The Secret of Pembrooke Park(49)

“But it’s yours.”

“I’ve had my joy of it. It is your turn. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve worn it before you.”

“Not at all. I haven’t a mask, but I am sure I can fashion one. . . .”

Abigail dug once more in the trunk. “I have several from masquerades I attended in past seasons.” She held up three. “If you’d like to wear one of them.”

Leah selected the largest of them. “Perfect. Thank you. But what shall you wear?”

“I think this one.” She held up a small oriental mask ornamented with glass beads. “And this dress.”

Abigail set aside the mask and lifted a ball gown of white-on-white striped muslin with a low square neckline, a high belt of green, and matching green ribbon trim on its short, puffed sleeves. “What do you think?”

“It’s lovely. When did you last wear it?”

Abigail thought. “At the Albrights’ May ball.” She had danced with Gilbert that night, she recalled, with a wistful little sigh. “And here I thought my dancing days were over.”

“Yours, Miss Foster? Then what about mine? I am several years older than you are.”

Abigail cocked her head to the side and regarded her new friend. “Oh, I think your dancing days are just beginning.”

Later, as they left Abigail’s room, gown folded over Leah’s arm, Kitty pointed across the gallery. “We think that was Mr. Pembrooke’s room.” She gestured to the right. “And that was his wife’s.”

Leah’s eyes lingered on the closed doorways. She looked over at Abigail. “Would you mind terribly if I peeked in?”

“Not at all. Go ahead.”

Abigail followed as the Miss Chapmans crossed the gallery. Leah slowly opened the door and entered the mistress’s bedroom—the room they assumed had been occupied by Mrs. Pembrooke—and the Mrs. Pembrooke before that.

Hands behind her back, Abigail stepped inside and glanced around the room once more. “My mother shall have this room, when she arrives.”

“Yes,” Leah said quietly. “It is perfect for the lady of the house.”

Leah ran a hand over the original bedclothes, now aired and cleaned. Then she touched the recently repaired lace cover on the dressing table. She fingered the vanity set—perfume bottles, hand mirror, and hairbrushes, murmuring, “I cannot believe all of this is still here. . . .”

“I know. I can’t believe they took so little with them when they left.”

Leah turned, her gaze arrested by the portrait over the mantelpiece. The handsome gentleman in formal attire.

“Your brother believes that is Robert Pembrooke,” Abigail said. “I gather he has seen another portrait of the man. Though we haven’t asked your father to confirm that.”

Leah nodded. “William is right.”

“You met him?” Abigail asked.

“I did, yes. Though it was a long time ago.”

“The other portrait is missing,” Kitty said.

Leah dragged her eyes from the image to look at her sister. “Hm?”

“The portrait of the missus, to match this one. Come and see . . .”

Leah shook her head. “No, Kitty. That’s Mr. Foster’s room now.”

“Oh, he won’t mind,” Abigail assured her.

Kitty led the way along the galley and into the master bedroom. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, gesturing with a sweep of her arm. “See?”

Leah looked around at the masculine bedclothes, the heavy mahogany furniture, the desk and leather-padded chair near the window. She walked slowly over, ran her fingers over the blotter on the desk, and rested her hand on the arm of the chair. Finally, she turned, glancing up with interest over the mantelpiece.

“You can tell that was hung later,” Kitty insisted. “It should be a larger portrait, like the one in the other bedchamber. And I shall never believe that is Robert Pembrooke’s wife.”

“No,” Leah agreed. “I suppose it’s only natural that the new family wanted to hang their own portraits. In fact, I am rather surprised the portrait of Robert Pembrooke still hangs in the lady’s bedchamber.”

“I wonder where they put the one of Robert’s wife,” Abigail mused.

“Are you simply guessing there was such a portrait, or has someone said so?” Leah asked.

Abigail shrugged, not wanting to mention the letter. “Guessing, I suppose.”

“It’s a mystery,” Kitty pronounced.

Leah slowly shook her head. “Not so mysterious, Kitty, surely. Someone new moves in and doesn’t want someone else’s wife or ancestor staring down at them in their beds? Doesn’t sound like a mystery to me.”

Kitty flicked a hand toward the portrait. “Who’d want that old biddy staring down at them instead?”

“Kitty . . .” Leah gently admonished. “That isn’t kind.”

“Mac said she might have been Robert Pembrooke’s old nurse,” Abigail commented. “Do you recognize her?”

Leah shook her head. “I have never seen her, that I recall.”

Abigail considered the portrait. “You have to admit she is a stern-looking woman of considerable years,” she said diplomatically. “And all that black crepe . . .”