The Secret of Pembrooke Park(20)

“I found him that way,” Abigail explained. “I haven’t had a chance to repair it yet.”

Kitty set it aside and began experimentally opening doors and cupboards, admiring all the tiny utensils and bowls in the kitchen.

She held up a miniature woven basket. “I have one very like this. Leah made it for me for my birthday.”

“Yes, I have seen the fruits of her labors,” Abigail said. “I hear I have you to thank for the sweet-smelling soap in my welcome basket.”

Kitty shrugged. “I helped—that’s all.” She opened the door of a small wardrobe and extracted something. “Look, here’s another doll.”

Ah. The “sister” doll Abigail had wondered about had been hidden inside a miniature wardrobe. Another boy’s prank, she guessed.

For a few minutes more, Abigail watched Kitty with pleasure. But then she remembered her brother waiting alone in the corridor. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and the girl gave a distracted nod without looking up from the dolls’ house.

Abigail stepped back into the corridor and walked into the central staircase gallery. But she did not see William Chapman. Where had he wandered off to?

Across the gallery, she noticed an open door to one of the two large bedrooms—the one she’d chosen for her mother—and walked over to it. Inside, she found Mr. Chapman staring up at a portrait over the mantel.

He glanced over and noticed her there in the doorway. “I hope you don’t mind. The door was open, and you left me to my own devices for quite some time.”

Abigail did not remember the door being open but didn’t press him.

“Kitty is investigating an old dolls’ house.”

“Ah. That explains it.” He folded his hands behind his back and looked around the room. “Was this Robert Pembrooke’s room, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“My father is forever talking about Robert Pembrooke. Robert Pembrooke this. Robert Pembrooke that. He was master of the place when Pa first came to work here.”

“It might be. It’s one of two large bedchambers facing the front of the house. So yes, I imagine one of them was the master’s bedchamber. I suppose your father could tell us for certain.”

Glancing around, Abigail noticed a drawer of the dressing chest left ajar and felt suspicion nip at her.

“Here you two are,” Kitty said, stepping into the room. She followed her brother’s gaze toward the framed oil painting over the mantel—a portrait of a gentleman in formal attire. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Robert Pembrooke,” Mr. Chapman replied. “There’s another portrait of him in the church, hung there to honor him, since he and his family were its primary benefactors. Miss Foster and I were just theorizing that this might have been his bedchamber when he lived here.”

Kitty shook her head, gesturing about her. “But look at this flowery upholstery and those rose-colored drapes and bed-curtains. And that dressing table is a woman’s, to be sure. I think this must have been where the lady of the manor slept, for she would more likely keep a portrait of her husband than he—unless he was a very vain man.”

“Good point, Kitty,” William said. “This does appear a feminine chamber, now you mention it.” He looked at Abigail. “Does her portrait hang in the other large room, then?”

Abigail frowned in thought. “I don’t think so. At least, I don’t recall seeing it.”

“Let’s go look,” Kitty said, whirling toward the door and setting off down the corridor.

“Kitty!” William mildly chastised, following behind.

Abigail laughed. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

Kitty slowed when she reached the room, pushing open the door with apparent reverence. Abigail and William quietly followed her inside.

Sunlight shone through the tall oriel window, dust motes whirling in its angled rays. The second large chamber mirrored the first, with the bed, fireplace, and window in the same positions. They all looked expectantly over the mantel. There was a painting of a lady there—not a young woman, as they’d expected, but rather a matronly looking woman with wispy white hair and deep grooves framing her mouth and crossing her brow. The painting was not as large as that of Robert Pembrooke either. Odd, when everything else about the two rooms seemed symmetrical.

“That can’t be the man’s wife,” Kitty said, clearly disappointed.

“Not unless his portrait was painted in his prime and hers in later years,” Abigail suggested.

“She didn’t live that long,” William said.

Abigail turned to him in surprise. “What?”

He shrugged. “It’s all supposition at this point anyway. That woman could be anyone.”

Abigail said, “Perhaps I shall ask your father.”

William hesitated. “I . . . wouldn’t advise asking him more than necessary, Miss Foster. He doesn’t like talking about the old place or his days here.”

“I thought you said he talks about the occupants a great deal.”

“Robert Pembrooke, yes. But . . . no one else.”

“Why not?”

“I . . . don’t think I ought to conjecture. Papa wouldn’t like to find he’d been the subject of idle talk.”