The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Her father broke his pose long enough to step from the arched doorway to kiss his wife’s upturned cheek. Then she turned a sweet smile Abigail’s way and enfolded her in a warm embrace. Instantly, Abigail repented of every resentful thought she’d ever had about her mother favoring Louisa. In fact she felt tears prick her eyes. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how much she had missed her mother these last few months.

  Louisa walked forward more slowly, and Abigail was reminded anew of how beautiful she was. Her sister’s dark hair was similar to hers, but her eyes were blue compared to Abigail’s ordinary brown ones. Her cheeks were rounder, her lips and bosom fuller.

  Louisa tipped her head back to take in the stately façade of the house. “It’s certainly big enough,” she said.

  “It is, isn’t it.” Her father beamed proudly. “And just wait until you see the rooms, and all the grand furniture. And how Abigail and I have been longing to hear you play the fine old pianoforte.”

  Louisa accepted her father’s kiss, and then turned to her. “Abby. I am happy to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  “Have you? I’m surprised you’ve had time to miss me.”

  “True. But on Sundays, or rainy days when we were trapped indoors with Aunt Bess, then I definitely missed you. What a whirlwind it’s been.” Louisa took her arm, and together they followed their parents toward the house.

  “I can only imagine,” Abigail said. “But you enjoyed yourself, I gather—from Mamma’s letters?”

  “Oh yes. It was glorious. A huge success.”

  She did not, however, mention an offer of marriage, thought by many to be the crowning achievement of a truly successful season, but Abigail didn’t ask. There would be plenty of time to hear all the details—and boasting—later.

  Their father smiled over his shoulder at them. “No dawdling, girls. The staff are eager to meet you.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t have them all lined up outside to greet us, Papa,” Louisa said.

  His smile dimmed fractionally. “We wanted to greet you ourselves first. And have a moment alone as a family. But they have been busy preparing for your arrival.”

  “Do curtail your expectations a little,” Abigail added nervously. “It is a very old house after all and was neglected for many years.”

  “But Abigail and the servants have worked hard to put it to rights,” her father insisted. “Come in and see.” He held the door, ushering them inside.

  Both Mother and Louisa looked up in pleasure at the soaring great hall with its grand staircase, the chandeliers and many formal portraits. Father led them through the ground-floor rooms with many sweepings of arm and barely contained smiles, his chest puffed out with pride, as though he had designed and built the place himself—or as if he really were lord of the manor.

  Abigail, on the other hand, suddenly noticed minor flaws she’d missed when she’d walked through these rooms alone. They now leapt out at her in high relief. The loopy threads of a cobweb hanging from the candelabra in the dining room, and another in the corner of the crown molding. The shabby upholstery of the sofa in the drawing room. The dingy windows and musty smell of old books and dry leather in the library. Why had she or the maids not noticed these things before?

  Molly, likely the appointed sentry, alerted Mrs. Walsh, and when the Fosters returned to the hall, the servants had assembled—Mrs. Walsh in austere black dress, the housemaids and kitchen maid in their best frocks and aprons, while Duncan wore a black coat and a crisp neckcloth, his hair for once combed smooth.

  Introductions made, Mr. Foster led the way upstairs, leaving the unloading of trunks, bandboxes, and valises to the care of the lady’s maid and Pembrooke Park staff.

  Louisa asked in a loud whisper, “Those can’t be all of the servants? Not for a place this size?”

  “Yes,” Abigail answered in lower tones. “Though now you’re here, we shall have Marcel as well.”

  “But we had more servants in London, and our house there wasn’t nearly as large.”

  “Yes, well, we are making do. And you will too.”

  As they walked along the upper gallery her father said, “Abigail has selected a room for each of you, so I shall let her do the honors.”

  She hoped they would approve her choices. “Mamma, this is the mistress’s bedchamber, the match to Father’s room on the opposite side of the stairway. Your dressing room is through there. . . .”

  Her mother entered and gazed appreciatively around the room—the fresh flowers on the polished side table and lace-covered dressing table, the sunlight spilling through the oriel window onto the floral bed-curtains and brightly woven plush carpet. “It’s lovely, Abigail. Thank you.”

