The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Might it have been their manservant, Duncan? She didn’t like the idea of a man roaming about a lady’s bedchamber at night. Though she supposed he might have checked the windows as a favor to Polly, whom he seemed eager to help. But what business had he opening a wardrobe in an unoccupied room at night?

  Later that day, Polly surprised her by handing her a letter—the first to be delivered directly to the house. The letter was addressed to her, in care of Pembrooke Park. Abigail did not recognize the handwriting, nor the crest pressed into its wax seal. It bore a Bristol postmark, but she could not think of any acquaintance who lived there. She peeled away the seal and unfolded the outer page, revealing a second page within. Costly indeed.

  The outer page bore only a single line: I think you are the very person to read this. . . .

  The page within was of a smaller size. One edge was ragged, as though torn from a notebook.

  When first I arrived at Pembrooke Park, I was chilled by the tomblike silence of the place, the unnatural stillness. I shall never forget the tea service, spread atop the cloth-covered table, as though the occupants had merely risen to look out the window at the arrival of an unexpected carriage but had been yanked from the house then and there, never to return. The tea was now a filmy residue at the bottom of bone china. The scones hard and dry. The milk soured. The kettle and cups abandoned in haste, like the house itself.

  I asked the housekeeper why she had not cleaned the place, and she said she’d been told to leave everything as it was. I wondered if she meant, so the constable could search the house for evidence. After all, someone died there only a fortnight before—an accident, I’d been told. But it was clear she didn’t believe that for a minute.

  Abigail sucked in a breath—stunned by the words, the similarities to her own experience upon entering Pembrooke Park for the first time. No one had died there recently, as far as she knew. Though Polly had said a valet died there twenty years ago. She read it again. The timing seemed different—the writer describing entering the house abandoned for weeks, not years—yet eerily similar all the same.

  Was it a page of an old journal, torn out and mailed to her? Or a recent work of fiction? Who had written it, and why?

  The next day, Abigail saw Leah Chapman walking across the bridge and hurried to catch up with her.

  “May I walk with you, Miss Chapman?”

  The woman stiffened, then recovered, saying politely, “If you like.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Taking a basket to Mrs. DeWitt, who is ailing again.”

  “Thank you for the basket you sent over for me,” Abigail said. “I wish you had delivered it yourself. I would have asked you in for tea and shared those delicious muffins with you.”

  “My mother makes them. They are very good, yes,” Miss Chapman replied, ignoring the implied invitation.

  Abigail added, “I’m sure Mrs. DeWitt will enjoy them as well.”

  “Oh, for her there is broth and syllabub. Poor dear hasn’t many teeth.”

  “I see. How thoughtful.”

  Leah shrugged. “It isn’t much. William is the thoughtful one. He visits her every week.”

  “Has he lived in the parsonage long?”

  She shook her head. “Only since he was ordained. Our rector, Mr. Morris has the living. But he resides in a much larger and newer house in Newbury.”

  “So far?”

  She nodded. “One of the reasons he doesn’t come here very often. William conducts most of the services, calls on the sick. When he returned after his ordination, Mr. Morris offered him the use of the parsonage. Likely eases the man’s conscience for paying him so poorly. And he knows William will keep the place in better repair than if it remained empty.”

  “Yes. I can well imagine.”

  Leah slanted her an empathetic look. “Is the manor in very bad condition?”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Oh?” The woman’s caramel-colored eyes widened. “Why would you say that?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors.”

  Leah stopped and looked at her askance. “What rumors?”

  “Take your pick: that someone was killed there, that the house is haunted—not to mention the threat of treasure hunters and thieves . . .”

  “Ah, those rumors.” Leah nodded and walked on. “And do you believe them?”

  “Not all of them. But the house does make strange sounds at night. Probably round the clock, but I only hear them at night.” Abigail forced a little chuckle. “I don’t suppose you would come and spend the nights with me until my father returns?”

  “I’m afraid that would be quite impossible,” Leah said, lips tight.

  “I was only joking,” Abigail defended. “Or mostly joking.” Again she forced a little chuckle, taken aback by the woman’s adamant refusal. It was on the tip of Abigail’s tongue to tell Miss Chapman about the letter she’d received, apparently confirming at least one of the rumors—about someone dying there—but seeing the woman’s wary expression, Abigail decided to keep it to herself.

  Abigail bid Miss Chapman farewell at the door of Mrs. DeWitt’s cottage, and returned to Pembrooke Park alone. As she approached, she was surprised to see a man disappear around the side of the house. Her heart gave a little lurch. Torn between locking herself inside the manor and seeing who it was, she crept to the corner of the house and peered around it. There, where a chimney stack jutted from the wall, a man stood, staring up at the windows, hands behind his back. Was this one of the treasure hunters?

  She swallowed and cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

  The man turned, and she was both relieved and disappointed to recognize William Chapman.

  He glanced over at her sheepishly. “Ah . . . Miss Foster. Good day.”

  Was he embarrassed to have been caught snooping, or guilty of worse? Surely he was not one of the treasure hunters, looking for a way to sneak inside without being seen?

  “Are you looking for something?” She glanced up in the direction he’d been staring.

  He shrugged. “Just wondering which room they’d put you in.”

  She looked at him askance. “And why should you want to know that?”

  Had he been hoping for a glimpse of her through her bedchamber window—and him a clergyman . . . ?

  “Only curious.”

  She said, “Father insisted I choose whichever room I liked for myself.”

  “And which did you choose?”

  “I hardly think it would mean anything to you even if I told you. Unless . . . are you more familiar with the house than you let on?”

  “I haven’t been inside since I was a boy.”

  She decided to come right out with her suspicion. “Coming upon you just now, I confess I thought you might be one of the treasure hunters your father warned me about, looking for a way to break in.”

  He looked at her in astonishment. “Are you serious?” He gave a little bark of laughter. “I assure you, Miss Foster. Had I wanted to get inside Pembrooke Park, I could have done so at any time.”

  “Because your father has the key, do you mean?”

  “No, that is not what I mean.”

  She waited for him to explain, but instead he ran a hand over his jaw and said, “I promise you, Miss Foster, I shall not break in to Pembrooke Park. But . . . if you are willing to give me a tour sometime, I would like to see the old place again. See what all the fuss is about.”

  “Would your father approve?”

  “Not likely. But I can’t see any harm in it.”

  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.

  Chapter 6

 
The 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, “Forgive 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?”