The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  “No, it isn’t right for me to ask that of you.” Leah lifted her chin. “I shall come.” She bit her lip. “May I bring someone from my family along?”

  “Of course. Bring Kitty. I’ve been meaning to ask her over again in any case.”

  “Very well. I shall.”

  They had agreed to a time for the following afternoon. When the hour neared, Abigail began listening for the door, and when she heard the bell, hurried eagerly from her room. Descending the stairs, she glanced down into the hall and saw Duncan opening the door to their visitors, the Miss Chapmans. Even from that distance, Abigail could see his posture tense.

  For a moment, he stood there not saying a word. Not ushering them inside.

  Leah, she noticed, dipped her head and murmured an awkward hello.

  Kitty showed no such reticence. “We’re here to see Miss Foster,” she announced. “We’ve been invited.”

  Abigail crossed the hall. “That’s right. You are very welcome. I’ve been expecting you.”

  At this, Duncan turned stiffly and stalked away. She watched him go, then turned a questioning look toward Leah, but she merely shrugged with an apologetic little smile.

  One of these days, she would ask about Duncan’s history with the Chapmans. But not today, when Leah had finally agreed to her first visit.

  “Come in, come in,” Abigail urged.

  Kitty beamed and walked in eagerly, but Leah hovered on the threshold, glancing warily around the hall and up to its soaring ceiling. Mr. Foster came out of the library for a moment to greet their guests before retreating back to his books and newspapers once more.

  Abigail asked Miss Chapman, “Do you want to tour the house first, or proceed directly to the gowns?”

  Leah’s gaze strayed from one formal portrait to the next. “So much to see . . .”

  “Have you been in the house before?” Abigail asked.

  “Years ago. With my father.”

  “Ah. Back when he worked here.”

  She nodded vaguely. “How strange to walk through that front door. After all these years. . . .”

  “I can imagine,” Abigail agreed.

  Kitty grabbed her sister’s arm. “Come on, Leah. Let’s go upstairs.”

  Leah resisted the younger girl’s tug, her wide-eyed gaze following the stairway up to the first landing.

  Abigail wondered why she was so nervous. Was it more than the rumors? Did she have some bad experience with one of the former occupants? Had one of the Pembrooke brothers she’d heard about been cruel to the neighbor girl—the steward’s daughter?

  Giving up, Leah allowed her sister to pull her toward the stairs. Leah looked ruefully over her shoulder at Abigail. “Sorry. Perhaps I ought to have come alone.”

  “That’s all right. I can guess where she’s headed.”

  They ascended the stairs, Leah’s head swiveling back and forth, taking in the framed portraits, tapestries, and intricately carved panels. Abigail followed, oddly proud of the house and its ability to awe, though she was only a tenant.

  At the top of the stairs, Leah paused before a glass display table filled with framed miniature portraits and silhouettes, but again Kitty tugged her along. Abigail knew the girl’s goal—the dolls’ house.

  As they approached her bedchamber, Leah hesitated again, staring at the door.

  “Come on, Leah. I want you to see the dolls’ house,” Kitty insisted.

  “It’s all right,” Abigail assured Leah.

  Leah formed an unconvincing smile and allowed Kitty to lead her into the room, Abigail trailing behind.

  Kitty went at once to the dolls’ house on its stand and knelt before it. Leah followed more slowly, turning in a slow circle to take in the canopied bed, the window seat, the wardrobe. She reached out a hand and touched the bed-curtains. Then the smooth oak surface of the dressing table.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Abigail asked gently.

  “Yes, it is,” Leah breathed. “You have a charming room.”

  “It isn’t mine,” Abigail said with a shrug. “But I am glad I have the use of it for a while.”

  “So am I.”

  Leah gave her a genuine smile, and Abigail’s heart warmed. Maybe they’d become good friends yet.

  “Come and see,” Kitty urged, and Leah went over to stand at her sister’s shoulder. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “Not in ages, no.”

  Abigail wondered if Leah had ever played with the daughter of the house. They’d been neighbors, after all.

