The Secret of Pembrooke Park(31)

“I . . . am only curious.”

Should she tell him about the letters? Instead she asked, “Is there a portrait of Elizabeth Pembrooke somewhere? I’ve seen the one of Robert Pembrooke, but not his wife.”

He frowned. “Why do you ask me that?”

She shrugged. “You were the steward—you knew the family. And the old woman in the portrait in the master bedchamber . . . Who is she?”

“Robert Pembrooke’s old nurse, I believe. But again, why are you asking? Why do you care?”

“It’s only natural I should care about what went on in the place I now live.”

His green eyes glittered like glass. “You know what Shakespeare said about ‘care,’ Miss Foster?”

She nodded. “‘Care killed a cat.’”

“Exactly.” He tossed down his cloth. “Look. I don’t want to talk about the Pembrookes or the past, Miss Foster. Not with you, nor with anyone. Let it lie.”

Abigail held his gaze a moment, then turned to go.

Mac called her back. “Miss Foster . . . if Clive Pembrooke should ever show his face at the manor, promise me you’ll let me know directly. I know it’s unlikely. But, I never thought the house would be occupied again after all this time either, and here you are.”

Abigail was surprised by the request but agreed. “Very well, I shall.”

“He may not give his real name,” he warned. “He might come under some guise or assumed name. . . .”

She frowned. “Then how will I know who he is? Is there a portrait of him somewhere, or has he some distinguishing feature?”

“No portrait that I know of. He did look something like his brother, though not as tall, and rather paunchy after two years of idleness, though who knows how the past eighteen years have changed him.”

“That isn’t terribly helpful,” Abigail said.

Mac held up a finger as a memory struck him. “He always wore the same long cloak, left over from his navy days. With a deep hood for standing watch on deck in rough weather. It is unlikely he would still be wearing it after all these years, but if a man shows up at your door wearing such a thing, be on your guard.”

In spite of herself, Abigail shivered. “I shall indeed.” She remembered the hooded figure she thought she saw on the stairs—but she had only imagined that, hadn’t she?

In spite of Mac’s warnings, Abigail did not let the matter lie. Wondering if any of the former servants still lived in the area, she looked in the library, hoping to find the old household account books or staff records but finding nothing of the sort. Odd, she thought, unless such ledgers had been kept in the former butler’s room or housekeeper’s parlor. She asked Mrs. Walsh if she had come across any old staff records, but she had not.

“Were you acquainted with any of the former servants?” Abigail asked her.

“That was long before my time,” Mrs. Walsh said. “I only moved to the area ten years back.”

Abigail thanked the woman. As she left the housekeeper’s parlor, Abigail paused at the former butler’s room across the passage. Steeling herself, she knocked briskly. The door creaked open. She waited, but no one answered. Through the crack, she glimpsed a rumpled bed, a wad of faded green wool amid the bedclothes, and a pair of discarded trousers tossed on a chair. As mistress of the house, she had every right to look in a servant’s room. Dared she? She placed her hand on the door and opened it a few inches more. . . .

“At my door again, miss?”

Abigail started and looked over her shoulder to find Duncan smirking down at her.

She drew herself up. “There you are. Good. I was looking for the old household account books, or staff records. Thought the butler might have kept them.”

“And why do you want those?”

“Just curious about the former servants. If any of them still live in the area.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Let’s see . . . Not many, that I know of. One housemaid married and moved away, I understand. Another died. As did the old gamekeeper, last year.”

Remembering something Mac had said, Abigail prompted, “Mac mentioned a former housekeeper . . . ?”

“Did he?” Duncan asked, brows high. “I am surprised he would.”

“Do you know her?”

He nodded. “Mrs. Hayes. I am acquainted with her niece, Eliza Smith.”

“Does Mrs. Hayes live nearby?”

“Yes. In Caldwell. She is all but blind now, Eliza says, and her mind isn’t as sharp as it once was. Eliza takes care of her now.”

Duncan obliged her by describing the house and where to find it, ending with, “Be sure and tell Miss Eliza I said hello.”

“I shall.” Abigail thanked him and went upstairs.

Donning hat and gloves, she set out for a chilly walk. The day was sunny, but the wind was brisk. As she crossed the bridge, a heron rose from the river and sailed over the wood, where the ash trees and some of the young sycamores were in full flower and leaf. She walked through nearby Easton and on to neighboring Caldwell, enjoying the sight of vivid bluebells among the trees.

Reaching Caldwell, she easily found the modest, well-kept house and knocked on its door. An intelligent-looking woman in a printed frock, fichu, and apron answered. She had reddish-gold hair, blue eyes, and a rather long nose, and was perhaps a few years older than Abigail.