The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  She blinked away the foolish images and the tears that accompanied them. They had been adolescents. He probably didn’t even remember drawing these plans with her and would likely be chagrined to know she had kept them. She was tempted to tear them up, or burn them, but in the end, she couldn’t bear to do so. Although it was not very practical to go to the trouble of transporting them to their new home, she rolled the plans carefully and laid them in her trunk—keeping alive a dream probably better relinquished once and for all.

  On the appointed day, Abigail and her father traveled by post chaise back to Pembrooke Park. A line of newly hired servants stood shoulder to shoulder at the entrance awaiting their arrival.

  Mac Chapman was there to greet them. “Good morning, Miss Foster. Mr. Foster. May I introduce Mrs. Walsh, your new cook-housekeeper.”

  The thick-waisted, kind-looking woman bowed her head respectfully. “Sir. Miss.”

  “Her kitchen maid, Jemima.”

  A thin girl of no more than fifteen giggled shyly, then bobbed a curtsy.

  “And these are Polly and Molly. Sisters, as you may have guessed. They will be your housemaids.”

  The two dipped curtsies and smiled warmly. The pair of pretty girls were perhaps eighteen and nineteen, one with dark blond hair and the other a light brown.

  Abigail smiled in return.

  Mac turned to the lone male among the new hires. “And this is Duncan. He’s to be your manservant, odd job man, haul and carry—whatever you need.”

  The man with sandy brown hair was in his late twenties with broad shoulders and brawny arms. He certainly looked as if he could haul and carry.

  He bowed perfunctorily but offered no smile as the others had done.

  Her father said to the former steward, “Thank you, Mr. Chap—”

  “Mac,” he reminded them.

  “Mac. Well . . . Welcome, everyone.”

  Abigail added, “We are glad you are here. Shall we get started?”

  After consulting with Mac and Mrs. Walsh, they decided they would begin with the kitchen, scullery, servants’ hall, and sleeping quarters—so the staff could eat and sleep in the manor—and then move on to preparing bedchambers for the Fosters. Mrs. Walsh would occupy the housekeeper’s parlor and Duncan the former butler’s room belowstairs, while the young maids would sleep in bedchambers in the attic.

  For several days, while her father primarily remained at the Black Swan, Abigail oversaw the servants’ work each day, returning to the inn at night. She answered the servants’ questions as they cleaned and aired the house room by room.

  Abigail’s father insisted she pick whichever bedchamber she wanted for herself—her small reward for coming early and preparing the house. It was kind of him, the first kind words he’d spoken to her since the disastrous bank failure, and she treasured them—though her practical, skeptical mind told her he’d only said it to assuage his guilt for leaving her to oversee the work alone.

  Whatever his reasons, Abigail did not choose either of the largest rooms—the master’s and mistress’s bedchambers in the past, she guessed. Nor did she pick the newest—the one in the later addition over the drawing room with its big sunny windows and lofty half tester bed.

  Instead, she picked the modest-sized room with the dolls’ house. She was drawn to the little window seat overlooking a walled garden and pond with the river beyond. She was drawn to the cherished dolls’ house and the small blue frock hanging on its peg. She was drawn to the secrets she sensed in this room and wanted them for herself.

  She personally helped clean the chamber, assisting the maids in taking down the draperies and bed-curtains to wash, and removing the carpets for cleaning. Polly scrubbed down the walls, mopped the floors, and washed the windows. But Abigail herself dusted the books and toys and every tiny piece of furniture in the dolls’ house, returning each precisely where she’d found it. She didn’t know why, exactly. It would be far more practical to box up all the playthings, far easier to clean without them than around them. Mr. Arbeau had asked them not to dispose of anything, but she could have asked Duncan to haul it up to the attic storeroom. She did not.

