The Secret of Pembrooke Park(27)

I heard footsteps outside my bedchamber last night. And then I heard the door to the linen cupboard open and someone sifting through its contents. A housemaid, I told myself.

Then I heard the door across the gallery whine open. The guest room perhaps. But we have no houseguest at present. In fact, we never have guests here at sprawling Pembrooke Park, though we’d had them often enough when we lived in our few rooms in Portsmouth. Why would a servant be entering an unoccupied guest room at this hour? Especially when the housekeeper makes them rise and shine while it’s still dark, to hear the maids tell it. Unless it wasn’t a servant at all. . . .

Was one of my siblings trying to make me believe the house is haunted? I doubt either of them would dare risk Father’s wrath by getting out of bed at such an hour.

Or was it Father himself? I felt a shiver pass over me at the thought of him prowling around in the dark, entering rooms unexpectedly. Was it not enough that he roamed about all day, opening cupboards and tapping walls, like some deranged woodpecker?

At that moment, my own door creaked open and I froze, my heart in my throat. But it was only the cat. Apparently, I’d failed to latch the door properly. The cat jumped up in bed with me. But for once the soft orange tabby proved little comfort.

Tonight I think I will lock my door.

With a little shiver, Abigail set the letter in her bedside table drawer with the first, then pulled on a pelisse to ward off the chill. At least the writer had found a cat to explain away the noises and doors opening, before she’d gone and made a fool of herself to a smug manservant. Abigail wished she had been as fortunate.

She left her room, crossed the gallery, and walked into her mother’s room once more—this time in the light of day. Though Duncan had removed the brass candle lamp, the hinged jewelry box on the dressing table stood open as before.

Curious, Abigail leaned closer to inspect the box, and fingered through its contents. Brooches, a few strings of beads and another of coral. Her fingers hesitated on a pin, and she lifted it from a tangle of beads and chains. The brooch was made of gold in the shape of . . . an M, perhaps? She turned it over. Or a W? She replaced it, and inspected more colorful baubles and a few nicer pieces, but she found nothing of significant value. No “treasure.” Though she supposed someone might have helped himself to anything valuable already, leaving her none the wiser. Perhaps she ought to have taken an inventory on their first day. But it was too late now.



On Sunday, Abigail looked through the gowns in her wardrobe, wondering what to wear to church, which she planned to attend for the first time that morning. In London, the soaring church they’d sporadically attended was immense and crowded, so few knew whether they attended or not, especially as Louisa was always slow getting ready and they often arrived so late that they’d had to sit in the back or, heaven forbid, in the gallery.

But here in rural Berkshire, with the small church located on her very doorstep, she felt she ought to attend. Her presence or absence would surely be noted by the small congregation. And by the Chapmans. She guessed Leah Chapman would be glad to see her there, and her neighbor’s esteem seemed an elusive yet worthwhile goal. And yes, she admitted to herself, she was curious to see the Reverend Mr. Chapman in his clerical role.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, something caught Abigail’s eye. She bent to look closer and was surprised to find a small doll pressed into the corner. Polly must not have noticed it when she’d put away her things. With a shrug, Abigail placed it in the dolls’ house drawer with the others.

Polly entered, and with her help Abigail dressed in a printed muslin gown with modest fichu tucked into its neckline and a warm blue spencer. Then she tied a demure bonnet under her chin, tucked a prayer book under her arm, and set off across the drive. She had fussed too long with her appearance, and by the time she walked through the gate into the churchyard, the bell began to ring, signaling the beginning of the service.

Her heart beat a little harder than it should have for such a mundane excursion. Her palms within her gloves felt damp. Where was she to sit? Would it be presumptuous to sit in the Pembrooke box? What if she inadvertently took someone’s regular seat? She dreaded the thought of all those eyes on her, judging her every move.

When she opened the door, she saw the congregants already seated and scanned the pews for an inconspicuous place to sit.

Mac appeared, his beard neatly trimmed, and dressed as dapper as any London gentleman in black coat, waistcoat, and trousers. “Miss Foster, good to see you. Allow me to show you to your seat.”

Ah, that’s right, Abigail thought. Mr. Chapman had mentioned his father served as parish clerk. He led her up the aisle, all the way to the front row. As Abigail feared, she felt many pairs of eyes upon her. Reaching the box on the right, Mac opened the low door for her.

“Are you sure I should sit here?” she whispered.

An odd wistfulness clouded his green eyes. “The residents of the manor have always sat here, lass. It’s good to have someone sitting here again, even if it’s not who it should be. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

With that dour benediction, Abigail took her seat. She noticed Andrew Morgan and an older couple seated across the aisle from her in the other place of honor.

A whisper hissed from a few rows back. “Miss Foster!”

Abigail looked over and saw Kitty Chapman, pretty in ivory frock and straw bonnet. The girl beamed and waved enthusiastically until her mother laid a gentle hand on hers and admonished her to sit quietly. Kate Chapman sent an apologetic smile Abigail’s way, and Abigail smiled in return. Leah, beside her mother, nodded politely in her direction.