The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  His brows furrowed in surprise, and he looked at her in sober concern. Did he think she was asking for herself?

  Was she?

  He inhaled deeply and looked up in thought. “I would say . . . while I agree it is good to make what restitution we can, we can never pay for the sins of others, let alone our own. That has already been done. God’s Son has already paid the price for your sin, your father’s, and mine, once and for all. If you will only ask him and trust him with your life, He will redeem the past, your future, and give you peace for today.”

  Abigail’s heart ached at his words. If she longed for assurance that she was forgiven for her part in her father’s fall, how much more must Harriet Pembrooke long for forgiveness and peace?

  She looked at him in reluctant admiration. “You said that very well.”

  He shrugged. “Thank you. But remember no one is perfect. I have my own sins and mistakes to ask forgiveness for.”

  Louisa approached them with a brittle smile. “Mr. Chapman, here are your gloves. You left them on the churchyard wall during our little . . . tête-à-tête.”

  Her sister’s eyes glinted with what—flirtation, or irritation? Irritated at her, Abigail guessed, for interrupting their private talk.

  Was the time Mr. Chapman spent with Louisa one of the mistakes he regretted? Abigail wondered. Or his time spent with her?

  Since both Louisa and Leah declined to accompany her, Abigail planned to go to Hunts Hall on her own. She would have a long walk ahead of her, so she left the house early the next morning, glad the day had dawned warm and sunny. But she had barely crossed the drive when Mac Chapman clattered through the gate in his gig.

  “Leah told me you were going out to the hall this morning.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hop on, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shrugged and said, “I was going anyway.”

  Maybe so, she thought, but she knew very well he would have ridden his horse and not bothered with the gig just for himself. She was touched but knew he didn’t want her to make a fuss.

  They rode in relative silence for several minutes, and then he asked one terse question: “Miles Pembrooke back?”

  “Yes.”

  He set his jaw but said no more.

  She asked, “What do you remember about him and his siblings?”

  Mac sat silent for several moments, staring straight ahead. She’d decided he was not going to reply, when he surprised her.

  “The eldest boy, Harold, was hot-tempered and rash, like his father,” Mac began. “Though he did what he could to protect his ma—I’ll give him that. Miles was harder to judge. A real charmer, yet manipulative as well. Knew when to sulk and when to smile to get his way.” He shook his head. “’Course, he was young and his character not fully developed. Perhaps he has improved since then. Or gone bad.” He shrugged. “Wish I knew . . .”

  “And the girl?”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Harriet.” Mac chewed his lip as he considered how best to reply. “She was a quiet girl, and no doubt lonely. Difficult enough to be the daughter of the manor when all the others in the parish are daughters of farmers or shopkeepers. But folks round here took against the entire family. When Leah came home from school, I forbade her to have anything to do with the girl. You will think me harsh. But I knew very well no good could come from such a friendship, and plenty of harm.”

  Poor Harriet, Abigail thought. At least Leah had her family and a loving father.

  She thought again about Eliza, but could not bring up the delicate subject of her father’s identity with Mac. Hopefully Leah had remembered to do so.

  As they rumbled up the drive to Hunts Hall, Abigail saw Harriet Webb in the distance, strolling with a parasol across the front lawn. Seeing her arrive with Mac, Mrs. Webb turned abruptly and walked in the opposite direction. To avoid her . . . or Mac?

  When Mac had gone off with the men, Abigail sought her out alone.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Webb.”

  She inclined her head. “Miss Foster.” She hesitated. “I thought you might bring Miss Chapman along.”

  “I invited her, but she declined.”

  “Ah.”

  “She did, however, confide in me a closely held secret. She led me out to the walled garden and told me about a secret friend she used to meet there.”

  Harriet’s eyes sparked with tentative hope. “Did she indeed?”

  “I think she would consider meeting you again. But I have not suggested it. She has already chastised me for trying to play matchmaker with gentlemen, so I doubt my attempt to reunite old friends would meet with better success.”

