The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  “Oh . . . too bad.” The woman’s expression fell, and she turned her attention to the tea.

  Eliza explained, “Mr. Pembrooke called here a few days ago.”

  “Did he?” Abigail asked, taken aback.

  “Indeed he did,” Mrs. Hayes said over her teacup. “And how well he has turned out. So charming and well spoken. Twice the gentleman his father ever was. But you didn’t hear me say a word against the man.” She turned sightless eyes toward the door, as though Clive Pembrooke himself might be hovering nearby.

  Eliza held up the plate. “Here, Auntie, have a biscuit.”

  She took one, adding, “And so attentive to Eliza.”

  “He was only being polite,” Eliza insisted, pouring another cup.

  Mrs. Hayes shook her head. “I may be blind, but even I could see he was interested in you.”

  Eliza sent Abigail a pained look, silently shaking her head to signal her disagreement.

  Abigail took her hint and changed the subject. Lifting her teacup, she began tentatively. “You mentioned your aunt raised you, Miss Smith. May I ask about your parents, if that is not too painful a question?”

  “Painful, no, though perhaps a bit uncomfortable for delicate ears.”

  Abigail tipped her head back in surprise. “Oh? How so?”

  “My mother was housemaid at Pembrooke Park until she came to be with child.”

  “Oh.” Abigail swallowed, the hot tea scalding her throat and her eyes watering. “I . . . see . . .”

  Eliza looked at Mrs. Hayes. “And we don’t talk about my father—do we, Auntie?”

  “Your father was a good man,” Mrs. Hayes insisted. “He let her stay on at Pembrooke Park far longer than many a master would have.”

  Abigail stared. Good heavens. Was she insinuating Robert Pembrooke was Eliza’s father? Or even . . . Mac? Is that why he visited so often? Helped around the house? No, it couldn’t be. She reminded herself that Mrs. Hayes wasn’t in her right mind.

  The former housekeeper took a noisy sip, then turned in her general direction. “You do know that Robert Pembrooke had more than one daughter, don’t you, Miss Foster?”

  No, that was one rumor she hadn’t heard.

  “Auntie . . .” Eliza warned, with a worried glance at Abigail. “We are not to talk about that.”

  Mrs. Hayes sipped again, then set down her cup with a clank. “Miss Foster living in Pembrooke Park. It isn’t right! Not when another young woman deserves it so much more. E for Eliza. E for Eleanor . . .”

  Did Eliza fancy herself a Pembrooke? The astounding question was on Abigail’s lips, but she swallowed it down with hot tea and bile.

  Eliza gave Abigail a tight smile. “You mustn’t listen to her, Miss Foster. Lord knows, I don’t most days.”

  Abigail forced a smile in return. “Your mother died when you were very young?”

  “Yes. I was only five.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Eliza shrugged. “I don’t remember her very well. Or my father for that matter. Though Auntie tells me he passed on his way with words to me.”

  Abigail thought again of the local writer’s pseudonym: E. P. Brooks. A play on E. Pembrooke, perhaps? Maybe neither aunt nor niece were quite sound of mind.

  Suddenly eager to quit the place, Abigail thanked the women for tea and took her leave, feeling queasy from the bitter cup and uncomfortable conversation.

  When she neared the bridge on her walk home, a black barouche rumbled past, forcing Abigail to step to the far edge of the road. She had seen the equipage before, she thought, but she couldn’t remember where. Heavy draperies hung on the windows, obscuring her view of the occupant.

  Continuing on her way, Abigail became aware of an acrid odor. She sniffed and walked on. Was someone burning brush? Crossing the bridge, she looked ahead to the estate. A crow shrieked and flew away, drawing her attention skyward as she followed its flight. Her heart thudded. A roiling column of grey and black smoke spiraled upward . . . from the church? No, behind it. The parsonage!

  For a moment Abigail remained frozen, mind whirling. William. She looked this way and that and saw no one to call to. Then she hitched up her skirts and ran—through the gate and around the church to the parsonage.

  Flames shot from the rear window. Abigail pushed through the door and looked inside. There was William, trying to beat out the flames leaping up the window curtains.

