The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Knowing she would not sleep unless she did something, Abigail decided to take a risk. She returned to her room, pulled on stockings and shoes, and slipped a dressing gown and shawl over her nightdress. Taking a candle lamp with her, she tiptoed back into the gallery. Seeing no light under her father’s door, she decided not to disturb him and crept quietly down the stairs.

  The servants had likely been asleep for some time. Even so, she tiptoed across the hall, quietly unbolted the door, and let herself outside, closing the door as silently as she could. The night air shivered through her muslin nightdress, and she wrapped the shawl more tightly around herself as she hurried along the verge, avoiding the gravel of the drive. She entered the moonlit churchyard, not allowing her gaze to linger on the gravestones or the swaying willow branches bowing in grief over the dead.

  She shivered again, only partly from the cold.

  Reaching the parsonage, she paused to collect herself. Her heart beat hard, more than the slight exertion of the walk justified. She took a deep breath and knocked softly. Then again.

  A moment later, she heard faint footsteps within, the latch clicking, and the door opening. There stood William Chapman. Dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves, his shirt open at the neck, his hair tousled, his eyes weary, then widening in surprise as he recognized his late-night caller.

  “Mr. Chapman, forgive me for showing up on your doorstep at such an hour. I saw your light, so I hoped I wouldn’t wake you.”

  “No, I was not asleep.” He gestured vaguely toward the desk inside, where a candle lamp burned and a Bible lay open, paper and quill nearby.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I feel terrible. I never meant to upset Leah, or you. I did not think it through. Or realize how strongly you felt about the Pembrookes. Won’t you forgive me?”

  “Miss Foster . . .” He paused, opening the door wider. “Here, step inside out of the cold for a moment.”

  She hoped she would not get him into trouble—or ruin her own reputation in the bargain. But she was too cold, and too upset, to worry about propriety at the moment.

  He did not invite her any farther than the entryway, she noticed, and left the door ajar behind her. Again he gestured toward the desk. “I was writing you a letter. For it is I who should apologize to you. For a moment I thought I’d fallen asleep mid-letter and dreamt you on my doorstep.”

  She shook her head. “I should never have stuck my nose in. What was I thinking to introduce Mr. Pembrooke to your sister? Me—playing matchmaker! As though I have any experience in courtship.”

  “True. I don’t recommend a future in matchmaking for you—or for anyone, for that matter. Even so, I should not have spoken so harshly to you. I overreacted, and I apologize.”

  “I have heard the rumors about Clive Pembrooke, of course,” she said gently. “I know people believe he may have killed Robert Pembrooke. And I know how highly your father esteemed that gentleman. Had Mac reacted so vehemently, I would not have been shocked. But—”

  “But that I, a clergyman, would hold the sins of the father against his son?”

  Again, the Numbers verse ran through her mind. “Yes. After all, his family did nothing to yours.”

  “I am afraid it is not quite that simple, Miss Foster.”

  “If Miles did something—either as a boy or since his return, I am certain he would be happy to try and make amends.”

  “It is not within his power to do so.”

  “I don’t . . . understand.”

  William ran a weary hand over his face. “I know you don’t. And again, I’m sorry. There is more to the story, but it isn’t my story to tell. Just believe me when I tell you, we have reason to dislike and distrust our former neighbors. No good can come from trying to foster a relationship between Miles Pembrooke and my sister.”

  She shook her head. “I shall never try that again. Be assured of that. I have learnt my lesson. I only hope Leah will forgive me in time. And you will too.”

  “I have already done so. And I hope you will forgive me.”

  “Of course I do.”

  A grin quirked his lips. “And here I’ve been sitting an hour, trying to compose an apology that was accepted in five minutes.”

  She managed a wobbly smile.

  Then, remembering something, she said, “I know you offered to ask Leah about anyone named Lizzie she might know, but never mind that now. I—”

  He said, “Actually, I think it would be best to leave Leah out of these sorts of questions, Miss Foster. All right?” A hint of defensiveness crept into his voice again, and Abigail regretted mentioning it.

