The Secret of Pembrooke Park(18)

“Not all of them. But the house does make strange sounds at night. Probably round the clock, but I only hear them at night.” Abigail forced a little chuckle. “I don’t suppose you would come and spend the nights with me until my father returns?”

“I’m afraid that would be quite impossible,” Leah said, lips tight.

“I was only joking,” Abigail defended. “Or mostly joking.” Again she forced a little chuckle, taken aback by the woman’s adamant refusal. It was on the tip of Abigail’s tongue to tell Miss Chapman about the letter she’d received, apparently confirming at least one of the rumors—about someone dying there—but seeing the woman’s wary expression, Abigail decided to keep it to herself.

Abigail bid Miss Chapman farewell at the door of Mrs. DeWitt’s cottage, and returned to Pembrooke Park alone. As she approached, she was surprised to see a man disappear around the side of the house. Her heart gave a little lurch. Torn between locking herself inside the manor and seeing who it was, she crept to the corner of the house and peered around it. There, where a chimney stack jutted from the wall, a man stood, staring up at the windows, hands behind his back. Was this one of the treasure hunters?

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

The man turned, and she was both relieved and disappointed to recognize William Chapman.

He glanced over at her sheepishly. “Ah . . . Miss Foster. Good day.”

Was he embarrassed to have been caught snooping, or guilty of worse? Surely he was not one of the treasure hunters, looking for a way to sneak inside without being seen?

“Are you looking for something?” She glanced up in the direction he’d been staring.

He shrugged. “Just wondering which room they’d put you in.”

She looked at him askance. “And why should you want to know that?”

Had he been hoping for a glimpse of her through her bedchamber window—and him a clergyman . . . ?

“Only curious.”

She said, “Father insisted I choose whichever room I liked for myself.”

“And which did you choose?”

“I hardly think it would mean anything to you even if I told you. Unless . . . are you more familiar with the house than you let on?”

“I haven’t been inside since I was a boy.”

She decided to come right out with her suspicion. “Coming upon you just now, I confess I thought you might be one of the treasure hunters your father warned me about, looking for a way to break in.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “Are you serious?” He gave a little bark of laughter. “I assure you, Miss Foster. Had I wanted to get inside Pembrooke Park, I could have done so at any time.”

“Because your father has the key, do you mean?”

“No, that is not what I mean.”

She waited for him to explain, but instead he ran a hand over his jaw and said, “I promise you, Miss Foster, I shall not break in to Pembrooke Park. But . . . if you are willing to give me a tour sometime, I would like to see the old place again. See what all the fuss is about.”

“Would your father approve?”

“Not likely. But I can’t see any harm in it.”

She hesitated. “Very well.”

“Thank you. I can’t now,” he said. “I’m off to read the newspaper to Mr. Sinclair. But perhaps tomorrow?”

“If you like,” Abigail agreed, wondering if she ought to have put him off until her father returned. And propriety was not what most worried her.





Chapter 6


The next afternoon, Duncan found Abigail in the library and announced that she had callers. “Will Chapman and his sister,” he said, a slight curl to his lip.

She rose. “Oh yes, he mentioned wanting to see the house. Though I am surprised Miss Chapman came along.”

“It’s not Miss Leah. It’s the younger girl.”

“I see.” She supposed Mr. Chapman brought his sister along as a chaperone of sorts and wondered if he was concerned about propriety more for her sake or his. “Will you let them know I shall be there in just a few minutes? I need to get this letter in today’s post.”

He stiffened, then said, “Very well, miss.”

“Where have you put them?” Abigail asked, dipping her quill.

“I left them in the hall. Only a curate, isn’t he? Not so high and mighty, whatever he or his father might think.”

Abigail was taken aback by the servant’s bitter words, but he had already turned on his heel and left the room before she could fashion a suitable reply. She quickly finished her letter, put it with the rest of the day’s outgoing post, and hurried into the hall.

Mr. Chapman and Duncan stood talking in terse tones, while Kitty sat on the sofa beside the door several feet away, idly flipping through a magazine. As Abigail neared, Duncan turned and stalked toward the back stairs, avoiding her gaze as he passed.

She looked at William Chapman, her brows raised in question. “Is . . . anything the matter?”

He pulled a regretful face and stepped nearer to speak to her out of earshot of his sister. “Not really. Duncan isn’t fond of me and did not enjoy having to wait on me like a servant.”

“But he is a servant.”