The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  “Curzon Street?” Father echoed. “That will not be possible, my dear.”

  “I think it would be wisest to retrench elsewhere,” Abigail said. “In a smaller city or even in the country, where the pressure to have an army of servants, large dinners, and the latest gowns would be far less.”

  “The country?” Louisa’s pretty face puckered as though she’d found a mouse in her soup. “Unless you are talking about a great country estate, with house parties, and fox hunting, and hedge mazes . . .”

  “No, Louisa, I am afraid not. Something smaller.”

  “Oh, why did this have to happen?” Mamma moaned. “What about Louisa’s season? Her dowry? Is it all gone? Is our youngest daughter not to have her chance, after all?”

  “I didn’t say that. No. Louisa is to have her season.” Father sent an uneasy glance toward Abigail, then quickly looked away. “We will muster enough for Louisa’s gowns and things. I trust your aunt Bess will allow us to stay with her for a few months?”

  “Of course she will. But . . . I don’t understand. I thought you said there would not be enough money.”

  With another glance at Abigail, Father began, “Abigail has kindly—”

  But she interrupted him. “I have helped Papa find a few ways to economize. Some funds we had set aside for a . . . rainy day. And a few things we can sell—”

  “Not your father’s emeralds!”

  Abigail shook her head. “No, not the emeralds.”

  Her mother firmly nodded. “Good. Louisa must have her chance to wear them, as you did.”

  Abigail noticed with relief that her mother refrained from adding, “for as much good as it did you,” or something of that sort.

  Abigail forced a smile. “We shall scrape together enough to give Louisa a wonderful season. The season she deserves.”

  For a moment her mother stared at her as if she spoke a foreign language. Abigail feared she would probe further into the source of the money—perhaps even suggest Abigail’s dowry could be used for additional funds, since she no longer needed one. It was one thing to offer it up quietly, willingly—as Abigail had done privately to her father—but quite a different, humiliating thing to be told a dowry was wasted on her.

  Mollified, her mother only nodded. “As it should be.” She pressed Louisa’s hand. “You see, my dear, you are to have your season after all. What did I tell you? You shall meet the most handsome, best connected, and wealthiest young man this year. I just know it!”

  And so, while Mrs. Foster and Louisa attended dress fittings, Abigail began helping her disillusioned and disappointed father find a more affordable place to live.

  Abigail contacted a property agent and made inquiries for a suitable dwelling. But she heard of no situation that answered her mother’s notions of spacious comfort and suited Abigail’s prudence. She had rejected several houses as too large for their income.

  One afternoon, among the correspondence about properties, Abigail received a letter from Gilbert Scott, postmarked Roma. Her heart gave a little foolish leap, as it always did when seeing her name in his neat hand. Over the preceding months, Gilbert had sent letters to both her and Louisa. Abigail always read his descriptions of his studies and the architecture of Italy—sometimes with sketches in the margins—with absorption and dutifully wrote back. She did not know what sort of letters Gilbert wrote to Louisa. Abigail feared they might be of a more romantic nature than those she received but hoped she was wrong.

  She retreated to her bedchamber to read Gilbert’s letter in private.

  My dear Abby,

  Hello, old friend. How is life in London? I imagine you are bored without me there to tease you and drag you about the city to see St. Paul’s, or the construction at Bethlehem Hospital, or to hear some lecture or other. Italy is amazing, and you would love it. But I shan’t overwhelm you with details in this letter, for fear of making you jealous and risk your not writing back.

  You have been very good about answering my letters, Abby. I appreciate it more than you know. As much as I enjoy Italy and my studies, I don’t mind confessing to you—since you know me so well—that I do feel lonely now and again. How I would love to walk with you along the Piazza Venezia and show you the Roman Forum!

  I have not heard from Louisa in some time. Like you, she was prompt in writing back when I first began my travels. But her letters have trickled off of late. I hope she is in good health—as well as you and your parents, of course. Perhaps I have done something to vex her. If I have, it was unintentional. Please tell her I said so. If only all women were as easygoing and forgiving as you, Abby.