  Seeing her, he yelled, “Ring the bell!”

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? She ran back through the churchyard, jumping over abandoned gardening tools and a watering can, and hurried into the porch. Hands quaking, she reached for the rope spooled on spokes high on the wall away from youngsters’ reach, and nearly too high for her as well. Rising on tiptoe, she managed to uncoil the rope. She gave it several jarring pulls, the clang, clang, clang lacking the usual solemnity of a service toll. Then she ran back to the parsonage, pausing to snatch up the watering can and carry it with her. Not that one pail of water would do much good against the growing flames, but it was all she could think to do.

  Duncan called from Pembrooke’s front door, “What is it?”

  “Fire!” she yelled back, pointing toward the billowing smoke.

  Duncan gaped upward, then disappeared back into the house. She hoped he had some idea of how to help. Reentering the parsonage, she saw daggers of flame leap from the curtain onto William Chapman’s shoulder and arm.

  “William! You’re on fire!” she shouted.

  The roar of the fire had grown, and he didn’t appear to hear her. Stepping forward, she sloshed the contents of the watering can onto his shoulder, missing the mark, and getting half of it on his neck and the back of his head. Still, it extinguished the flame.

  He whirled at last, stunned.

  “Your arm was on fire,” she said. “What else can I do?”

  “Gather everyone you can and start a fire brigade. And pray.”

  She blinked. She had no experience with one and not much with the other. But she hurried outside to do his bidding.

  With relief she saw Mac—stern, competent Mac—barking orders and forming a line down to the river, which was thankfully quite close, encircling most of the estate as it did. Duncan, Molly, Polly, Jacob, Leah, Mrs. Chapman, and even Kitty ran over from the direction of the cottage, stables, and perhaps the potting shed with various pails and cans. Other people ran over the bridge from the direction of nearby Easton and began filling in the line. She recognized several of the older boys from Sunday school among them, as well as Mr. Peterman, Mr. Wilson, and Mr. Matthews, and several other parishioners she knew by face if not by name.

  Her eyes stung from the smoke and the awful beauty of seeing a close-knit community sweating, straining, and working together like the loyal family they were.

  Abigail joined the line.

  Half an hour later, they’d managed to put out the fire. By then, the greater portion of the rear wall and two interior rooms were all but destroyed.

  “Kitchen fire, was it?” someone asked.

  Another quipped, “That’s what happens when you give a bachelor his own kitchen.”

  “Never leave a cooking fire unattended.” Mrs. Peterman wagged her finger at William. “If you had a wife, she would have known better.”

  Her husband added, “Don’t worry, Parson—we’ll help you patch ’er up.”

  Patch? Abigail thought incredulously. It would take far more than a patch to repair the damage.

  William said little, neither confirming nor denying their theories. He stood, hands on hips, staring at the ruined parsonage, jaw tense and soot-streaked, his red hair marled with black.

  The villagers began to drift home, Mrs. Chapman and Leah thanking everyone for their help as though hosts at a party. Or a funeral.

  When only Abigail and his father stood beside him, William said, “This was no kitchen fire.”

  Mac asked, “No? What do you think, then, Will. A spark from the stove?”

  “I
n my bed?” William snapped. “I think not.”

  “In your bed? I thought it started in the kitchen.”

  William shook his head, mouth pursed, his eyes measuring, thinking. . . .

  “Did a candle lamp fall or something?”

  “No, Papa.”

  “Are you saying you don’t think it was an accident?”

  “Keep your voice down, but yes. Someone started that fire.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “If you mean can I prove it? No. But I know it. In here.” He pressed a hand to his chest.

  “But who would do such a thing?” Mac asked. “And why?”

  Abigail spoke up, “I don’t know if I should mention it or not, but I saw a black barouche drive past when I walked up the lane and spied the fire.”

  “Whose barouche?”

  “I don’t know, but there can’t be many vehicles that fine around here.”

  William shook his head. “I don’t think we need to look any farther than Pembrooke Park for a suspect.”

  “Duncan, do you mean?” Abigail asked, having witnessed the manservant’s clear dislike of the Chapmans.

  Again he shook his head.