  Abigail turned to open the trunk she’d asked Duncan to bring in earlier. But for several minutes, Leah remained where she was, her gaze fastened on her little sister so enthralled with the dolls’ house.

  Abigail returned to Leah’s side, watching as Kitty moved a small doll up the stairs and laid her on a canopied bed. Abigail glanced at Leah’s profile, expecting to see an indulgent smile there. Instead, she was surprised to see tears in the woman’s eyes.

  Leah must have sensed her gaze. She glanced over and self-consciously wiped at her eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . good to see her so happy.”

  Abigail awkwardly reached out and squeezed Leah’s hand. “She is more than welcome to come here and play any time she likes.”

  Leah blinked away the tears, then looked at Abigail with a distracted smile. “You are very kind. She would enjoy that, obviously.”

  “Come, let’s look at the gowns. I was never a diamond of the first water, I’m afraid. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”

  “I’m sure I won’t be.”

  Abigail removed a protective layer of tissue and began lifting gowns from the trunk and laying them on her bed. She smoothed her hand over an elegant off-white muslin with an embroidered bodice and sheer lace over-sleeves. Its full skirt had a slightly shorter hem to allow for freedom of movement in dancing.

  “I was thinking this one might look well with your coloring. But you are welcome to any that suit your fancy.”

  “It’s lovely,” Leah breathed.

  “Would you like to try it on? See how it fits you? We have time to make a few alterations if needed.”

  A girlish smile dimpled Leah’s cheeks. “Very well. If you’ll help me.”

  Abigail happily did so, unfastening the back of Leah’s day dress and then helping her on with the ball gown and lacing up the back.

  Leah looked down at her neckline, pressing a self-conscious hand to her décolletage. “It’s a little low, isn’t it? I feel as though all is on display.”

  “Not at all. It’s the fashion for evening wear. Though we could always tuck a little lace, if you prefer.”

  Abigail turned Leah toward the long cheval looking glass in the corner. “It’s very becoming on you.”

  Leah looked at herself, unable to suppress the smile that sprung to her face.

  “You’re right—the dress is beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful, Leah,” Kitty said in breathless awe, her attention lured away from the dolls’ house at last. “You look like a duchess.”

  “I feel like one in this,” she allowed, holding out the skirt and swaying side to side.

  Abigail smiled. “Then you’ll wear it?”

  “But it’s yours.”

  “I’ve had my joy of it. It is your turn. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve worn it before you.”

  “Not at all. I haven’t a mask, but I am sure I can fashion one. . . .”

  Abigail dug once more in the trunk. “I have several from masquerades I attended in past seasons.” She held up three. “If you’d like to wear one of them.”

  Leah selected the largest of them. “Perfect. Thank you. But what shall you wear?”

  “I think this one.” She held up a small oriental mask ornamented with glass beads. “And this dress.”

  Abigail set aside the mask and lifted a ball gown of white-on-white striped muslin with a low squ
are neckline, a high belt of green, and matching green ribbon trim on its short, puffed sleeves. “What do you think?”

  “It’s lovely. When did you last wear it?”

  Abigail thought. “At the Albrights’ May ball.” She had danced with Gilbert that night, she recalled, with a wistful little sigh. “And here I thought my dancing days were over.”

  “Yours, Miss Foster? Then what about mine? I am several years older than you are.”

  Abigail cocked her head to the side and regarded her new friend. “Oh, I think your dancing days are just beginning.”

  Later, as they left Abigail’s room, gown folded over Leah’s arm, Kitty pointed across the gallery. “We think that was Mr. Pembrooke’s room.” She gestured to the right. “And that was his wife’s.”

  Leah’s eyes lingered on the closed doorways. She looked over at Abigail. “Would you mind terribly if I peeked in?”

  “Not at all. Go ahead.”

  Abigail followed as the Miss Chapmans crossed the gallery. Leah slowly opened the door and entered the mistress’s bedroom—the room they assumed had been occupied by Mrs. Pembrooke—and the Mrs. Pembrooke before that.

  Hands behind her back, Abigail stepped inside and glanced around the room once more. “My mother shall have this room, when she arrives.”

  “Yes,” Leah said quietly. “It is perfect for the lady of the house.”

