The Secret of Pembrooke Park(11)
Whatever his reasons, Abigail did not choose either of the largest rooms—the master’s and mistress’s bedchambers in the past, she guessed. Nor did she pick the newest—the one in the later addition over the drawing room with its big sunny windows and lofty half tester bed.
Instead, she picked the modest-sized room with the dolls’ house. She was drawn to the little window seat overlooking a walled garden and pond with the river beyond. She was drawn to the cherished dolls’ house and the small blue frock hanging on its peg. She was drawn to the secrets she sensed in this room and wanted them for herself.
She personally helped clean the chamber, assisting the maids in taking down the draperies and bed-curtains to wash, and removing the carpets for cleaning. Polly scrubbed down the walls, mopped the floors, and washed the windows. But Abigail herself dusted the books and toys and every tiny piece of furniture in the dolls’ house, returning each precisely where she’d found it. She didn’t know why, exactly. It would be far more practical to box up all the playthings, far easier to clean without them than around them. Mr. Arbeau had asked them not to dispose of anything, but she could have asked Duncan to haul it up to the attic storeroom. She did not.
The dolls’ house—or “baby house,” as she’d sometimes heard them called—was impressive indeed. The structure stood atop a cabinet to raise it from the floor. The exterior of the house had been built as a scale model of Pembrooke Park itself, with paned-glass windows and tiny shingles. The three-story interior, with a central staircase hall complete with oak rails and balustrades, had been somewhat simplified, she realized, so that all of the major rooms were accessible from its open back.
The rooms themselves were fashioned with intricate details, like moulded cornices, paneled doors, and real wallpaper. Bedchambers were furnished with mantelpieces, four-poster beds, and washstands with basins and pitchers no bigger than thimbles. In the dining room, a crystal chandelier hung over a table set with farthing-size porcelain plates and tiny glass goblets. The drawing room held small woven baskets, a silver tea set, and miniature books with real pages. The kitchen—shown on the same level as the dining room, though in reality belowstairs—contained a miniature meat jack, a hearth with spit, tiny copper kettles, and jelly moulds.
To buy all these miniatures or have them created by craftsmen would have made for an extremely expensive hobby. Abigail guessed this dolls’ house had at first been some wealthy woman’s pastime, before it had become a child’s plaything.
Abigail pulled out the drawer of the cabinet and found a family of dolls with porcelain faces and soft bodies dressed in costumes of decades past: mother, father, and two sons. At least she assumed they were boys from their attire, though one body was missing its head. She wondered where the daughters were.
While dusting the small dining room, she admired the miniature silver serving platter on the table, complete with a domed lid. Curious, she reached in and lifted the lid. There on the platter was the severed head of the second boy doll, with dark embroidery-floss hair and stuffing stringing out from its neck.
Abigail shivered. The work of some nasty little boy, she told herself. How he must have vexed his sister, whoever she was, with his destructive mischief. Abigail put the head in the drawer with its body, determined to repair it someday when she had time. But at the moment, it was time to get back to work.
Chapter 4
On her third day working in the manor, Abigail helped herself to a cup of tea and stepped out onto the small front porch for a respite. It was a fine spring morning, and she drew in a deep breath of fresh air. She looked forward to exploring the gardens and grounds soon, but the house came first. The work was going well, she judged. Mrs. Walsh was an even-tempered, no-nonsense leader who ruled with a gentle hand and an encouraging reprimand. “Now, girls, I know ya can do better than that. . . .”
She cheerfully met with Abigail regularly in her parlor to discuss progress, plans, and purchases. She had made it clear early on, however, that the kitchen was her domain and she would not appreciate the lady of the house interrupting her work there. So Abigail did not often see the kitchen maid, Jemima.
She saw a great deal, however, of Polly and Molly. Especially Polly, the elder sister, who had volunteered to serve as Abigail’s personal maid—helping her dress and so on—along with her other duties as upper housemaid. Both were pleasant, hardworking girls, daughters of a local farmer, who found even heavy housework far lighter than the chores they were accustomed to on their father’s farm.
Duncan worked hard those first few days as well, even offering to help the maids carry cans of water and other heavy loads. Now and again Abigail saw him glance at Polly to see if she noticed his efforts. Abigail hoped she would not have a staff romance on her hands—though Polly, nearly ten years younger than Duncan, did not exhibit anything but friendly politeness in return, so perhaps all would be well.
Abigail had quickly discovered, despite the friendliness of the staff, that all were tight-lipped about the past and the former residents. When she’d asked Mrs. Walsh about the Pembrookes, the woman shook her head, eyes wary. “No, miss. We’re not to talk about that.”
“Why not?”
“No good can come of it, Mac says. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous? How?”
But she only shook her head once more, lips cinched as tight as a drawstring reticule.