  Abigail blinked. “You don’t mean Miles? I can’t believe he would do such a thing.”

  “He was clearly angry with me last night, and perhaps jealous in the bargain.”

  Mac’s eyes narrowed. “What happened last night?”

  “I’ll tell you later, Papa.” He looked at her. “Where is Mr. Pembrooke now?”

  As if summoned by their conversation, Charles Foster came jogging over, Miles Pembrooke hobbling behind with his stick.

  “Molly just came and found us,” her father said. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Did you not hear the bell, Papa? Or see the smoke?”

  “We were playing chess in the drawing room—it’s at the back of the house, so we didn’t see anything. We did hear bells but assumed it was some special service we didn’t know about.”

  William and his father exchanged a look. Was he chagrined to have suspected Miles unfairly? Or did he suspect him still?

  “Good heavens, Mr. Chapman,” Miles said, pulling a face. “Your shoulder looks horrendous.”

  “Hm?” William craned his neck to look at it.

  Mac frowned down at the angry patch of charred shirt and skin, which looked as if some wild cat had clawed William’s shoulder. Perhaps the shock and his focus on putting out the fire had masked the pain, for it seemed as if William—as if all of them—were only now becoming aware of the injury. He swayed slightly.

  “Sit, lad. Here,” his father said, guiding him to one of the kitchen chairs they’d dragged out to salvage from the flames.

  He sat heavily down.

  “I’ll ride for the surgeon,” Miles offered, surprising everyone. “Those burns should be seen to.”

  “Mr. Pembrooke, I don’t—”

  “Don’t worry. I can’t run with this leg, but you’ve never seen anyone saddle a horse faster.” He turned and began hobbling toward the stable. “Mr. Brown still surgeon here?”

  “Aye,” Mac called after him. “Same green house.”

  True to his word, Miles Pembrooke was seen galloping over the bridge on his horse a short time later.

  After he had gone, Charles Foster looked at William and said kindly, “Come, son. Let’s get you into the manor. “You can’t stay here. Not with all the smoke. The surgeon can see you there.”

  Soon William found himself lying on a velvet sofa in the Pembrooke Park morning room. How strange it felt to be there, his parents and the Fosters gathered around him. A clean sheet covered the fine old velvet—the housekeeper had seen to it—and considering his sooty state, William took no offense.

  Mr. Brown had come, tended his burns in private, and laid an ear to his chest to listen to his heart and lungs. Then he’d asked the others to join them.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the bandages and reapply salve,” he’d announced. “I recommend plenty of rest and liquids for a few days. And clean air—stay clear of the parsonage.”

  “But I need to board up the broken windows, at least, and cover the hole in the wall.”

  “Now, lad, don’t you worry about that,” his father said. “Leave it to me.”

  “That’s right. Listen to your pa,” Mr. Brown admonished him. “Don’t try to return yet. Not with all that soot and smoke in the air. Bad for the breathing.” He looked at Mac. “Keep him from overexerting himself for a few days at least.”

  “If I have to tie him down.”

  Kate Chapman added, “We’ll nurse him at home, Mr. Brown.”

  “But there isn’t room,” William said. “Not with Grandmamma staying with us now.”

  “My wife’s mother has recently moved in with us while she recovers from a fall,” Mac explained. “But we’ll make do.”

  William shook his head. “I don’t want to put anyone from their beds.”

  Mr. Foster spoke up. “Your son must stay here with us, Mac. We have so many spare rooms. You and your family may come and go as you please—and Mr. Brown, of course—until your son is quite recovered and the parsonage repaired.”

  “We could’na do that, Mr. Foster. But thank you for your offer.”

  “Why on earth not? Come, Mac, it would be our pleasure. The least we can do for our parson and neighbor.”

  “It is a very kind offer, but—”

  “You may have your pick of the empty rooms upstairs. Or we might fit out this room, if you prefer, so he doesn’t have to negotiate the stairs.”

  “I am not an invalid,” William objected. “But even so, I must say the notion appeals to me. For one, if I might have this room here at the front of the house, I could keep an eye on the parsonage. If the fire was the work of vandals, I would be on hand to see their return.”

