The Secret of Pembrooke Park(34)

Speaking of the season, your sister has made quite an impression, I can tell you. Several well-connected gentlemen of means have expressed their admiration. She is enjoying herself tremendously, and you would be thoroughly proud of her. She sends her love, as does dear Aunt Bess, who has been the most gracious hostess during our stay here.

Your father asks me to tell you that he intends to return at month’s end, but if you need him sooner for any reason, you are to write and let him know. He trusts you are well looked after by the servants and the protective former steward he told us about. I assured him you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and with the maids to attend you, there should be no concern for propriety. Why, here in London Louisa ventures into Hyde Park with only one servant as escort, and there you have a staff of five! But if you are uneasy without your father there with you, do let us know.

Before I forget, I wanted to mention that Gilbert Scott has returned from Italy and accepted a position with an esteemed architect here in London. With his new polish and promising future, Gilbert is turning many heads, including our Louisa’s. He has called at the house once or twice and sends his regards. I am still holding out for a title at present, but your sister could make a worse match.

Abigail’s heart pounded. Gilbert . . . back in England. If only she were in London to see him. How she longed for her old friend’s company—to hear all about his travels and see his latest drawings and plans. To see him smile at her . . . But was she fooling herself? If he had set his sights on pretty Louisa, he would be directing his smiles at her from now on. She recalled the letters Gilbert had written to her, in which he’d asked her why Louisa had not replied to his letters. Abigail had allowed herself to hope that Louisa’s apparent interest in Gilbert Scott had faded. But now that he had returned more “polished and promising” than ever, had her hopes been dashed?

Abigail sighed and pulled forth another piece of paper. Ignoring the little stab of loneliness, she wrote back to assure her parents that she was just fine on her own.



After the Sunday service, the congregation waited until the clergyman and those in the front boxes exited before filing out behind them. So Abigail was the first to greet Mr. Chapman at the door and then step outside. As she walked toward the manor, she glimpsed movement in the churchyard and was surprised to see Eliza Smith turning from one of the graves. Abigail paused where she was while the young woman walked her way, wearing a pretty bonnet and blue overdress, her brooch peeking out from beneath her shawl.

Eliza looked up at her in surprise. “Church out already?”

“Yes, another short sermon today.” Abigail wondered why Eliza and her aunt, apparently such favorites with Mac Chapman, had not attended church.

“And how is your aunt today?” Abigail asked politely.

“About the same. I don’t bring her to church anymore. Never know what might come out of her mouth and disrupt the service.”

“Oh. That’s too bad—for you both.”

Eliza shrugged. “I don’t mind. I come on my own now and again. Sit in the back and slip out early. But today I had another destination in mind. . . .”

Visiting her parents’ graves, Abigail guessed but did not say so.

Eliza glanced across the drive toward Pembrooke Park. Eyes on its windows, she asked, “Which room have they put you in, Miss Foster?

“I have a small bedchamber in the west wing.”

“Ah. The one with the dolls’ house. Miss Eleanor’s old room.”

Abigail hesitated. That was a name she had not heard before. It must be the given name of the Miss Pembrooke Mrs. Hayes had mentioned. “Um, yes, or so I assumed.” She wondered why Eliza was familiar with the room. She asked, “You have been inside the house, I gather?”

“Oh, I . . .” Eliza ducked her head, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, a few times. Mamma died while Auntie still worked here. And now and again when our neighbor was unable to watch me, I would stay with Auntie belowstairs.”

“I see. It must have been hard for you, after your mother died.”

“Yes, and my father gone too . . .” Eliza’s eyes misted over. “The happiest days of my childhood were those spent playing here. I snuck upstairs to explore once, but I slipped and fell. Mr. Pembrooke himself picked me up and patted my head. Instead of reprimanding me, he gave me a sweet.”

“Which Mr. Pembrooke?” Abigail asked, doubting the kindness of the infamous Clive.

“Robert Pembrooke, of course.”

Eliza inhaled a long breath and drew herself up. “Well, if you will excuse me.” She turned to go.

“May I walk with you?” Abigail asked, knowing she had a few hours until her dinner with the Chapmans. “I long to stretch my legs after sitting on that hard bench.”

“If you like.”

The two young women walked companionably toward Easton, on the way to Caldwell. The warm May breeze felt good on Abigail’s skin. Hawthorn blossoms dotted the hedgerows, and two whitethroats chased each other through its branches, singing all the while. The meadows beyond were yellow with cowslips, and the air smelled of apple blossoms.

Abigail drew in a deep, savoring breath. “Spring is so much more vibrant here than in London,” she observed. “Have you been there?”

“No, not yet,” the woman said wistfully. “Maybe someday.”