  Harriet nodded and asked, “And the letter I gave you?”

  The sunny day suddenly seemed less fair. A ragged cloud passed over, marring the otherwise blue sky. “I read it, of course,” Abigail said. “But I hope it doesn’t mean what you seem to think it means.”

  “I hope so too.”

  Abigail looked across the roped-off building site and saw Gilbert shaking Mr. Morgan’s hand and handing him a shovel to scoop the first token of earth. She waved to him, and he beamed across the distance at her. For a moment their gazes held, and much passed between them in that long look. Past disappointments. Dreams. Apologies. Hopes for the future.

  Abigail said, “Let’s not talk about the past any longer. New beginnings are always exciting, are they not? So full of promise.”

  “If you say so.”

  On the opposite side of the site, a group of onlookers cheered politely. Then the group drifted over to the blankets and makeshift plank tables covered with fine linens, where a picnic feast awaited them.

  Harriet and Abigail remained where they were, isolated by the noise of the laborers—the clank of pickaxes, the sharp cut of shovels, and the jingling tack of mules, hauling away loads of dirt.

  She felt Mrs. Webb’s gaze on her profile and glanced over.

  Disapproval tightened the woman’s lips, and she said tartly, “That little hat of yours may look smart, but it offers very little protection from the sun. Here.” She sidestepped closer and repositioned the lacy parasol over Abigail’s head as well.

  Her brusque concern reminded Abigail of Mac’s cranky thoughtfulness and pierced her heart. Standing there shaded by Harriet’s parasol, Abigail was momentarily transported back to the idyllic moments she had shared under William Chapman’s umbrella. . . . She then recalled their more recent conversation.

  She began, “I have been thinking about what you said about marriage. How it gave you a fresh start. That people no longer judged you by what your father did, because you had a new identity.”

  “Yes . . . ?” Harriet agreed warily.

  “But you also admitted it wasn’t enough. That you are still unhappy—guilty over the past . . . and frightened for the future.”

  “What of it?”

  Abigail’s heart burned within her. She had never spoken like this to anyone but felt compelled to do so now. “You long to redeem the wrongdoings of your family. But Mr. Chapman says we can never pay for the sins of others, let alone our own. That has already been done, once and for all.”

  How Abigail wished William were there. He would have said it so much better than she could.

  “God is merciful and ready to forgive,” she continued. “He gives us a new identity in Christ. That is the real second chance you long for.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I am sorry. I am saying this very poorly, I know. And I don’t mean to give the impression I am a perfect Christian, for I am not. Far from it. But I see how unhappy you are. How much you long for peace. And that’s the one treasure I know how to find.” Steeling herself for rejection, she reached out and pressed the woman’s hand.

  Harriet Pembrooke blinked in surprise. For a moment she allowed Abigail to hold her hand, as stiff and cool as marble, and then she gently extracted it.

  “Thank you, Miss Foster,” she said flatly. “I know you mean well.
I am not one for church myself, but I do know that some things are too big for religious niceties to overcome.”

  Abigail inwardly groaned. Oh, she had made a muddle of it! “I am not talking about religion,” she insisted. “And there is nothing ‘nice’ about God’s Son dying a cruel death to pay for our sins. I am talking about forgiveness and freedom. True new life, whether you ever enter a church building or not.”

  “Again, I thank you for your concern. And now, if you will excuse me.”

  Mrs. Webb lifted the parasol and turned and walked away, disappearing into the house—not even joining the rest of the party or partaking of the picnic. Guilt swamped Abigail, and she heaved a dejected sigh.

  Andrew Morgan waved Abigail over to join them, and she obliged, though with a heavy heart. She felt terrible for spoiling the day for Harriet. She had done herself no favors either, for the few bites she nibbled were like wood shavings in her mouth, though she smiled encouragement to Gilbert whenever he looked her way.

  When the party began to break up later, Abigail was surprised to find Mrs. Webb standing beside her once again. “Will you do me a favor and give this note to Miss Chapman for me?”

