The Secret of Pembrooke Park(30)

“Actually, she could,” Kate Chapman said with a little frown. “Tell you what. Join us next Sunday instead. That will give you plenty of time to give Mrs. Walsh notice—all right?”

“You do plan to attend church again next Sunday?” Leah asked.

Abigail hadn’t meant to commit to every Sunday by attending once, but she found she didn’t mind. She had enjoyed it, actually. “Yes, I do.”

Leah smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

How pretty and young Leah Chapman looked when she smiled. Abigail thought attending church and gazing at Leah Chapman’s brother every week would be a pleasant price to pay for the woman’s approval. And hopefully her friendship.





Chapter 8


On Tuesday, the post brought the promised invitation from Mrs. Morgan, and a third letter from Bristol in that ornate feminine hand. Pulse accelerating, Abigail took the journal page into the library to read in private.

Her portrait is missing. How strange. I don’t think anyone else has noticed. I suppose it’s not surprising I had not noticed it earlier. For I have not dared to enter Father’s bedchamber before today. But he has gone to London on some business or other related to his brother’s will. So I felt safe in entering.

I have been in Mamma’s rooms often enough. And over the mantelpiece in her bedchamber hangs a portrait of a handsome gentleman in formal dress. When I asked who it was, she said, “Robert Pembrooke,” and we both stared up at it.

It was the first time I had laid eyes on my uncle Pembrooke’s face. And considering he was dead, it was the only way I would ever see him.

“Did you ever meet him?” I asked.

“Once. Years ago,” Mamma replied. “The day your father and I were married.”

“Was this his wife’s room, then?”

“Yes. So the housekeeper tells me.”

My father had claimed Robert Pembrooke’s room, but I know better than to think he’d done so in a nostalgic attempt to be close to his older brother after their long estrangement and his recent passing. No, I have heard him rail against the injustice of being a second son too often to think so.

I tiptoed into the master bedchamber, assuming I would see Elizabeth Pembrooke’s portrait above the mantelpiece as I had seen Robert Pembrooke’s over hers. I was wrong. The rooms are quite similar in other respects, though the furniture is heavier and the bedclothes more masculine. Had her portrait never been painted? Or had it been removed for some reason?

Whatever the case, in its place hangs a portrait of an elderly matron with drooping features and mob cap—someone’s grandmother, perhaps.

I asked Mamma if she had ever seen Elizabeth Pembrooke. No, she had not.

“Why not?” I asked. “What happened between Uncle Pembrooke and Papa to cause such a rift between them?”

“It’s the old story, I imagine,” Mamma replied. “Rivalry and jealousy. But I don’t know the details. He never told me. And I’m not sure I want to know.”

A postscript had been added to the page in a darker ink color.

I found a portrait of a beautiful woman hidden away, and think it might be Elizabeth Pembrooke. I wonder who hid it. And why.

Where had she found it? Abigail wondered. And where was it now? Gooseflesh prickled over her as she reread the words. She felt as if someone had been watching them the day she, William, and Kitty looked for Mrs. Pembrooke’s portrait and found the one of the old woman instead. Was someone secretly observing her movements and then sending journal pages related to her comings and goings?

Did the writer live nearby? Near enough to see her? But what about the Bristol postmark? Heaving a sigh she shook her head. She wasn’t going to figure it out on her own.

Abigail went in search of Mac Chapman and found him oiling his guns in his woodshed.

“Mac, what can you tell me about the former residents of Pembrooke Park? Not Robert Pembrooke—I mean the people who lived here after his death. His brother’s family, I believe.”

He shot her a wary look, then returned his focus to his task. “What about them?”

“Their names, to begin with. And how long they lived here.”

He began, “After Robert Pembrooke and his family died—”

She interrupted him to ask, “How did they die?”

Mac huffed a longsuffering sigh. “Mrs. Pembrooke and her wee daughter died during an outbreak of typhus, as did many that year. Robert Pembrooke was laid very low indeed and died the following year. A fortnight after his death, his brother, Clive, moved in with his family. But they were here only about two years.”

“Why did they leave so soon after moving in—and so suddenly?”

“I don’t know. I never pretended to understand Clive Pembrooke, and I cannot pretend I was sorry to see them go.”

“Were you there when they left?”

Mac shrugged and re-oiled his cloth. “I showed up as usual one morning to meet with Clive Pembrooke, only to find the place deserted. The housekeeper at the time told me the missus had let all the servants go without notice, though she paid them their quarter’s wages in full. We have’na seen the family since.”

“So Mrs. Pembrooke knew in advance they were leaving? And that’s why she sent the servants away?”

He turned to study her, eyes narrowing. “Why are you asking all these questions?”