  He glanced at Miss Foster to gauge her reaction and then addressed her father. “I sincerely appreciate the offer, Mr. Foster. And hopefully after a few days, the worst of the smoke will have cleared and I will be able to make sufficient repairs to return.”

  “That seems a bit optimistic, Will,” Mac said. “I think the damage is worse than you realize.”

  Mr. Foster said, “You are welcome to stay as long as need be. We don’t mind at all. Do we, my dear?”

  Miss Foster’s face remained impassive, her hands folded primly before her. “Not at all, Papa.”

  Abigail walked out of the room with her father, leaving Mr. Chapman to rest, while Mac went to gather necessities for his son.

  When they were out of earshot, she said, “That was very kind of you, Papa.”

  He said, “You know, I quite liked doing it. I must say I was surprised by the surge of . . . em, patronage I felt. I suppose this is what it must feel like to be of the manor born, to experience a paternal fondness for one’s tenants and neighbors. A compulsion toward condescension and benevolence. Yes, I could quite get used to being lord of Pembrooke Park.”

  His words stirred warnings in Abigail. “Be careful not to grow too accustomed to it, Papa. Remember what Mr. Arbeau said. You have not inherited the place. You are merely its tenant.”

  “For now, yes. But once the tangle of the will is figured out . . . who knows?”

  “Miles Pembrooke knows, I would imagine. Or his sister perhaps.”

  He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I could see myself here. Doing . . . this. Forever.”

  She touched his arm. “We shall enjoy it while we can, Papa. But try not to become too attached to the place, all right? I would hate to see you disappointed again.”

  He patted her hand. “That’s my Abigail. Always the practical one.”

  Her brave smile faltered. “Yes. That’s me.” She added, “I don’t mean to steal your joy, Papa, and I quite agree with you—you would make an excellent lord of the manor, as you say. In fact, I was quite proud of you just now when you offered Mr. Chapman a place to stay.”

  He sen
t her a sidelong glance. “Yes, I thought you might like that.”

  She looked up at him in surprise, relieved to see no censure in his expression but rather an understanding light in his eyes. She tried to act nonchalant, as if she had no idea what he meant, but she could not quite stifle a small grin.

  The grin faded, however, when she thought of Miles Pembrooke. He would not be happy to learn he was no longer their only houseguest.

  Chapter 17

  And so, feeling eager and self-conscious, Abigail oversaw the arrangements to settle William Chapman in Pembrooke Park’s morning room—an informal parlor with large windows where a family might spend time together reading, playing games, or doing needlework.

  Mac returned to the parsonage and brought back a valise of William’s least smoky clothes. His mother and sisters took the rest home to be cleaned. While they were gone, Abigail and the servants fitted up the sofa with proper bedding, and brought down a small bedstead from the attic for Mac, who was determined to stay with his son for at least that first night to make sure he fared well, had everything he needed, and didn’t trouble the Fosters inordinately.

  This answered the question in Abigail’s mind of who would help William dress and bathe, since his burned arm was wrapped and not terribly useful. With Mac there, she would not yet have to ask much more of Duncan, who would not be eager to serve Mr. Chapman.

  Mrs. Walsh, however, was only too eager to have a Chapman under the same roof to cook for and immediately went about preparing a selection of healthful soups and jellies, as though William were ill and not simply injured. She refused Kate Chapman’s offer to send over food, saying, “I would enjoy nothing better than cooking for our curate. You’ll not rob me of that pleasure, I trust?”

  Mrs. Walsh brought the tray up herself that evening, making a fuss over William. He thanked her warmly, but said, “Only for tonight, mind. I shan’t let you spoil me for long. I’m not really an invalid, Mrs. Walsh, though I do appreciate all the trouble you are taking over me.”

  “Aye, and what else would I do?” She winked and told him she wouldn’t be satisfied until he had eaten every bowl clean.

  She offered to bring a tray for Mac as well. He politely but firmly refused. “I shall go home to Kate’s table. Don’t want her getting jealous,” he teased lightly, “or our cook, for that matter.” But a wary glint in his eye made Abigail wonder if he had other reasons for not wanting to dine in Pembrooke Park.