  The dolls’ house—or “baby house,” as she’d sometimes heard them called—was impressive indeed. The structure stood atop a cabinet to raise it from the floor. The exterior of the house had been built as a scale model of Pembrooke Park itself, with paned-glass windows and tiny shingles. The three-story interior, with a central staircase hall complete with oak rails and balustrades, had been somewhat simplified, she realized, so that all of the major rooms were accessible from its open back.

  The rooms themselves were fashioned with intricate details, like moulded cornices, paneled doors, and real wallpaper. Bedchambers were furnished with mantelpieces, four-poster beds, and washstands with basins and pitchers no bigger than thimbles. In the dining room, a crystal chandelier hung over a table set with farthing-size porcelain plates and tiny glass goblets. The drawing room held small woven baskets, a silver tea set, and miniature books with real pages. The kitchen—shown on the same level as the dining room, though in reality belowstairs—contained a miniature meat jack, a hearth with spit, tiny copper kettles, and jelly moulds.

  To buy all these miniatures or have them created by craftsmen would have made for an extremely expensive hobby. Abigail guessed this dolls’ house had at first been some wealthy woman’s pastime, before it had become a child’s plaything.

  Abigail pulled out the drawer of the cabinet and found a family of dolls with porcelain faces and soft bodies dressed in costumes of decades past: mother, father, and two sons. At least she assumed they were boys from their attire, though one body was missing its head. She wondered where the daughters were.

  While dusting the small dining room, she admired the miniature silver serving platter on the table, complete with a domed lid. Curious, she reached in and lifted the lid. There on the platter was the severed head of the second boy doll, with dark embroidery-floss hair and stuffing stringing out from its neck.

  Abigail shivered. The work of some nasty little boy, she told herself. How he must have vexed his sister, whoever she was, with his destructive mischief. Abigail put the head in the drawer with its body, determined to repair it someday when she had time. But at the moment, it was time to get back to work.

  Chapter 4

  On her third day working in the manor, Abigail helped herself to a cup of tea and stepped out onto the small front porch for a respite. It was a fine spring morning, and she drew in a deep breath of fresh air. She looked forward to exploring the gardens and grounds soon, but the house came first. The work was going well, she judged. Mrs. Walsh was an even-tempered, no-nonsense leader who ruled with a gentle hand and an encouraging reprimand. “Now, girls, I know ya can do better than that. . . .”

  She cheerfully met with Abigail regularly in her parlor to discuss progress, plans, and purchases. She had made it clear early on, however, that the kitchen was her domain and she would not appreciate the lady of the house interrupting her work there. So Abigail did not often see the kitchen maid, Jemima.

  She saw a great deal, however, of Polly and Molly. Especially Polly, the elder sister, who had volunteered to serve as Abigail’s personal maid—helping her dress and so on—along with her other duties as upper housemaid. Both were pleasant, hardworking girls, daughters of a local farmer, who found even heavy housework far lighter than the chores they were accustomed to on their father’s farm.

  Duncan worked hard those first few days as well, even offering to help the maids carry cans of water and other heavy loads. Now and again Abigail saw him glance at Polly to see if she noticed his efforts. Abigail hoped she would not have a staff romance on her hands—though Polly, nearly ten years younger than Duncan, did not exhibit anything but friendly politeness in return, so perhaps all would be well.

  Abigail had quickly discovered, despite the friendliness of the staff, that all were tight-lipped about the past and the former residents. When she�
�d asked Mrs. Walsh about the Pembrookes, the woman shook her head, eyes wary. “No, miss. We’re not to talk about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “No good can come of it, Mac says. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? How?”

  But she only shook her head once more, lips cinched as tight as a drawstring reticule.

  When Abigail asked Polly what she knew about the former residents, the young woman had shrugged. “Not a thing, miss. I was only a babe when they left, wasn’t I?”

  “But surely you’ve heard rumors.”

  “Aye, miss. But rumors is all it is. I don’t want to lose my place for gossipin’, do I?”

  Clearly Mac had laid down the law when he’d hired the servants.