  Then Abigail briefly showed them the guest room where Miles had been staying, and explained he would return in a few days. They already knew about their guest through Abigail’s and Mr. Foster’s letters and were eager to meet him. Louisa especially.

  Then Abigail led the way into the room she’d chosen for Louisa. “I thought you would like this room, Louisa. It’s in the newer part of the house, over the drawing room, with a lovely view of the rear courtyard and ponds beyond.”

  Louisa glanced about the room and out its windows.

  “I believe it’s one of the largest bedchambers,” her father added helpfully.

  “Bigger than yours, Abby?” Louisa asked, one brow high.

  “Yes. I chose one of the older, smaller bedchambers.”

  “Why?”

  “I like it. It was clearly the former daughter’s room, and still contains her old books and dolls’ house. Come, I’ll show you.”

  She led the way back through the central gallery to her own room. She certainly hoped Louisa wouldn’t ask to switch. For she definitely saw it as her room now.

  As they entered, Mrs. Foster enthused, “Look at this baby house! It’s lovely and very like Pembrooke Park, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Abigail agreed. She eyed her sister surreptitiously as she surveyed the small four-poster bed and girlish furnishings and draperies.

  If she expected any thanks for selecting this room and giving Louisa the far larger and brighter one, she would have been disappointed. Louisa said little, seeming to take the best room as her due. And in this instance, Abigail was only too glad of it, relieved by her sister’s vague smile and faint attempt at praising the window seat and garden view.

  “Well,” Abigail said, “shall we go down for tea? You are both no doubt tired and hungry after your journey.”

  Everyone agreed. As they went downstairs, Abigail was surprised to see William Chapman stepping out of the morning room, books in hand. Oh no. Not already . . .

  He turned and hesitated at seeing them. “Forgive the intrusion, but I realized I’d left two books behind.”

  “No intrusion at all,” Mr. Foster said with a smile. “You are just in time to be the first to meet my wife and younger daughter.” He turned to them. “My dear Mrs. Foster, may I introduce Mr. William Chapman, our curate.”

  Mrs. Foster dipped her head. “How do you do, Mr. Chapman.”

  William bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Foster. I think I speak for the entire parish when I say you are very welcome here. We have all looked forward to meeting you.”

  “You are very kind. Thank you.” Mother stepped aside, revealing Louisa, who’d come down the stairs behind her. “And this is our younger daughter, Miss Louisa Foster.”

  Louisa dipped a dainty curtsy and smiled sweetly up at the man.

  Abigail held her breath, every muscle tight, and forced herself to look at William, to watch his expression like a person watching two carriages about to collide.

  His broad mouth, the lips so often quirked in irony, drooped as if dumbfounded. His eyes widened, his brows rose high. He darted a glance toward Abigail and her parents, blinked, and then faltered, “Miss . . . Louisa. How . . . good to meet you. At last.”

  Abigail’s heart sank. Her stomach twisted until she felt she
might be sick there and then.

  Louisa’s smile widened, and her eyes twinkled knowingly, on familiar territory with a stunned-speechless admirer.

  “Have we met before, Mr. Chapman?” she asked.

  “I . . . no. I have not had that pleasure.”

  “Ah. You look vaguely familiar, so I thought . . . but my mistake.”

  Abigail pressed her eyes closed and whispered a silent prayer for composure. And that the man would leave quickly.

  Instead her father said, “We were just about to have tea, Mr. Chapman. Would you care to join us?”

  He hesitated, clearly conflicted. “I . . . thank you, but no. I am afraid pressing parish business calls. Perhaps another time?”

  “Of course.”

  Relieved, Abigail said, “Yes, I’m sure you are very busy. Don’t let us keep you.”

  He looked at her, verses of confusion and apology passing behind his blue eyes. Though perhaps she was only imagining it, and he was simply smitten and perhaps embarrassed at his reaction. And perhaps already regretting the warm words and caresses he’d bestowed on the pretty girl’s older, plainer sister.

