked his family. And she missed her own.

She settled into bed with her sketch pad, attempting to draw William Chapman’s face. But it proved too difficult for her. She idly sketched the Chapman cottage instead, the neat lines, shutters, and charming thatched roof.

She wondered again what Mr. Chapman had meant when he said,
“Had I
wanted to get inside Pembrooke Park, I could have done
so at any time.”
She still didn’t know.

Abigail stopped, her drawing pencil pausing midstroke. What had she just heard? Footsteps outside her bedchamber? She should be used to servants going about their duties, she told herself. They’d had even more servants in London, setting fires and answering bells at all hours.

She set aside her drawing things and picked up an old novel she’d found in the library. She read for several minutes, but the account of an evil monk pursuing an innocent young lady chilled
her. Shutting the cover decisively, she laid the book on her bedside table and leaned over to blow out her candle. But at the last second she stopped and let it burn. Abigail settled under the bedclothes, the flickering light casting shadows on the papered walls. How she longed for her father’s return. The dark house would seem less frightening once he was there.

She closed her eyes but, hearing a door whine open somewhere, abruptly opened them.
Polly
, she told herself and turned over.

Then she heard a muffled tapping sound. Tapping—at this hour? It was only a branch tapping against a window, she speculated. Or perhaps a woodpecker in a tree nearby, looking for insects. Did birds do so after dark? She had no idea. They must, she decided, and turned over yet again.

In the distance, something clanged like a tiny cymbal, brass upon brass. Abigail lurched upright, her heart in her throat. A water can—someone dropped a water can. Or kicked one, accidentally in the dark.

But it was no good. She knew she’d never sleep until she checked. She turned back the bedclothes and climbed from bed, wrapping a shawl around herself and wiggling her feet into slippers. Picking up her candle, she opened the door and listened. Silence. She tiptoed into the gallery, avoiding the many pairs of eyes glaring down at her from portraits of Pembrookes long dead.

She heard the faint sound of retreating footsteps padding down the stairs.

Heart pounding, she gingerly leaned forward and peered over the stair rail, her candle’s light barely penetrating the darkness below. A hooded figure floated down the last few stairs. Stunned, she blinked. But when she looked again, the stairs were empty. She had probably only imagined the dark apparition.

With a shiver, she decided that was the last time she would read gothic fiction. It was back to architecture books for her.

She turned toward her room, but then changed course and crossed the gallery, lifting her candle to survey the closed doors until she spied one left ajar. There—the room that would be her
mother’s. The same room in which she had seen an open drawer when William Chapman toured the house.

She inched the door farther open and lifted her candle. The drawers were closed this time. But . . . there on the dressing table a hinged jewelry box stood open, and beside it lay a brass candle lamp, on its side. Heart pounding, she walked forward and felt the wick. Still warm.

Trembling, Abigail padded down the back stairs. She could have pulled her cord, but the bells rang in the servants’ hall, and she preferred not to wake Mrs. Walsh. Nor was she eager to wait in the dark alone.

Reaching the former butler’s room belowstairs, which Duncan had claimed for himself, Abigail knocked.

She heard a groan from within, followed by the creak of bed ropes, and then the door opened a few inches. There stood Duncan, hair tousled and chest bare. She hoped he wore something below but did not dare look down.

“What is it?” he grumbled.

“Sorry to disturb you. But I’d like you to check the house and make sure all the doors are locked.”

“Already did. As I do every night.”

“It’s just . . . Mac warned me about intruders, and I thought I heard someone. Saw someone actually, and—”

“Saw what?”

“I . . . am not sure. But please check.”

He smirked. “Had a nightmare, did ya? Shall I bring you some hot milk?”

Irritation flashed. “Will you check the doors or must I wake someone else to do your job for you?”

He frowned. “No need to wake the whole house. Not when you’ve already woken me.”

She became aware then of the defensive way he held his door, only slightly ajar. She had at first thought he did so to shield his nakedness, but the longer he stood there without shirt
or
apparent modesty the more she doubted that was the real reason.

Good heavens! Had he brought some light-skirt into the house?

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have someone in there with you?”

His head reared back in surprise. He looked over his shoulder into the room as if to ascertain the answer for himself, then opened the door wider. She saw clutter and mussed bedclothes, but no one else in the dim room.

He raised an arm over his head, leaning his elbow against the doorjamb, causing his bulky muscles to flex. He smiled down at her. “I’m flattered, miss. But no, I’m on my own. This time.”

Anger now chased away her last remnants of fear. Better an apparition than a cheeky manservant who thought himself irresistible.

She drew back her shoulders. “Never mind. I shall check the house myself.”

His smirk faded and he lowered his arm. “No, now, miss. Sorry.” His demeanor softened. “Not used to young ladies coming to my room at night—that’s all. Just give me one minute to put on a shirt. . . .”

Together, they checked the house and doors and found them all locked, just as Duncan had said. Upstairs, she showed him the candle lamp on its side.

“So that’s where that lamp ended up,” he said, righting it. “I wondered. Polly borrowed it from the lamp room the other day. She must have left it up here.”