  “Very well.”

  He looked suddenly over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”

  “Where?” She turned to see what had caught his eye.

  “That light in the window.”

  She looked, and there in an upper window, light from a single candle bobbed past. Her breath caught. “That’s my mother’s room. But it’s unoccupied at present.”

  Who was in there? The candle was partially shielded, not reflecting on its bearer, perhaps by design.

  “It’s probably Duncan. Or one of the maids,” she supposed aloud.

  “At this hour?” He frowned. “Did you happen to lock the front door when you left?”

  “No. I didn’t think to. I didn’t plan to be gone more than a few minutes.”

  William Chapman’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps I should go rouse my father. . . .”

  “Your father and his gun? I don’t think that necessary. Or wise. Perhaps it’s my father wandering about for some reason.”

  “Looking for you?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.” The thought pinched her with guilt. She hoped not. She didn’t want to worry him, but nor did she want him to learn she’d left the house at night to speak to a man.

  “Let’s go see who it is.” William grabbed his coat from its peg and shrugged it on. I don’t want you entering the house alone. Just in case a prowler has let himself in.”

  He grasped her hand and led her across the lawn, taking the verge as she had done earlier to avoid the gravel drive, and then stepped lightly across the paving stones to the front door. He opened it with care, listened, then stepped in first, keeping her shielded behind his body. The main level was dark and quiet.

  “Come on,” he whispered, leading her across the hall and up the main stairs. She liked the feel of his larger warm hand engulfing hers. Her heart pounded a bit too hard from his proximity, and the sense of danger in the air.

  “This way,” she whispered at the top of the stairs, gesturing toward her mother’s bedchamber. She felt rather brazen, holding his hand, but did not let go.

  The door to her mother’s room stood ajar. Had she left it open when she’d looked from its window?

  “Shh,” she urged. They paused where they were, listening. A faint tap-tapping reached them from within. Again, he stepped in front of her, shielding her and slowly pushing open the door wide enough to enter.

  In a dim arc of candlelight, Miles Pembrooke stood, candle in one hand, tapping against the wall with his stick, ear pressed close to the wood. Listening for the sound of an empty chamber behind the paneling?

  “Looking for something?” William asked, his quiet voice cracking like a cannon in the dark room. Miles jumped, and Abigail squeezed William’s hand a bit too hard.

  For a moment Miles froze, like a thief caught. Then he relaxed and a smile eased across his face.

  “You two frightened the wits out of me.”

  Abigail asked, “What are you doing in my mother’s room, Mr. Pembrooke?”

  “I think you mean my mother’s room, Miss Foster. Or at least it was. I was looking for, ah, some memento. I’d hoped perhaps something of hers had been left here.”

  “This late at night?”

  “Yes, I found myself awake and missing her. And you, Miss Foster? I am surprised to see you up and about and keeping company with our good parson so late at night.”


  Abigail glanced at William, then away, releasing his hand at last. No explanation presented itself.

  “Miss Foster need not explain herself to you, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “But I judge it safe to say that a memento wasn’t all you were looking for. The treasure, I take it?”

  “Well, yes, if you must know. I’ve been thinking about my father’s obsession with a treasure hidden somewhere in the house. All stuff and nonsense no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  Abigail said, “In future, Mr. Pembrooke, if there is something you wish to see in the house, or if you want to visit your mother’s former room, you need only ask. That is, until my own mother arrives, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Surely Mr. Pembrooke doesn’t intend to stay that long,” William said, sending the man a challenging look. “Do you?”

  “Ah. Well, I have no definite plans. Though I admit I have been looking forward to making the acquaintance of the rest of Miss Foster’s family. We are related, after all.”

  “Only very distantly,” Mr. Chapman said, smile forced.

  “Well, closer than you will ever be.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment the two men stood, eyes locked, shoulders squared, jaws clenched.