  Abigail hesitated. “Whom shall I say it’s from?”

  “I sign it as Jane, but you may tell her who it’s really from—though it may mean she won’t accept my request to meet, especially if her father finds out. You are welcome to read it first and proceed as you think best.”

  With that, Harriet turned and retreated into the house once more.

  Abigail tucked the letter into her pelisse pocket to read later, just as Mac came and asked her if she was ready to head home.

  Entering the hall of Pembrooke Park a short while later, Abigail distractedly laid aside her hat and gloves and pulled out the folded, unsealed note. The outside was blank but inside it was addressed to Lizzie:

  Dear “Lizzie,”

  You may well be shocked to receive a letter from me after all these years, but I hope it is not an unhappy surprise.

  I have thought of you so often, always hoping you were well and happy. I imagined you with children of your own, perhaps even playing in our secret place. Having now visited Easton on a few recent occasions, I must say I was disquieted to discover you were still unmarried and, if I may say so, looking ill at ease and even afraid of your own shadow. Or perhaps . . . of someone else’s shadow?

  When we met as girls, you likely knew my real name and where I lived. But I wanted to thank you for overlooking it back then, when no one else would. Those hours we shared between the potting shed and garden wall were the happiest I spent in Pembrooke Park. Nay, they were the only happy memories I have of those years.

  I did not like seeing you looking troubled. Or to hear Mrs. Morgan speak to you in such a horrid manner. You have a good heart, and deserve better than that. If there is anything I can ever do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Miss Foster will know how to contact me.

  Fondly,

  “Jane”

  Abigail called on Leah after dinner and asked to speak to her alone. The two women sat outside on the garden bench in the fading sunlight. Abigail handed her the letter and waited quietly while she read it.

  Leah looked up at her with tear-bright eyes. “Please don’t tell my parents. Especially Papa. He forbade me to have anything to do with her.”

  “But certainly now, after all these years . . . What can it matter?”

  “It can. It does. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “Very well. Do you want to see her again?”

  “I’m not sure. You have talked with her, I take it? What is she like now?”

  “You spoke with her as well. The woman in the veil?”

  Leah’s brows rose. “That was her? I thought her voice was familiar.”

  “You may have met her too. I know William has. She is Mrs. Webb now, Andrew Morgan’s aunt by marriage.”

  “That’s who she was!” Leah stared off thoughtfully. “Andrew’s aunt . . . I only saw her from a distance. I told William she looked familiar at the ball, but it never crossed my mind she could be my Jane.”

  “Yes. She married Nicholas Webb when she was quite young. By then, she and her mother had begun going by her mother’s maiden name.”

  “Which explains why we never heard of a marriage with anyone of the Pembrooke family.”

  “Yes. She was eager to cut all ties to this place and to the Pembrooke name.”

  Leah’s face dimmed. “How sad. To lose all ties to one’s family. To her home. Her name . . .” Pain shone in her eyes.

  “Harriet said she was glad to take a new name. It was like a second chance at life for her. A new beginning.”

  “Born again . . .” Leah murmured. Her gaze remained distant, and her thoughts seemed very far away.

  Abigail sat quietly, not wanting to hurry Leah or pressure her. She felt comfortable in the companionable silence between them, glad their friendship seemed on better ground at last.

  Finally, Leah said, “I will meet her. But only if you will go with me.”

  Chapter 23

  Abigail’s parents invited Gilbert to Pembrooke Park for dinner to celebrate his first major building project. They decided to limit the party to family and old friends: themselves, Miles, and Gilbert. But Louisa took it upon herself to invite William Chapman to join them.

  She justified, “After all, he is our nearest neighbor and our parson and all alone in that forlorn, damaged parsonage just across the drive.”

  “Very neighborly gesture,” their father said approvingly.

  Their mother looked less convinced, perhaps concerned her pretty daughter might form an ill-advised attachment with a poor curate. Abigail had mixed feelings about him being there as well.