  Leah ran a hand over the original bedclothes, now aired and cleaned. Then she touched the recently repaired lace cover on the dressing table. She fingered the vanity set—perfume bottles, hand mirror, and hairbrushes, murmuring, “I cannot believe all of this is still here. . . .”

  “I know. I can’t believe they took so little with them when they left.”

  Leah turned, her gaze arrested by the portrait over the mantelpiece. The handsome gentleman in formal attire.

  “Your brother believes that is Robert Pembrooke,” Abigail said. “I gather he has seen another portrait of the man. Though we haven’t asked your father to confirm that.”

  Leah nodded. “William is right.”

  “You met him?” Abigail asked.

  “I did, yes. Though it was a long time ago.”

  “The other portrait is missing,” Kitty said.

  Leah dragged her eyes from the image to look at her sister. “Hm?”

  “The portrait of the missus, to match this one. Come and see . . .”

  Leah shook her head. “No, Kitty. That’s Mr. Foster’s room now.”

  “Oh, he won’t mind,” Abigail assured her.

  Kitty led the way along the galley and into the master bedroom. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, gesturing with a sweep of her arm. “See?”

  Leah looked around at the masculine bedclothes, the heavy mahogany furniture, the desk and leather-padded chair near the window. She walked slowly over, ran her fingers over the blotter on the desk, and rested her hand on the arm of the chair. Finally, she turned, glancing up with interest over the mantelpiece.

  “You can tell that was hung later,” Kitty insisted. “It should be a larger portrait, like the one in the other bedchamber. And I shall never believe that is Robert Pembrooke’s wife.”

  “No,” Leah agreed. “I suppose it’s only natural that the new family wanted to hang their own portraits. In fact, I am rather surprised the portrait of Robert Pembrooke still hangs in the lady’s bedchamber.”

  “I wonder where they put the one of Robert’s wife,” Abigail mused.

  “Are you simply guessing there was such a portrait, or has someone said so?” Leah asked.

  Abigail shrugged, not wanting to mention the letter. “Guessing, I suppose.”

  “It’s a mystery,” Kitty pronounced.

  Leah slowly shook her head. “Not so mysterious, Kitty, surely. Someone new moves in and doesn’t want someone else’s wife or ancestor staring down at them in their beds? Doesn’t sound like a mystery to me.”

  Kitty flicked a hand toward the portrait. “Who’d want that old biddy staring down at them instead?”

  “Kitty . . .” Leah gently admonished. “That isn’t kind.”

  “Mac said she might have been Robert Pembrooke’s old nurse,” Abigail commented. “Do you recognize her?”

  Leah shook her head. “I have never seen her, that I recall.”

  Abigail considered the portrait. “You have to admit she is a stern-looking woman of considerable years,” she said diplomatically. “And all that black crepe . . .”

  “And those eyes . . .” Kitty shuddered.

  “All right, you two—that’s enough,” Leah said. “You shall give yourself nightmares.” Leah gave one last glance at the portrait, and admitted, “And I might not be far behind.”

  The gowns for the masked ball settled upon, Abigail’s thoughts moved next to the dancing. She spoke to William Chapman about the brush-up class he had suggested, and he in turn paid a call on Andrew Morgan, who eagerly agreed to join them. The dance practice was arranged for Saturday. Mrs. Chapman offered to accompany them on the Pembrooke Park pianoforte. Abigail invited her father to join them, but he declined.

  At the appointed hour, Abigail and Leah entered the salon together.

  Inside, Mr. Chapman and Mr. Morgan rose as one. Mr. Chapman watched his sister’s face carefully, Abigail noticed, while Mr. Morgan bowed, looking confident and eager.

  “Shall we begin?” Abigail suggested. “As there are only four of us, perhaps the Foursome Reel?”

  Mrs. Chapman, already seated at the pianoforte, struck a few experimental notes. The old instrument was out of tune but would suffice.

  The gentlemen stepped toward the center of the room, while Leah hovered near her mother.