  Abigail hurried to diffuse the tension, saying, “All right, gentlemen. It is late, and I think it time we all called a truce and returned to our bedchambers. All right?”

  “Very well,” Miles said, shuffling to the door, his limp less noticeable than usual.

  They followed him out into the gallery.

  William Chapman waited until the door to the guest room had closed behind Miles, before he turned to Abigail once more. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I hate the thought of him here in the house with you.”

  “Mr. Pembrooke is harmless, I assure you. A thief I might believe, but not a murderer. Besides, my father’s room is just there.”

  “Even so, promise me you will lock your bedchamber door tonight and every night.”

  In the darkness she could not clearly see his eyes, but his voice rumbled in solemn concern.

  “Very well. I shall.”

  Now that Mr. Chapman had forgiven her, she thought she would sleep soundly at last. But perhaps a locked door would be a good idea as well.

  The next day, Abigail paid a call at the Chapman cottage, hoping to make things right with Leah as well. Leah herself came to the door, and Abigail braced herself to be rebuffed.

  “I’ve come to apologize, Miss Chapman,” she began. “I hope you will forgive me. If I had known there was such enmity between you and Mr. Pembrooke, I would not have made the introduction. I never intended to upset you.”

  Leah sighed. “I know you meant no harm, Miss Foster. Come, let’s take a walk, shall we?”

  The two walked through the grove together. Abigail did not risk, however, trying to take her arm.

  Abigail said, “I didn’t realize you were even acquainted with Mr. Pembrooke.”

  Leah shrugged. “I was away at school when Clive Pembrooke moved his family into Pembrooke Park. But they were still here when I returned—though they remained only about a year longer.”

  “Did you meet Miles then?”

  “Not that I remember. He was only a boy. And my father wouldn’t let us have anything to do with the Pembrooke family. He mistrusted—even detested—Clive Pembrooke, and that distrust extended to his wife and children as well. I was forbidden to set foot on the grounds, even though our property was adjacent to the estate.”

  “Surely you saw each other at church or around the village?”

  She shrugged again. “The Pembrookes didn’t often attend church. And when they did, they had their box in front—entered after we were all seated and left before the rest of us. By the time I returned from my year at school, everyone in the village was either afraid of them or hated them. I didn’t care about the parents, I supposed they deserved it. And the Pembrooke boys had each other and didn’t seem to notice.”

  “And the girl?” Abigail prompted. “You must have met her.”

  She resolutely shook her head. “I never officially met Harriet Pembrooke. But I saw her from a distance. And that was enough to make me feel sorry for her. I often wonder where she is now, and if she is happy.”

  Yes, Abigail thought. So do I.

  “When they left,” Leah continued, “everyone was relieved. Now Miles Pembrooke’s return has raised the old fears once more.” She sighed and looked pensively off into the distance.

  Abigail took a deep breath and asked gently, “Did one of the Pembrookes do something to hurt you in some way?”

  Leah glanced at her with troubled eyes, then looked away. “Me? How could they hurt me . . . ?”

  Abigail bit her lip. “I don’t know. But again, I am sorry.”

  “I know you are. And I forgive you.” Leah managed a smile and took her arm. “Now, let’s finish our walk.”

  When she returned to the manor, Abigail walked into the servery, hoping for a cup of tea, and stopped midstride, taken aback to see Duncan and Molly standing shoulder to shoulder, heads together.

  “What is going on here?” she asked, her tone sharper than she’d intended.

  Molly straightened and whirled, face suffusing with color. “I . . . Sorry, miss. We were only talking for a minute. Honest.”

  Duncan slowly raised his head, sending her a lopsided grin. “I was showing Molly a most interesting book.” He lifted a thin, well-worn volume in his hands.

  The girl’s eyes begged for understanding. “That’s right, miss. That’s all.”

  “Thank you, Molly. Go about your work, please,” Abigail said.

  The maid bowed her head and hurried from the room.

