The Secret of Pembrooke Park(13)

He set down the box and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “We haven’t been formally introduced. If you will allow the liberty, I shall introduce myself.” He tucked away the cloth and bowed before her. “William Chapman. And you, I believe, are Miss Foster.”

“Yes. How do you do,” she said, and dipped the barest curtsy, not sure whether a land agent’s son would expect such a courtesy or think it out of place.

At the sound of footsteps, Abigail turned. A woman entered the church behind them, head bowed over a box in her arms. “I’ve found more tapers,” she called, glancing up. She drew up short at the sight of Abigail.

It was the woman Abigail had seen with the young girl the day she and her father first arrived. Seeing her more closely now, Abigail guessed the woman was in her mid to late twenties. Her pretty brown eyes and golden-brown hair well compensated for her plain day dress and unadorned bonnet. Was this the man’s wife?

“It’s all right, Leah,” William Chapman said. “This is our new neighbor. She and her family come from London. Distant relations to the Pembrooke family. Very distant.”

“Yes, Papa told me. Miss Foster, I believe?”

“Forgive me,” Mr. Chapman said, turning to her. “Miss Foster, may I present Miss Leah Chapman, my sister.”

Sister . . . She would not have guessed. “How do you do.”

Mr. Chapman added, “My sister is a great help to me.”

“In your . . . work, do you mean?” Abigail asked.

“Yes.”

“Your father mentioned the parson is a good man.”

“Did he?”

Leah smiled. “Father is biased. But in this instance, he is perfectly right.”

William grinned at his sister. “Not that you’re an impartial judge or anything.”

Abigail felt left out of a private joke but said, “Then I shall look forward to meeting him.”

They both turned to stare at her.

“But . . . you already have,” Miss Chapman said, a little wrinkle between her brows. “My brother here is our curate. Recently ordained and our parson for all intents and purposes.”

“Oh . . .” Abigail breathed, taken aback. She knew that curates occupied the lowest rung of the church hierarchy—assistant clergymen without a living of their own.

“Perhaps you refer to Mr. Morris, our rector,” William added kindly. “He does visit from time to time.”

“Not often enough,” Leah said with a sniff. “He leaves far too much on your shoulders, William. And pays you far too little.”

Abigail felt her cheeks heat. “I am sorry. I didn’t realize. I mistook you for a . . .”

His eyes twinkled. “A manservant? Groundskeeper? Churchwarden? Yes, I answer to all of the above. No offense taken, Miss Foster. We are a small parish. I do whatever needs doing.”

Leah said, “You do too much, if you ask me.”

“Well, thankfully, I have you to help me. I dread the day you up and marry and leave me to my own devices.”

Leah’s eyes dulled, and she darted a glance at Abigail. “Small chance of that, you know.”

“I know no such thing.”

Uncomfortable, Abigail said, “I was rather surprised to find the church in use and left unlocked, when . . .”

“When we guard the manor so closely?” Mr. Chapman gamely supplied. “Papa is only adamant about keeping people out of the house. The house of God is open to one and all. I hope you will join us on Sunday?”

Abigail smiled but said noncommittally, “Perhaps.”



The next night, Abigail left the inn and slept for the first time at Pembrooke Park. Her room was cleaned and ready, as were the kitchen and servants’ bedchambers. Her father’s room had been aired and was to be cleaned next—though there was little hurry, since he had been summoned back to Town to review some final details for the sale of the house and sign over the deed. He said he was comfortable leaving her, now that she had a maid and the other servants to attend her. Abigail had swallowed her disappointment, telling herself she should be proud her father had regained some of his confidence in her.

Polly came up to help her undress. Afterward, she thanked the young woman and bid her good-night. Abigail certainly hoped it would be good. She always had difficulty sleeping in a strange place. After she blew out her bedside candle, she lay awake for what seemed like hours, hearing every groan of wind through the windows, and every creak the old house made. Even after she fell asleep, she awoke often, not sure what had disturbed her and forgetting where she was. She reminded herself she was not alone in the house. There was no need to be frightened—the servants were there.

Why did that thought bring little comfort?

She was about to drift off again when she heard something. A whirring rise and fall, like a warbling brook or garbled, distant voices. Mrs. Walsh and Duncan had rooms belowstairs. Their voices wouldn’t carry all the way from there. Though voices might carry from the attic above. Perhaps her room was under the sisters’ room and she was hearing their conversation. Abigail could not identify any particular voice, or even its gender. In fact she wasn’t certain it was a voice at all. It could be a trick of the wind, winnowing through the chimneys.

As Abigail listened, she suddenly heard a ghostly moan, “All alone. All alonnnnne . . .”