“But . . . what would she be doing in here?”

He shrugged. “Some errand or other.” He pointed at the white covering on the dressing table. “Didn’t you send her up with that cover when it came back from the lace repair woman?”

That’s right, she had. She’d forgotten that. How foolish.

Had the wick been warm at all, or had it been a trick of her fevered imagination? She reached out a hand, now perfectly steady, and touched the wick again. Stone cold.

Definitely no more gothic novels for her.

The next day, when Molly brought her the day’s post, Abigail took it eagerly, hoping for something from her family. Instead, she received a second letter with a Bristol postal mark in that unfamiliar hand. Enclosed was another journal page.

I heard footsteps outside my bedchamber last night. And then I heard the door to the linen cupboard open and someone sifting through its contents. A housemaid, I told myself.

Then I heard the door across the gallery whine open. The guest room perhaps. But we have no houseguest at present. In fact, we never have guests here at sprawling Pembrooke Park, though we’d had them often enough when we lived in our few rooms in Portsmouth. Why would a servant be entering an unoccupied guest room at this hour? Especially when the housekeeper makes them rise and shine while it’s still dark, to hear the maids tell it. Unless it wasn’t a servant at all. . . .

Was one of my siblings trying to make me believe the house is haunted? I doubt either of them would dare risk Father’s wrath by getting out of bed at such an hour.

Or was it Father himself? I felt a shiver pass over me at the thought of him prowling around in the dark, entering rooms unexpectedly. Was it not enough that he roamed about all day, opening cupboards and tapping walls, like some deranged woodpecker?

At that moment, my own door creaked open and I froze, my heart in my throat. But it was only the cat. Apparently, I’d failed to latch the door properly. The cat jumped up in bed with me. But for once the soft orange tabby proved little comfort.

Tonight I think I will lock my door.

With a little shiver, Abigail set the letter in her bedside table drawer with the first, then pulled on a pelisse to ward off the chill. At least the writer had found a cat to explain away the noises and doors opening, before she’d gone and made a fool of herself to a smug manservant. Abigail wished she had been as fortunate.

She left her room, crossed the gallery, and walked into her mother’s room once more—this time in the light of day. Though Duncan had removed the brass candle lamp, the hinged jewelry box on the dressing table stood open as before.

Curious, Abigail leaned closer to inspect the box, and fingered through its contents. Brooches, a few strings of beads and another of coral. Her fingers hesitated on a pin, and she lifted it from a tangle of beads and chains. The brooch was made of gold in the shape of . . . an M, perhaps? She turned it over. Or a W? She replaced it, and inspected more colorful baubles and a few nicer pieces, but she found nothing of significant value. No “treasure.” Though she supposed someone might have helped himself to anything valuable already, leaving her none the wiser. Perhaps she ought to have taken an inventory on their first day. But it was too late now.

On Sunday, Abigail looked through the gowns in her wardrobe, wondering what to wear to church, which she planned to attend for the first time that morning. In London, the soaring church they’d sporadically attended was immense and crowded, so few knew whether they attended or not, especially as Louisa was always slow getting ready and they often arrived so late that they’d had to sit in the back or, heaven forbid, in the gallery.

But here in rural Berkshire, with the small church located on her very doorstep, she felt she ought to attend. Her presence or absence would surely be noted by the small congregation. And by the Chapmans. She guessed Leah Chapman would be glad to see her there, and her neighbor’s esteem seemed an elusive yet worthwhile goal. And yes, she admitted to herself, she was curious to see the Reverend Mr. Chapman in his clerical role.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, something caught Abigail’s eye. She bent to look closer and was surprised to find a small doll pressed into the corner. Polly must not have noticed it when she’d
put away her things. With a shrug, Abigail placed it in the dolls’ house drawer with the others.

Polly entered, and with her help Abigail dressed in a printed muslin gown with modest fichu tucked into its neckline and a warm blue spencer. Then she tied a demure bonnet under her chin, tucked a prayer book under her arm, and set off across the drive. She had fussed too long with her appearance, and by the time she walked through the gate into the churchyard, the bell began to ring, signaling the beginning of the service.

Her heart beat a little harder than it should have for such a mundane excursion. Her palms within her gloves felt damp. Where was she to sit? Would it be presumptuous to sit in the Pembrooke box? What if she inadvertently took someone’s regular seat? She dreaded the thought of all those eyes on her, judging her every move.

When she opened the door, she saw the congregants already seated and scanned the pews for an inconspicuous place to sit.

Mac appeared, his beard neatly trimmed, and dressed as dapper as any London gentleman in black coat, waistcoat, and trousers. “Miss Foster, good to see you. Allow me to show you to your seat.”

Ah, that’s right,
Abigail thought. Mr. Chapman had mentioned his father served as parish clerk. He led her up the aisle, all the way to the front row. As Abigail feared, she felt many pairs of eyes upon her. Reaching the box on the right, Mac opened the low door for her.

“Are you sure I should sit here?” she whispered.