  Abigail and Mr. Morgan demonstrated the opening steps, while the Chapmans watched. Then, so that each couple had the benefit of an experienced partner, Abigail suggested Mr. Morgan dance with Miss Chapman, while she danced with Leah’s brother.

  Leah reluctantly crossed the room to join them. Together, they walked through the dance the first time, then again up to tempo. Mr. Morgan, Abigail saw, gently whispered or gestured to Leah, or turned her in the right direction when she needed a reminder. Soon both William and Leah had mastered the steps and patterns.

  Abigail realized this “class” was a good reminder for her as well, as she had not danced in nearly a year. “All right, Mrs. Chapman, I think we’re ready for music.”

  Mrs. Chapman nodded, and Abigail said to the others, “I will call out the steps the first time through to remind you. Watch Mr. Morgan if you forget what to do.”

  Mrs. Chapman launched into the jaunty introductory bars. Then Abigail said, “Ready, and . . . set to your partner.”

  Leah and Mr. Morgan began the swishing side-to-side step, which Leah performed with lithe grace, looking more like a young debutante than a woman nearing thirty. Andrew Morgan danced with effortless skill, his eyes lingering on her appreciatively.

  Leah glanced up and, finding Mr. Morgan looking at her so closely, ducked her head. But not before Abigail saw the blushing smile on her pretty face.

  Would a man like Andrew Morgan—eldest son and heir of Hunts Hall—take a respectable interest in a steward’s daughter? Abigail hoped so. She prayed Andrew Morgan’s intentions were honorable—and extended well beyond fondness for a friend’s sister.

  Mr. Chapman, meanwhile, danced quite competently beside her, step for step, their hands and sides occasionally brushing, as they moved through the dance. Abigail tentatively met his gaze, as etiquette dictated. In return, he smiled warmly down at her. When the dance called for the joining of hands, his long fingers enveloped hers, and Abigail felt their warmth spread through her.

  Abigail realized she had missed dancing, especially with an attentive, handsome partner like William Chapman. She’d forgotten the pleasure of whirling hand in hand, or skipping down a line of friendly faces, and returning smiles of men and women alike. Of good company, good cheer, and good music. Perhaps she was not quite ready t
o put herself on the shelf after all.

  Once more she glanced at Leah, who seemed to be enjoying herself as well. She wanted to say to her new friend, “See? You are here in Pembrooke Park, and nothing bad has happened.” But she made do with catching Leah’s eye and sharing a smile.

  William Chapman was enjoying the dance lesson more than he’d imagined he would. He could barely keep his eyes from Miss Foster, noticing the graceful sway of her slender figure in a becoming gown, the pink flush of happy exertion in her cheeks, the dark curls bouncing at her temples.

  He enjoyed the feel of her smaller hands in his as they turned around each another, her lovely profile several inches below his. Her skin shone smooth and fair, her dark brows well-defined arches above her lovely brown eyes. She looked up at him and smiled into his face. His chest tightened, and he returned the gesture, though a little unsteadily.

  Standing so near her, he smelled rose water and springtime in her hair, and longed to kiss her cheek right then and there. Knowing his mother was in the same room helped him overcome the urge.

  He reminded himself that this young woman was a member of his congregation, his flock. But at that moment, he wished she were far more.

  They went on to learn two newer country dances and another reel, then finished with a review of the customary last dance of many a ball, the Boulanger. When the final tune ended, everyone clapped for his mother.

  She beamed at them. “Well done, one and all.” She glanced at the long-case clock and rose. “Good heavens, I had better get home and check on dinner or it shall be eggs and cold kippers.” She smiled good-naturedly and gathered her shawl.

  “Thank you so much for playing for us,” Miss Foster said. “I for one enjoyed every minute of it.”

  William and Morgan were quick to agree. Even Leah nodded shyly.

  Miss Foster continued, “May I suggest one more class before the ball?”

  Everyone assented, and they picked another day and time.

  William left a short while later, relieved to know the skills he’d learned during his years at Oxford had not evaporated in the intervening months. He was also relieved to see Leah looking more relaxed and enjoying herself. He was not quite sure how he felt about his friend’s obvious interest in his sister, and again prayed Leah wouldn’t end up being hurt.