The Secret of Pembrooke Park(17)

Abigail blinked. “Very well, Polly.”

The housemaid stepped to the closet. “My mouth will be the death of me yet, and you don’t want me hauntin’ the place, flapping my ghostly lips all night. Now, let’s get you dressed. . . .”

When Abigail left her bedchamber a short while later, she paused at the door of the room that would be Louisa’s. The door was closed, as it had been the day before. She opened the latch and inched it open, the mounting creak familiar. Is that what she’d heard last night?

At first glance the room seemed undisturbed. But then, in the morning light slanting through the unshuttered windows, she saw something. She frowned and bent to look closer. Yes, unmistakable. Footprints in the dust, all the way to the wardrobe. She had not even bothered to look inside yet, but someone had. The footprints appeared notably larger than her small shoes. So probably not one of the housemaids checking the windows.

Might it have been their manservant, Duncan? She didn’t like the idea of a man roaming about a lady’s bedchamber at night. Though she supposed he might have checked the windows as a favor to Polly, whom he seemed eager to help. But what business had he opening a wardrobe in an unoccupied room at night?

Later that day, Polly surprised her by handing her a letter—the first to be delivered directly to the house. The letter was addressed to her, in care of Pembrooke Park. Abigail did not recognize the handwriting, nor the crest pressed into its wax seal. It bore a Bristol postmark, but she could not think of any acquaintance who lived there. She peeled away the seal and unfolded the outer page, revealing a second page within. Costly indeed.

The outer page bore only a single line: I think you are the very person to read this. . . .

The page within was of a smaller size. One edge was ragged, as though torn from a notebook.

When first I arrived at Pembrooke Park, I was chilled by the tomblike silence of the place, the unnatural stillness. I shall never forget the tea service, spread atop the cloth-covered table, as though the occupants had merely risen to look out the window at the arrival of an unexpected carriage but had been yanked from the house then and there, never to return. The tea was now a filmy residue at the bottom of bone china. The scones hard and dry. The milk soured. The kettle and cups abandoned in haste, like the house itself.

I asked the housekeeper why she had not cleaned the place, and she said she’d been told to leave everything as it was. I wondered if she meant, so the constable could search the house for evidence. After all, someone died there only a fortnight before—an accident, I’d been told. But it was clear she didn’t believe that for a minute.

Abigail sucked in a breath—stunned by the words, the similarities to her own experience upon entering Pembrooke Park for the first time. No one had died there recently, as far as she knew. Though Polly had said a valet died there twenty years ago. She read it again. The timing seemed different—the writer describing entering the house abandoned for weeks, not years—yet eerily similar all the same.

Was it a page of an old journal, torn out and mailed to her? Or a recent work of fiction? Who had written it, and why?



The next day, Abigail saw Leah Chapman walking across the bridge and hurried to catch up with her.

“May I walk with you, Miss Chapman?”

The woman stiffened, then recovered, saying politely, “If you like.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Taking a basket to Mrs. DeWitt, who is ailing again.”

“Thank you for the basket you sent over for me,” Abigail said. “I wish you had delivered it yourself. I would have asked you in for tea and shared those delicious muffins with you.”

“My mother makes them. They are very good, yes,” Miss Chapman replied, ignoring the implied invitation.

Abigail added, “I’m sure Mrs. DeWitt will enjoy them as well.”

“Oh, for her there is broth and syllabub. Poor dear hasn’t many teeth.”

“I see. How thoughtful.”

Leah shrugged. “It isn’t much. William is the thoughtful one. He visits her every week.”

“Has he lived in the parsonage long?”

She shook her head. “Only since he was ordained. Our rector, Mr. Morris has the living. But he resides in a much larger and newer house in Newbury.”

“So far?”

She nodded. “One of the reasons he doesn’t come here very often. William conducts most of the services, calls on the sick. When he returned after his ordination, Mr. Morris offered him the use of the parsonage. Likely eases the man’s conscience for paying him so poorly. And he knows William will keep the place in better repair than if it remained empty.”

“Yes. I can well imagine.”

Leah slanted her an empathetic look. “Is the manor in very bad condition?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

“No, thank you.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Oh?” The woman’s caramel-colored eyes widened. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve heard the rumors.”

Leah stopped and looked at her askance. “What rumors?”

“Take your pick: that someone was killed there, that the house is haunted—not to mention the threat of treasure hunters and thieves . . .”

“Ah, those rumors.” Leah nodded and walked on. “And do you believe them?”