The Secret of Pembrooke Park(32)

“Hello. I am Miss Foster, new to Pembrooke Park. And you must be Eliza.”

“That’s right.”

“Duncan asked me to say hello.”

“Did he?” Eliza blushed and looked down awkwardly.

Abigail followed her gaze and noticed the woman’s work-worn, ink-stained hands. She said, “I hoped to pay a call on your aunt. If she is . . . able to receive visitors?”

Eliza smiled, which made her somewhat plain features pretty. “How kind, Miss Foster. Come in.” She stepped back, and Abigail followed her into the entryway.

“Auntie so rarely receives callers these days—except for Mac Chapman, kind man that he is.”

Abigail hesitated. “William Chapman, do you mean?”

“No. His son used to come, but now his father comes in his stead.”

“Oh.” That surprised Abigail. She added, “And Miss Chapman, I suppose?”

“No. Just Mac,” Eliza said. “He comes by every week at least. Helps us keep the house in good repair, and brings things for Auntie. But otherwise . . . it’s as if people have forgot her.”

Abigail wiped her feet on the mat. “It’s kind of you to look after her.”

Miss Smith shrugged. “She looked after me, when I was a girl. Raised me as her own after she left Pembrooke Park.”

The young woman didn’t mention her parents’ fate, Abigail noticed, but decided not to ask.

Abigail’s gaze rested on a brooch pinning together the ends of the linen fichu around the woman’s neck. She’d seen something like it before. . . .

“Pretty brooch,” she commented, admiring the letter E in gold, or perhaps brass.

The woman touched it self-consciously. “Thank you, it was a gift. I’d forgot I had it on. If you will wait here a moment, I will see if my aunt has awakened from her nap.” She slipped into the next room.

While she waited, Abigail glanced idly around the entryway, noticing a bonnet and veiled hat on pegs near the door. Then she looked through the open door into a small kitchen. A pot of something sat simmering on the stove, sending savory aromas throughout the house. Upon the worktable lay writing paper, quill, and ink, and what appeared to be a stack of quarto-sized periodicals.

Eliza reappeared and said, “She’s awake.” She hesitated, then added, “I have to warn you, miss. Her memory isn’t very keen. Or her mind. You can’t take everything she says as fact. Or to heart.”

Abigail nodded her understanding and followed the woman into the dim parlor.

“Auntie? There’s someone here to see you. A Miss Foster. She lives at Pembrooke Park now and wanted to meet you.” Eliza began opening the shutters for Abigail’s benefit.

A diminutive white-haired woman sat hunched in an armchair, knitting needles clenched in her gnarled hands. She lifted her head and sightless eyes. “Pembrooke Park? No one’s lived there for years.”

Abigail stepped forward. “My family and I have only recently moved into the house.”

“You live there? You’re not her, are you?”

Abigail hesitated. “Not who, Mrs. Hayes?”

“The girl that used to live there?”

“No. I have only lived in Pembrooke Park for the last month or so.”

“And not a Pembrooke, you say?”

Eliza sent her an apologetic glance. “No, Auntie. Remember, this is Miss Foster.”

“Well, Miss Foster,” Mrs. Hayes said tartly, “does she know you’re living in her house?”

Abigail blinked. “Does who know, Mrs. Hayes?”

“You have to forgive us, Miss Foster,” Eliza said. “It’s a long time ago and we don’t remember details so well.”

“I remember perfectly well,” her aunt snapped. “Miss Pembrooke. His daughter, of course.”

Assuming she was speaking of Clive Pembrooke’s daughter, Abigail said gently, “I have never met her. Do you know where she lives now, Mrs. Hayes?”

“Where who lives?”

Eliza winced in embarrassment.

Praying for patience, Abigail repeated, “Miss Pembrooke?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion. She told me to lock the house and not look back, and I haven’t. Said she wouldn’t look back either, not like Lot’s wife. No matter what.”

Abigail frowned, trying to follow. “Mrs. Pembrooke told you that, do you mean?”

“Not Miss Elizabeth. The other one.”

“Are you talking about Clive Pembrooke’s wife?”

The woman shuddered and crossed herself. “Don’t say his name, miss. Not if you value your life.”

“There, there, Auntie,” Eliza soothed. She glanced up at Abigail. “If you will excuse me a moment, Miss Foster. I need to stir the soup. I’ll make some tea as well.”

After Eliza departed, Mrs. Hayes tsked and said, “Poor Eliza. Living here in this small house . . . waiting on me like a servant.” She sighed. “How unfair life is.”

“I think she is happy to do it,” Abigail said. “She told me you took care of her after you left Pembrooke Park.”

Mrs. Hayes nodded, expression distant. “Aye. Dark days them were. . . .”

When she said nothing more for several moments, Abigail asked, “Why did Clive Pembrooke’s family leave, Mrs. Hayes? Did you see them go?”