  Chapter 21

  How was it that with her mother and sister in residence, the house felt emptier than before? And Abigail felt lonelier as well, what with William and Miles gone, and having to share her father with two others. He kept busy showing his wife and younger daughter the grounds and village, listening to Louisa play the pianoforte and to his wife’s endless accounts of invitations received, gentlemen they’d met, balls and concerts and routs they’d attended.

  Abigail had planned to wait at least a week before checking the note she’d left behind the loose brick in the garden wall. But two days after her mother and sister’s arrival, restless and needing a reprieve from all the talk of London, she could resist no longer and walked out to take a look. She strolled, hoping to appear at her leisure, taking a turn around the grounds and not bent on any specific purpose. She told herself she was foolish to feel self-conscious, as though watchful eyes followed her movements. But even so, the hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Just the cool breeze, she told herself. No one knows or cares what I’m doing.

  She rounded the potting shed, feigning interest in a blooming vine. She ought to have brought a basket and shears to aid her ruse. Next time she would. She looked at the pallets and planks and bricks, but all seemed as she had left it. She checked behind the loose brick. Her letter was still there. Giving up, she returned to the house, steeling herself for more Mozart and more tales of Louisa’s conquests.

  Abigail went back out to the garden the next day, and the next, but her letter remained. Miles returned and was at his charming best, flattering both Louisa and their mother in equal turns, and easily winning their affections. Even now the three of them were ensconced in Mamma’s bedchamber, rehashing the season, and laughing together over some of the dreadful new fashions in the new edition of The Lady’s Monthly Museum Miles had given them.

  Dressed in spencer, bonnet, and gloves, Abigail decided to head out for a walk alone. But as she strolled along the drive, she saw Gilbert Scott crossing the bridge on foot.

  Heart lifting, she raised a hand in greeting. “Gilbert!”

  “Abby!” He returned her wave with a smile and hurried through the gate and across the drive to join her.

  She said, “I didn’t know you had returned.”

  “I’ve come down for a few days to oversee the construction at Hunts Hall. The workmen will begin digging the foundation the day after tomorrow. My design, my drawings, and I get to see them implemented right before my eyes. This won’t be like in school, winning awards for conceptual drawings. Something I designed will actually be built and stand forever. Or at least, for many years—if I’ve done my job right.”

  “It is very exciting. I am so happy for you, Gilbert.”

  “Isn’t this what we always talked about when we were children? Dreamed of?”

  She nodded, and their gazes caught and held in a long, fond look.

  He grasped her hand. “Come and watch us break ground, Abby. I want you to be there. Mrs. Morgan has even planned a picnic.”

  Pleasure warmed Abigail’s heart. She dipped her head to hide her flush of pleasure. “I would love to be there. But before I accept I should tell you that—”

  “Gilbert!”

  He turned his head, and Abigail followed suit. There in the open window of her mother’s bedchamber stood Louisa, waving vigorously, her wide smile evident even from a distance.

  “. . . that Louisa is here,” Abigail finished with a lame little laugh. Did he know? Is that why he’d come?

  “So I see,” Gilbert murmured, his expression difficult to discern. If he was delighted, he hid it well. “I didn’t realize she and your mother were coming so soon. I thought they intended to remain in London through the end of the month.”

  “So did we. Apparently their plans changed. Or Aunt Bess grew tiresome.”

  “Ah.” He nodded his understanding, having met their aunt on a few occasions.

  Abigail said gently, “So I will understand perfectly if you wish to invite Louisa instead. I won’t mind.”

  He grimaced. “You know Louisa has never shown any interest in architecture.”

  Did he sincerely prefer her company—in this instance, at least—or was he simply too polite to retract his invitation?

  “True,” Abigail allowed. “But she has shown interest in a certain architect.”

  He ducked his head, chuckling awkwardly. “Touché.”

  Louisa bounded out through the front door, and they both turned toward her. Abigail said to him in a private aside, “Shall I leave you?”

  “No, stay. Please.”