  So Abigail set aside her questions for the time being and lost herself in sorting, cleaning, and organizing, as well as writing up lists of needed repairs and orders for the larder and supply cupboards.

  Standing there now on the front stoop, sipping her tea, Abigail found her gaze drawn across the courtyard to the church within the estate’s walled grounds.

  Mac passed by in a long Carrick coat, leather breeches, and knee-high boots, his dog at his heels. He wore a greenish-brown Harris-tweed cap in honor, she’d heard, of his Scottish mother. The strap of a game bag crossed his chest, and he carried a veterinary case in one hand and a fowling piece in the other.

  She had learned Mac Chapman was not only the former steward and protector of Pembrooke Park. He also served as land agent for Hunts Hall, an estate owned by a family of gentry on the other side of Easton.

  Seeing her standing in the doorway, he tipped his hat to her. “Miss.”

  “Good morning, Mac. What are you about today?”

  “Oh, off to try a new remedy on an ailing cow, and to check a new drainage ditch while I’m out there.”

  “And the gun?”

  “In case my doctorin’ fails.”

  She looked up in alarm.

  “Only teasing you, lass,” he said. “Often carry a gun when I walk about on my duties. Never know when a wild dog or mangy badger might decide to harass me or the livestock.”

  “Or a trespasser?” she suggested wryly.

  He frowned. “That’s no joking matter, lass. As you may discover for yourself.”

  She changed the subject. “May I ask about the church, Mac? Has it been locked up like the house?”

  He paused to follow the direction of her gaze. “Not at all. It’s the parish church, along with the church in Caldwell, and the chapel of ease in Ham Green. Services every Sunday and on feast days.”

  “May I peek inside?”

  “Aye. It’s always open. The parson’s a good man, if I do say so myself.” His mouth quirked in a grin. How different he appeared now compared to the fierce stranger who’d given them such an inhospitable welcome not long ago.

  Later, while the servants ate a light midday meal, Abigail walked across the gravel drive toward the churchyard. Stepping onto the spongy grass verge, she passed through the opening in the low wall. She glanced around the well-kept graveyard and then looked up at the narrow church itself. The front door was sheltered by a hooded porch—a later addition to the original building, she guessed. Above was an arched window, and a square bell cote topped by a crocketed spire. She stepped into the porch, pushed open the old wooden door, and entered the cool interior.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light—dim compared to the sunny day, yet surprisingly well lit from a large window on either end. Her mind quickly identified a fifteenth-century stone screen dividing chapel and long narrow nave. Paneled walls and wagon roof. Box pews, communion rail, and canopied pulpit—all of oak. Even Gilbert would have approved.

  In the central aisle, a ladder stood empty beneath a high brass chandelier. She wondered where the workman was.

  She stepped nearer the back wall to study a series of old paintings.

  As she stood there in the shadows, a man entered from the vestry in plain waistcoat and rolled up shirtsleeves, a box under his arm. He climbed the ladder and began removing the spent tapers. Humming to himself while he worked, he’d obviously not noticed her there.

  Not wishing to startle him, she cleared her throat and softly greeted, “Good afternoon.”

  He looked in her direction. “Oh! Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

  It was the younger man she’d seen with Mac—his grown son, she assumed, though they’d not been introduced.

  She walked slowly up the aisle. “If you are ever looking for more work,” she said, “we’ve no end of it at Pembrooke Park.”

  He chuckled and readjusted the box under his arm. “I imagine so, but as you can see, I have my hands full here.”

  She nodded. “Keeping the church in good repair the way your father does the house?”

  “In a matter of speaking.”

  “I am surprised your father did not hire you officially.”

  He grinned and said fondly, “He is accustomed to assigning me chores without having to pay me. Family privilege and all that.” He pulled out another stub and tossed it in the box.

  Watching him struggle to balance ladder, box, and tapers, she said, “That high chandelier doesn’t strike me as terribly practical.”

