The Secret of Pembrooke Park(10)
As they took their leave of him, Mac cautioned Abigail, “Now you’ve taken the place, yer sure to hear gossip. Pay it no mind.”
“Gossip?” she asked. “About the supposed treasure, you mean?”
“Aye.” His green eyes glinted. “And other rumors far worse.”
Chapter 3
They returned home, told Mamma and Louisa all about their new lodgings, and accepted the highest offer on their London house. The buyer, having recently returned from the West Indies, desired to take possession immediately, so Abigail launched herself into preparations to vacate the premises.
Some of the art was to be sold separately, and a few special pieces of china and linen taken with them, but the rest would remain with the house. Abigail oversaw the packing of trunks but left the negotiations with the art dealer to her father.
She felt nostalgic as she packed things from the bedchamber she had occupied for most of her life. How strange to leave the furniture and bedclothes for someone new to sleep in. She hoped he or she would appreciate them. She packed away her own clothes, sorting between those she would take in her valise for immediate use and those she would pack away in her trunk to be sent down later. She packed her favorite books—books of house plans, landscaping essays by Capability Brown, and a few novels.
Because the new owner was willing to retain the household staff, the Fosters decided they would take only the lady’s maid, Marcel, though she would remain behind in London with Mamma and Louisa for the time being. Her father’s valet refused to leave London and requested a character reference to use in seeking another situation.
The horses were sold, as well as the town coach. They would hire a post chaise for travel.
A fortnight later, everything was settled, allowing Abigail and her father to return to Pembrooke Park. Meanwhile, Mrs. Foster and Louisa removed to Aunt Bess’s home, planning to join them in Berkshire after the season.
The night before they left, Abigail finished packing her remaining personal belongings, checking to be sure she had everything she would need for a week or so in her hand luggage—nightclothes, a clean shift, toiletries, the novel she was currently reading. She went through her desk drawer, looking for a drawing pad and pencils to take along. She spied a tube of paper and unrolled it, her heart aching as she recognized the house plans she and Gilbert had drawn up long ago. After much discussion and many revisions, here was their ideal house.
Perhaps it had only been a game to him. An exercise. But for her it had been very real. She had imagined living in those rooms. Filling those bedchambers with their children. Eating their meals together in that dining room with its bow window overlooking a landscaped garden through which she and Gilbert would stroll arm in arm. . . .
She blinked away the foolish images and the tears that accompanied them. They had been adolescents. He probably didn’t even remember drawing these plans with her and would likely be chagrined to know she had kept them. She was tempted to tear them up, or burn them, but in the end, she couldn’t bear to do so. Although it was not very practical to go to the trouble of transporting them to their new home, she rolled the plans carefully and laid them in her trunk—keeping alive a dream probably better relinquished once and for all.
On the appointed day, Abigail and her father traveled by post chaise back to Pembrooke Park. A line of newly hired servants stood shoulder to shoulder at the entrance awaiting their arrival.
Mac Chapman was there to greet them. “Good morning, Miss Foster. Mr. Foster. May I introduce Mrs. Walsh, your new cook-housekeeper.”
The thick-waisted, kind-looking woman bowed her head respectfully. “Sir. Miss.”
“Her kitchen maid, Jemima.”
A thin girl of no more than fifteen giggled shyly, then bobbed a curtsy.
“And these are Polly and Molly. Sisters, as you may have guessed. They will be your housemaids.”
The two dipped curtsies and smiled warmly. The pair of pretty girls were perhaps eighteen and nineteen, one with dark blond hair and the other a light brown.
Abigail smiled in return.
Mac turned to the lone male among the new hires. “And this is Duncan. He’s to be your manservant, odd job man, haul and carry—whatever you need.”
The man with sandy brown hair was in his late twenties with broad shoulders and brawny arms. He certainly looked as if he could haul and carry.
He bowed perfunctorily but offered no smile as the others had done.
Her father said to the former steward, “Thank you, Mr. Chap—”
“Mac,” he reminded them.
“Mac. Well . . . Welcome, everyone.”
Abigail added, “We are glad you are here. Shall we get started?”
After consulting with Mac and Mrs. Walsh, they decided they would begin with the kitchen, scullery, servants’ hall, and sleeping quarters—so the staff could eat and sleep in the manor—and then move on to preparing bedchambers for the Fosters. Mrs. Walsh would occupy the housekeeper’s parlor and Duncan the former butler’s room belowstairs, while the young maids would sleep in bedchambers in the attic.
For several days, while her father primarily remained at the Black Swan, Abigail oversaw the servants’ work each day, returning to the inn at night. She answered the servants’ questions as they cleaned and aired the house room by room.
Abigail’s father insisted she pick whichever bedchamber she wanted for herself—her small reward for coming early and preparing the house. It was kind of him, the first kind words he’d spoken to her since the disastrous bank failure, and she treasured them—though her practical, skeptical mind told her he’d only said it to assuage his guilt for leaving her to oversee the work alone.