  Louisa reached them, smile still in place. “Good day to you, Mr. Scott,” she said, in mock formality. “What a happy coincidence to see you here.” Her eyes twinkled gaily, as though he’d paid her a great compliment, or as though there was a secret between them.

  Abigail hoped Gilbert hadn’t prevaricated when he’d feigned surprise in discovering Louisa in residence.

  “No coincidence about it,” he said. “My firm is handling a project nearby. I am here to oversee the work.”

  “All the way out here?” Her eyebrows rose, and a playful grin lit her face. “What are you building—a hen house? A stable?”

  “Very funny. No, a new wing to an ancestral home by the name of Hunts Hall.”

  “Hunts Hall?” Louisa echoed, her teasing smile fading. “I have heard of it. . . .”

  “Yes, I imagine you have,” Gilbert said dryly. “It’s where Andrew Morgan and his family live.”

  Abigail felt compelled to add, “Gilbert has just invited me to watch the workmen break ground. But if you would like to join us . . .”

  “I’m sure Louisa won’t wish to miss an opportunity to see Andrew Morgan. And the home to which he will someday be heir.”

  Louisa lifted her chin. “You are quite wrong. I have no interest in seeing the place or the man.” She effected a casual smile and added, “But you two go ahead.”

  Leah Chapman came through the gate on her way toward the church, a basket of flowers in her hands. Abigail waved her over and introduced her.

  Louisa warmly thanked Miss Chapman for the welcome gifts she had sent over for her and Mamma, while Leah brushed off her praise and shifted credit to her mother. When she excused herself to continue on to the church with flowers for the altar, Louisa asked if she might accompany her. She probably hoped for a chance to see William Chapman again, Abigail realized, feeling queasy at the thought.

  When the two had walked off together, Abigail returned her attention to Gilbert. “Can you stay and visit?” she asked. “My parents will wish to see you.”

  “And I them. I would say that’s why I’m here, but the truth is, I came to see you.”

  Abigail gave him a searching look. Was this more of his Italy-inspired flattery, or was he sincere?

  His eyes held
hers earnestly. “Abby, look. I did call on Louisa once or twice when I first returned to London. She’s a beautiful girl—I don’t deny it. But beyond that, she is . . . Well, she is not you, Abby. You are beautiful inside and out. Louisa is young and doesn’t know who she is or what she wants. I had already decided not to call on her again before I saw you at Hunts Hall. And now that I have seen you again, I know that I was right not to.”

  Abigail felt her heart warm, and her stomach tingled as if she’d swallowed a caterpillar. Her practical mind whispered, But what about Louisa? And what about William Chapman? How torn she might have felt had she not seen the look on Mr. Chapman’s face when he laid eyes on her beautiful sister.

  Later that evening, Leah Chapman sought out Abigail’s company, asking her to take a turn with her and talk. It was a lovely, mild summer evening. Frogs chirped along the riverbank and a dove called in the distance. The smell of roses perfumed the warm air. They walked across the bridge and down the tree-lined lane, arm in arm.

  Leah began, “So tell me, Miss Foster. Gilbert Scott—is there something between you? I saw you dance together at the ball, and now he’s back. I saw how he looks at you.”

  Abigail waved away the thought as though it were a hovering bee, afraid to let it land and sting her. “He’s here to build on to Hunts Hall, not merely to see me. Gilbert and I are old friends. We grew up next door to each another.”

  “Only friends?”

  Rare irritation prickled through Abigail. “Forgive me, Miss Chapman. But I am surprised you wish me to share all of my history with you when you have shared so little with me. You have been secretive about Duncan and your past and your fears and almost everything, and yet you expect me to share my most personal stories in embarrassing detail?”

  “You’re right, Miss Foster. Please forgive me.” Miss Chapman turned away, but Abigail caught her arm.

  “Don’t go. I only meant . . . if I am going to divulge all my secrets, could you not tell me just one of yours?” Abigail grinned, hoping to lighten the moment.

  “My secrets are mine, yes, but they affect my entire family. My father would be upset if he knew I’d been talking about the past.”