  He glanced down at her, then returned his focus to his task. “I suppose it isn’t. Wall sconces would be easier to refill and maintain. But I like this impractical thing. I think it’s beautiful. An endowment from the lady of the manor long ago.”

  He descended the ladder and nodded toward the paintings she’d been studying. “That’s Catherine of Alexandria, the Martyr. Many paintings of saints were destroyed after the Reformation. But the artwork in our little church here was spared.”

  He set down the box and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “We haven’t been formally introduced. If you will allow the liberty, I shall introduce myself.” He tucked away the cloth and bowed before her. “William Chapman. And you, I believe, are Miss Foster.”

  “Yes. How do you do,” she said, and dipped the barest curtsy, not sure whether a land agent’s son would expect such a courtesy or think it out of place.

  At the sound of footsteps, Abigail turned. A woman entered the church behind them, head bowed over a box in her arms. “I’ve found more tapers,” she called, glancing up. She drew up short at the sight of Abigail.

  It was the woman Abigail had seen with the young girl the day she and her father first arrived. Seeing her more closely now, Abigail guessed the woman was in her mid to late twenties. Her pretty brown eyes and golden-brown hair well compensated for her plain day dress and unadorned bonnet. Was this the man’s wife?

  “It’s all right, Leah,” William Chapman said. “This is our new neighbor. She and her family come from London. Distant relations to the Pembrooke family. Very distant.”

  “Yes, Papa told me. Miss Foster, I believe?”

  “Forgive me,” Mr. Chapman said, turning to her. “Miss Foster, may I present Miss Leah Chapman, my sister.”

  Sister . . . She would not have guessed. “How do you do.”

  Mr. Chapman added, “My sister is a great help to me.”

  “In your . . . work, do you mean?” Abigail asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Your father mentioned the parson is a good man.”

  “Did he?”

  Leah smiled. “Father is biased. But in this instance, he is perfectly right.”

  William grinned at his sister. “Not that you’re an impartial judge or anything.”

  Abigail felt left out of a private joke but said, “Then I shall look forward to meeting him.”

  They both turned to stare at her.

  “But . . . you already have,” Miss Chapman said, a little wrinkle between her brows. “My brother here is our curate. Recently ordained and our parson for all intents and purposes.”

  “Oh . . .” Abigail breathed, taken aback. She knew that curates occupied the lowest rung of the church hierarchy—assistant
clergymen without a living of their own.

  “Perhaps you refer to Mr. Morris, our rector,” William added kindly. “He does visit from time to time.”

  “Not often enough,” Leah said with a sniff. “He leaves far too much on your shoulders, William. And pays you far too little.”

  Abigail felt her cheeks heat. “I am sorry. I didn’t realize. I mistook you for a . . .”

  His eyes twinkled. “A manservant? Groundskeeper? Churchwarden? Yes, I answer to all of the above. No offense taken, Miss Foster. We are a small parish. I do whatever needs doing.”

  Leah said, “You do too much, if you ask me.”

  “Well, thankfully, I have you to help me. I dread the day you up and marry and leave me to my own devices.”

  Leah’s eyes dulled, and she darted a glance at Abigail. “Small chance of that, you know.”

  “I know no such thing.”

  Uncomfortable, Abigail said, “I was rather surprised to find the church in use and left unlocked, when . . .”

  “When we guard the manor so closely?” Mr. Chapman gamely supplied. “Papa is only adamant about keeping people out of the house. The house of God is open to one and all. I hope you will join us on Sunday?”

  Abigail smiled but said noncommittally, “Perhaps.”

  The next night, Abigail left the inn and slept for the first time at Pembrooke Park. Her room was cleaned and ready, as were the kitchen and servants’ bedchambers. Her father’s room had been aired and was to be cleaned next—though there was little hurry, since he had been summoned back to Town to review some final details for the sale of the house and sign over the deed. He said he was comfortable leaving her, now that she had a maid and the other servants to attend her. Abigail had swallowed her disappointment, telling herself she should be proud her father had regained some of his confidence in her.