The Secret of Pembrooke Park(12)

When Abigail asked Polly what she knew about the former residents, the young woman had shrugged. “Not a thing, miss. I was only a babe when they left, wasn’t I?”

“But surely you’ve heard rumors.”

“Aye, miss. But rumors is all it is. I don’t want to lose my place for gossipin’, do I?”

Clearly Mac had laid down the law when he’d hired the servants.

So Abigail set aside her questions for the time being and lost herself in sorting, cleaning, and organizing, as well as writing up lists of needed repairs and orders for the larder and supply cupboards.

Standing there now on the front stoop, sipping her tea, Abigail found her gaze drawn across the courtyard to the church within the estate’s walled grounds.

Mac passed by in a long Carrick coat, leather breeches, and knee-high boots, his dog at his heels. He wore a greenish-brown Harris-tweed cap in honor, she’d heard, of his Scottish mother. The strap of a game bag crossed his chest, and he carried a veterinary case in one hand and a fowling piece in the other.

She had learned Mac Chapman was not only the former steward and protector of Pembrooke Park. He also served as land agent for Hunts Hall, an estate owned by a family of gentry on the other side of Easton.

Seeing her standing in the doorway, he tipped his hat to her. “Miss.”

“Good morning, Mac. What are you about today?”

“Oh, off to try a new remedy on an ailing cow, and to check a new drainage ditch while I’m out there.”

“And the gun?”

“In case my doctorin’ fails.”

She looked up in alarm.

“Only teasing you, lass,” he said. “Often carry a gun when I walk about on my duties. Never know when a wild dog or mangy badger might decide to harass me or the livestock.”

“Or a trespasser?” she suggested wryly.

He frowned. “That’s no joking matter, lass. As you may discover for yourself.”

She changed the subject. “May I ask about the church, Mac? Has it been locked up like the house?”

He paused to follow the direction of her gaze. “Not at all. It’s the parish church, along with the church in Caldwell, and the chapel of ease in Ham Green. Services every Sunday and on feast days.”

“May I peek inside?”

“Aye. It’s always open. The parson’s a good man, if I do say so myself.” His mouth quirked in a grin. How different he appeared now compared to the fierce stranger who’d given them such an inhospitable welcome not long ago.

Later, while the servants ate a light midday meal, Abigail walked across the gravel drive toward the churchyard. Stepping onto the spongy grass verge, she passed through the opening in the low wall. She glanced around the well-kept graveyard and then looked up at the narrow church itself. The front door was sheltered by a hooded porch—a later addition to the original building, she guessed. Above was an arched window, and a square bell cote topped by a crocketed spire. She stepped into the porch, pushed open the old wooden door, and entered the cool interior.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light—dim compared to the sunny day, yet surprisingly well lit from a large window on either end. Her mind quickly identified a fifteenth-century stone screen dividing chapel and long narrow nave. Paneled walls and wagon roof. Box pews, communion rail, and canopied pulpit—all of oak. Even Gilbert would have approved.

In the central aisle, a ladder stood empty beneath a high brass chandelier. She wondered where the workman was.

She stepped nearer the back wall to study a series of old paintings.

As she stood there in the shadows, a man entered from the vestry in plain waistcoat and rolled up shirtsleeves, a box under his arm. He climbed the ladder and began removing the spent tapers. Humming to himself while he worked, he’d obviously not noticed her there.

Not wishing to startle him, she cleared her throat and softly greeted, “Good afternoon.”

He looked in her direction. “Oh! Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

It was the younger man she’d seen with Mac—his grown son, she assumed, though they’d not been introduced.

She walked slowly up the aisle. “If you are ever looking for more work,” she said, “we’ve no end of it at Pembrooke Park.”

He chuckled and readjusted the box under his arm. “I imagine so, but as you can see, I have my hands full here.”

She nodded. “Keeping the church in good repair the way your father does the house?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

“I am surprised your father did not hire you officially.”

He grinned and said fondly, “He is accustomed to assigning me chores without having to pay me. Family privilege and all that.” He pulled out another stub and tossed it in the box.

Watching him struggle to balance ladder, box, and tapers, she said, “That high chandelier doesn’t strike me as terribly practical.”

He glanced down at her, then returned his focus to his task. “I suppose it isn’t. Wall sconces would be easier to refill and maintain. But I like this impractical thing. I think it’s beautiful. An endowment from the lady of the manor long ago.”

He descended the ladder and nodded toward the paintings she’d been studying. “That’s Catherine of Alexandria, the Martyr. Many paintings of saints were destroyed after the Reformation. But the artwork in our little church here was spared.”