  You asked in your last letter which building I most admired here. I seem to find a new favorite every day. Which reminds me, I had better sign off for now. We’re soon to leave to visit the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. Perhaps I shall find a new favorite.

  Fondly,

  Gilbert

  Abigail folded the letter and for a moment held it to her chest, imagining Gilbert’s handsome, earnest face as he wrote it, the ink on his fingers, and the tip of his tongue protruding as it always did when he concentrated on a task. Then she imagined walking arm in arm with him through Rome. . . .

  “What has you smiling?” Louisa asked, pausing in her bedchamber doorway.

  “Only a letter from Gilbert.”

  “And what has he to say this time? More lengthy descriptions of columns and cupolas, I suppose?”

  “You may read it if you like,” Abigail held it forth to show she had nothing to hide, hoping Louisa might return the favor. Not that Louisa ever exhibited any sign of being jealous of her older sister.

  Louisa waved away the offer. “Maybe later.”

  “He asks why you have not written to him lately,” Abigail said. “He’s afraid he has vexed you.”

  Louisa lifted a delicate shrug. “Oh, nothing of that sort. I’ve just been so busy answering invitations and attending fittings and the like. And now that Easter is over and the season has begun . . . Well, you remember how it is. Up late every night, sleeping in every morning, and every afternoon given to calls. . . .”

  Abigail had never told Louisa that she had witnessed her private tête-à-tête with Gilbert, nor asked what she had given him as a parting gift. Perhaps it was time she did.

  “Louisa, I know you gave Gilbert something before he left. Is it a secret, or . . . ?”

  Louisa blinked at her in surprise. “Did Gilbert tell you that, in his letter? I . . . gave him a lock of my hair. You don’t mind, do you? For you’ve always insisted you and Gilbert were just friends.”

  Had she? Abigail swallowed. “Well, yes. Good friends.”

  Had Gilbert asked for a lock of Louisa’s hair? Did he even now wear it in a ring? Her stomach cramped at the thought, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Instead, she made do with a sisterly “It’s impolite not to answer letters promptly, Louisa. Surely you might manage a few lines at least? To assure him all is well and you are still . . . friends?”

  Louisa flopped into an armchair, her usual concern for posture and poise neglected in only her sister’s presence. “Oh, very well.” Then she grinned sweetly at Abigail, a teasing light in her fair eyes. “Or might you not tell him so for me when you write back? For I know your reply shall be in tomorrow’s post.”

  Soon they began receiving offers on their house—the best price contingent on keeping the majority of furnishings in place. They were relieved to receive such a good offer, but even so, once her father finished paying off the bond, there would be little left to spend on new lodgings. Although tireless in her efforts, Abigail began to despair of ever finding a house that would suit them all.

  Early in April, while Abigail met with the housekeeper about more modest menus and other economizing measures, a footman came to find her.

  “Your father asks that you join him in the study, miss,” he said.

  “Oh? I thought he had a caller.�
��

  “Indeed he does.” The servant bowed and backed away without further explanation.

  Abigail thanked the housekeeper, made her way to the study, and let herself in.

  Her father sat at his desk. A man in black stood to one side, framed by one of the windows.

  With an uncertain glance at the man, Abigail began, “You asked for me, Father?”

  “Actually, this gentleman requested you join us.” Mr. Foster gestured to the visitor—a man of about sixty years, she guessed. Not tall, but a distinguished figure in his black frock coat and charcoal-grey waistcoat. His high white shirt collar framed an arresting face—deep hooded eyes under heavy arched eyebrows as black as a bat’s wings. Deep grooves ran from either side of a straight nose to the corners of his mouth. He wore a small mustache and beard trimmed in the Van Dyke style—his cheeks cleanly shaven. His hair and beard were black edged with silver. But it was his eyes that drew her back. Keen and calculating. Knowing and judging.

  She was quite certain she had never seen him before. She would surely have remembered him. Why then had he requested her presence?

  “Have we met before, sir?” she asked.

