The Secret of Pembrooke Park(149)

Louisa, I think, has learnt the error of her flirtatious ways—praise be to God. She was disappointed that Andrew Morgan married Leah, and that Gilbert has not renewed his addresses. She’s had no offers—well, no offers of marriage from honorable gentlemen, that is, though all sorts of other offers abound. Realizing this, she has become more circumspect in her behavior—quieter and more modest. And I think it suits her well. She is still quite the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance, and now, day by day, her heart begins to match her outward appearance. Blessed will be the man who wins that heart at last.

And Harriet Pembrooke Webb? My breath still catches a little when I think of her and all she has lost. Her parents. Her elder brother. And more recently, her younger brother—her last remaining relative . . . Or so she thought.

I received one last letter from her shortly before I moved back to Easton as William’s wife.

Dear Abigail,

Thank you for your recent letter and your continuing condolences regarding Miles. That you remember him fondly means more to me than you know. I still grieve my brother—all my family, really—even as I rejoice over the wondrous fact that my secret friend is back in my life. And more wonderful yet, that she is, indeed, more than a friend—my own first cousin. Have I not long wished that Pembrooke Park had a deserving heir? And I cannot conceive of a more deserving heir than Eleanor.

It gave me great satisfaction to relinquish my role as executor, and hand the reins of stewardship to Robert Pembrooke’s daughter. I find solace in the knowledge that I have made some sort of restitution for the sins of my father. Despite the fact that you and the Reverend Mr. William Chapman have assured me I need not do so.

“Christ has made the ultimate restitution beyond what you or I or any person could do,” he often reminds me.

I humbly agree, and I thank God for it every day. But now that Pembrooke Park is in Eleanor’s hands, I sleep better every night.

I have sold my London house and taken a place in Caldwell. Many is the afternoon my cousin and I meet in the sunny spot between the potting shed and walled garden. We have carried away the old rubbish, trimmed the grass, and placed a small wrought-iron table and chairs there, graced by that same colorful glass jar, filled with a fresh bouquet of flowers every week or so.

Now and again, if one of us can’t make it, we leave each other notes in the old hiding place behind the loose brick, rearranging the time, or simply letting the other know we were thinking of her.

And so you see, our private, mismatched friendship continues. We meet nearly every week when the weather is fine. We take tea, talk about our homes and families, the books we are reading. We no longer need to escape into a world of make-believe. But even so, how pleasant to escape for an hour or two into the company of a treasured friend.

When we are in that secret place, we sometimes slip and call each other by our old nicknames, Lizzie and Jane.

Once you have taken up residence here, you must join us sometime, Abigail. No one else would we invite into our special place. But you, dear girl, are always welcome, for it is thanks to you that we have found each other again. For that, you have my eternal gratitude and affectionate friendship. And I know I speak for, em, Lizzie as well.

I look forward to joining them there soon.

Ah, the weary wonder of this life. Of faith. And family. And friends. The truest treasures we can ever know or possess.





Author’s Note


Pembrooke Park is a fictional estate inspired by Great Chalfield Manor in Wiltshire, England, a fifteenth-century country house surrounded by extensive gardens and a moat. For many months, I kept photos of the manor and the adjacent church on my bulletin board and grew quite attached to the place. My friend Sara and I had the pleasure of visiting Great Chalfield in person while this book was being edited, and how lovely it is, with its great hall, oriel windows, and topiary houses. We met several gracious, helpful people there and enjoyed a history-rich tour of the manor, which is often used as a film location. The exterior and grounds were much as I’d imagined them, though the interior is quite a bit different than my depiction of Pembrooke Park.

Sara and I also attended an Evensong service at the Church of All Saints there, where the Reverend Andrew Evans delivered a beautiful sermon that touched us both. (Though it was perhaps a shade longer than those William Chapman delivered.) If you have the opportunity to travel to England, I hope you will visit Great Chalfield Manor. In the meantime, stop by my website or the National Trust site to see photos of this historical manor and church.

The Secret of Pembrooke Park is my longest book to date, written in less time than usual. I would not have been able to accomplish this without help from several people: Authors Susan May Warren and Michelle Lim, who helped me brainstorm and plot the book during a weekend retreat with our local chapter of American Christian Fiction Writers.

My husband and sons, who had to make do—and frozen pizza and taco runs—while I was racing toward deadlines.

My sister-friend and first reader, Cari Weber, who provided valuable feedback and a listening ear.

Fellow author Michelle Griep, who provided laser-sharp and encouraging feedback as well.

Amy Boucher Pye—London vicar’s wife, editor, author, and speaker—who read the book to help me avoid errors in describing Church of England services as well as other British gaffes. And her husband, the Reverend Nicholas Pye, who answered her questions as needed. Any remaining errors are mine.