  At the last minute, Miles bowed out—to even their numbers, he said. Father tried to convince him to stay. “Don’t leave on that account. We don’t care about that—not at an informal family dinner.”

  Miles thanked him but said he was going to again see his sister, who was visiting the area. Abigail wondered if Harriet would tell him about their meetings, but somehow she doubted it.

  The dinner passed pleasantly, with much teasing and laughter and toasts to Gilbert’s success, and to friends old and new.

  After dinner, Mr. Foster lit his pipe and the others strolled toward the drawing room for coffee.

  Gilbert said, “Abby, I’ve been thinking about those renovation plans you showed me. May I see them again?”

  She looked at him quickly, and knew he had something else in mind. “Very well.”

  Abigail glanced over her shoulder as they walked away. Louisa barely seemed to notice their departure, but William hesitated at the door of the drawing room, watching them go with apparent resignation. Louisa linked her arm through his and led him into the room. No doubt she would soon put a smile on his melancholy face.

  Inside the library, Abigail walked over to the map table and pulled out a random drawer. Even if he really had no interest in seeing the plans, they would provide an excuse if someone looked in the open library door and saw them alone together. The act also gave her nervous hands something to do.

  Coming up behind her, he touched her arm. His voice was low and warm and somehow made her hands tremble all the more.

  “Abby, dear girl, I . . . wanted to talk to you. I—”

  “Which did you want to see?” she blurted, pulling out a set of plans without really seeing them.

  “Abby, I don’t really . . .” He hesitated beside her. “What’s this?” Gilbert picked up a drawing that had lain beneath the plans. With a start she recognized the drawing he was looking at. Her ideas for the parsonage.

  His brow furrowed. “Have you shown these to Mr. Chapman?”

  “No . . . not really. He saw me working on them, but I told him they were not for anyone else’s eyes.”

  Expression cautious, he asked slowly, “Why . . . are you drawing plans for Mr. Chapman’s parsonage?” />
  “Because the old one was damaged, of course. And you know me. I couldn’t resist the challenge.”

  He looked away as he considered, biting his lip. Then he turned to face her, and said soberly, “Do you know what I would think, if you drew a plan for my future house?”

  So apparently he had forgotten the plans they had drawn together. To conceal the hurt, she jested, “That it was amateurish, no doubt.” She self-consciously tried to tug the drawing from his grasp, but he held tight.

  “No. I would think you wished to live there with me. That you were designing those four snug bedchambers—one to share with me, perhaps, and the other three for our future children. At least, I hope you are the sort of woman who looks forward to sharing a bedroom with her husband, instead of insisting upon having a room of her own.”

  Abigail felt herself flush, and mumbled, “I don’t think he would jump to that conclusion.”

  He looked at her earnestly. “I even tried to find the house plans you and I drew up years ago, but I could not find them anywhere. I don’t know if Mamma cleaned out my things while I was gone, or if I misplaced them, or—”

  “I have them. Upstairs in my room.”

  He paused, expression brightening. “I should have known.” He dropped the drawing and grasped her hand. “I don’t want you to plan his house, Abby. I want you to share mine. I know I was a fool where you are concerned. And Louisa. A blind fool. Susan was right. But I am seeing clearly now, and what I see is the woman I want to share my life with.”

  She stared at him, her heart beating like a fluttering bird, unsure whether to nest or to fly away. “Gilbert, I . . .” Words failed her. Her mind swam, struggling to navigate foreign waters, the waves too high, the undertow strong.

  He grasped her other hand as well and squeezed both. “You must see it, Abby. Our growing up side by side as we did. Our common interests. We have always understood each another and been the best of friends. It can’t be for nothing. It must be for a reason.”

  Releasing her hands, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “I know we should wait for a while before I begin courting you—allow time to pass since my calls on Louisa. But tell me it is not too late for us. Tell me I have not spoiled things between us forever. . . .”