  “No, miss. I have not had that pleasure,” he replied, displaying no pleasure in meeting her even now.

  Her father made belated introductions. “My elder daughter, Miss Abigail Foster. Abigail, this is Mr. Arbeau. A solicitor.”

  Abigail’s stomach tightened. Was her father in more trouble because of Uncle Vincent’s failed bank? Was he there to announce they were responsible for yet more money? Abigail fisted her hand. They had lost too much already.

  Mr. Arbeau cut a crisp bow, then straightened, folding his arms behind his back. He was an intimidating presence with all his dour elegance.

  He looked somewhere over her father’s head, then began, “Mr. Foster, I gather that you are facing a financial crisis, and the offer of a commodious abode at a low rate would not be unwelcome at this time?”

  Her father’s face darkened. “I do not appreciate my private affairs being bandied about by strangers, Mr. Arbeau.”

  “Then I advise you not read the papers, sir.” The man waved a graceful hand, and Abigail noticed the gold ring on his little finger. “Yes, yes. You are a proud man, I understand. But not too proud, I hope, to at least consider the offer I am prepared to make.”

  Her father’s eyes narrowed. “What offer? I suppose you have a commodious abode to let?”

  “Not I, no. But a client of mine possesses an old manor house, and has instructed me to offer it to you on very easy terms.”

  “And who is your client?” Father asked.

  The man pursed his lips. “A distant relation of yours, from a family of consequence and property in western Berkshire. That is all I am at liberty to say.”

  “If he is a relative, why the secrecy?”

  The man held his gaze but offered no reply.

  Her father looked up in thought. “I do have antecedents in Berkshire, now that I think of it. May I know the name or location of this property?”

  “Pembrooke Park. Spelt with two o’s.”

  “Ah.” Father’s eyes lit. “My maternal grandmother was a Pembrooke.”

  The man continued to regard him evenly but neither confirmed nor denied the connection.

  Instead Mr. Arbeau said, “Please understand that you are not inheriting said property, as closer heirs still live and the will is held up in probate over some question of ownership. However, the current executor of the estate lives elsewhere and wishes the property to be inhabited—and by deserving relatives if at all possible.”

  “I see . . .” Her father tented his fingers, and Abigail saw his mind working, considering whether to be flattered or further insulted to be considered a deserving relation.

  Mr. Arbeau went on, “The house has two main levels and five bedchambers. As well as attic servants’ quarters, and kitchens and workrooms belowstairs. Church, stables, and outbuildings. Nine acres of parkland, ponds, orchards, and gardens, though uncultivated for years.”

  “But an estate so large,” Abigail interjected. “I am afraid it would be beyond our . . . needs.”

  The man withdrew a card from an inner pocket upon which was written a figure. He handed it to Mr. Foster, who in turn handed it to Abigail. Glancing at it, Abigail felt her brows rise in astonishment. Curious, she flipped it over. The other side was a simple calling card printed with only Henri Arbeau, Solicitor.

  “That is an uncommonly reasonable and indeed generous offer,” Abigail conceded. “But I’m afraid the staff and expense to manage such a place would be beyond our means.”

  The solicitor eyed her shrewdly and addressed his reply to her. “My client was right, I see, in wishing you present during this meeting, Miss Foster.” He pulled a second slip of paper from his pocket. “I am authorized to engage and pay basic staff, though my commission does not extend to French chefs or a tribe of liveried footmen.” He glanced at the list on the paper. “You are to be provided with a cook-housekeeper, kitchen maid, manservant, and two housemaids. Personal servants—valet, lady’s maid, and the like—must be provided by yourselves. If that is agreeable.”

  Abigail opened her mouth to utter some incredulous comment, but before she could fashion one, Mr. Arbeau held up his palm.

  “Now, before you credit me or my client with an overly ‘generous’ offer, I must ask you to moderate your expectations and your gratitude. The house has been boarded up for eighteen years.”

  Abigail gaped. She dragged her gaze away from the stranger to her father to gauge his reaction. Did his heart sink as hers did? Why would anyone abandon a house for nearly two decades? What condition would it be in?