  When they were alone, Duncan said, “It’s an old copy of Steele’s Navy Lists. You might find it interesting as well. It’s most telling about your houseguest—a man who passes off his limp as a war wound to gain sympathy from females.”

  Abigail frowned. “Mr. Pembrooke is not pretending to have a limp, I assure you.”

  “Pretending, exaggerating, I don’t judge. It worked, didn’t it? He looks harmless—the poor injured war hero—and is invited in to stay like some wounded pup.” He shook his head. “Probably murder us all in our beds.”

  “Duncan. I don’t appreciate your attitude, or your gossip.”

  “Ain’t gossip, miss. I know you don’t think much of me, but you have to give me credit. I did my research. He’s right here on page 72. Served on the Red Phoenix. Do you know anything about the Phoenix, miss?”

  She shook her head.

  His eyes glinted. “One of the only ships to escape the war with barely a scratch.”

  Abigail’s stomach soured. “Perhaps he was injured in a land skirmish then, or during training.”

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night, miss.” Duncan’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Far be it from me to discredit a war hero.”

  Later that afternoon, Abigail received the new edition of the Lloyds’ magazine in the post and took it into the morning room to read while she drank her tea. The magazine held news articles, fashion prints, poetry, and short stories. She read the magazine mostly out of loyalty to Susan Lloyd, and because it made her feel closer to her friend to recognize her “voice” in an editorial, or piece of society news, although most of the articles were written by others.

  Abigail flipped past the fashion prints and skimmed the table of contents.

  One author’s name caught her eye. Condensed as the type was, she at first misread the name as Pembrooke, but then looked closer: E. P. Brooks.

  Ah! The local author . . .

  She turned to the gothic story, entitled “Death at Dreadmoore Manor.” She skimmed through the introduction of a young woman, the daughter of an earl, kidnapped after his murder and raised as a lowly housemaid by plotting relatives. Unprotected, the poor young woman was left to her own defenses when an evil r
ake came calling. Would someone discover her true identity and rescue her in time?

  The story reminded Abigail of Cinderella stories she’d heard, and a French opera, Cendrillon, she’d seen in London. The young heroine of the story was selfless and unbelievably good-natured in the face of hardship. The preening, mustachioed villain with a maniacal laugh came across as nearly comical instead of terrifying, as the author no doubt intended. Although she was no expert, Abigail thought the writing quite good, despite its flaws.

  Again, she regarded the author’s name, E. P. Brooks—or rather, her pseudonym—as Susan had told her most female writers submitted under a nom de plume.

  She thought again of Eliza’s ink-stained fingers and the periodicals she had seen in her kitchen. Could it be . . . ?

  Abigail decided to pay another call on Mrs. Hayes and Eliza. The older woman was napping in a sitting-room chair when she arrived, but Eliza invited Abigail into the kitchen to wait while she put the kettle on. “She’ll rouse herself when the tea kettle whistles.”

  Abigail casually wandered around the kitchen while Eliza set the tea tray. With a jolt of recognition, she saw the latest edition of the Lloyds’ magazine on the table, and ventured, “I read this as well.”

  Eliza glanced over. “Do you? I thought I was the only one in the county who subscribed.”

  “No.” Abigail added tentatively, “In fact, the editor is a friend of mine.” She watched the woman’s reaction.

  Eliza’s hands momentarily stilled over the sugar bowl. Then she said, “Oh? How interesting.”

  “Yes, she finds it very interesting work. Do you . . . enjoy the magazine?”

  “I do, yes, when I find the time.”

  Abigail was disappointed Eliza didn’t take the opening she’d offered but decided not to press her. Perhaps she was mistaken in the matter.

  Eliza picked up the tray. “Come, Miss Foster. Let’s join Auntie and have a nice visit.”

  Abigail followed the woman into the sitting room.

  The old housekeeper looked up eagerly at their entrance. “Another visitor? Has Master Miles called again?”

  “No, Auntie, it’s Miss Foster.”