  Her father said, “May I ask why it has been allowed to sit empty for so long?”

  “It is not my place to judge my client’s past decision in this regard. Suffice it to say, neither my client nor anyone else in that family has been able or willing to live there.”

  “And it has not been let before?”

  “No.” Mr. Arbeau drew an impatient breath. “See here. My client apprehends that your family is in need of a dwelling and wishes to fill that need. Be assured that everything shall be done to render it habitable. I will escort you there myself, and you and your daughter may judge for yourselves whether Pembrooke Park might, by any alteration, be made suitable. And if you are willing to inhabit the place for at least a twelvemonth to make the investment worthwhile, my client will bear the expense of repairs, cleaning, and a staff of five to keep you reasonably comfortable.”

  Abigail stared blindly as her mind struggled to tally the sizeable expense his client was willing to bear, compared to the modest rent requested. She blinked at the disparity. A pinch of disquiet, of suspicion, unsettled her stomach. Had the business with Uncle Vincent not taught her that anything that sounded too good to be true usually was? But they could ill afford to pass up such an opportunity.

  Her father seemed less aware of the astounding nature of the offer, or simply took it as his due. He said, “I assume the servants will prepare the place ahead of our arrival?”

  “You assume wrong,” Mr. Arbeau replied crisply. “My client is most insistent on that point. You and Miss Foster are to be present with me when the house is unlocked and opened for the first time since 1800.”

  It was her father’s turn to gape. “But . . . why?”

  “Because that is my client’s wish and stipulation.” His tone did not invite further inquiry.

  Her father ducked his head to consider the matter, his furrowed brow indicating bewilderment.

  The mantel clock ticked.

  Mr. Arbeau consulted his list again, then refolded it. “There is an inn not terribly distant from the manor. If we discover that the house is uninhabitable as is, you are welcome to sleep at said inn for a period of up to a fortnight—as long as you return to the house each day to oversee the servants’ preparations.”

  He returned the list to his pocket and sai
d in a patronizing, nearly mocking, tone, “If that meets with your approval?”

  Abigail stole a glance at her father and found his face growing florid. Fearing he might send the man away with a sharp setdown, she quickly spoke up. “Again, that is very generous, Mr. Arbeau. I can find no objection to at least visiting Pembrooke Park. Can you, Papa?”

  He hesitated, taking in her pleading expression. “I suppose not.”

  Abigail ventured, “Is the place furnished, or would we bring our own things?” She remembered the highest offer on their own house, contingent on leaving the furnishings behind.

  “Fully furnished, yes,” Mr. Arbeau said. “I have never been inside, but my client assures me you will find Pembrooke Park already fitted up when you take it. Beneath the inevitable dust, that is.” His eyes glittered wryly.

  Might this be her chance to help improve her family’s circumstances and regain her father’s trust?

  Abigail prayed she wasn’t leading her father astray once again. She squared her shoulders and forced a smile. “Well, we are not afraid of a little dust, are we, Papa?”

  When they had agreed on a date to visit Pembrooke Park, Mr. Arbeau took his leave. It was a relief when the officious man and his astounding offer departed.

  Chapter 2

  Abigail and her father rode with the somber solicitor in a well-sprung post chaise hired for the occasion. They traveled for most of the day, on turnpikes and through toll gates, stopping to change horses and postilion riders at regular intervals, or to take a hurried meal at a coaching inn.

  Finally, they reached western Berkshire, its rolling hills and woodlands giving way to farms and chalk downs near its border with Wiltshire. They passed through the village of Caldwell, with a fine church, cloth mill, and the Black Swan, which Mr. Arbeau pointed out as the nearest inn where they might sleep until they deemed the manor house habitable. A few minutes later, they reached Easton—a small cluster of shops and thatched cottages—near Pembrooke Park.

  Abigail felt her pulse quicken. Please, God, don’t let the manor be an utter ruin. . . . Not when I advised Father to come. I cannot stand to disappoint him again.