The Secret of Pembrooke Park(5)

Had she? Abigail swallowed. “Well, yes. Good friends.”

Had Gilbert asked for a lock of Louisa’s hair? Did he even now wear it in a ring? Her stomach cramped at the thought, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Instead, she made do with a sisterly “It’s impolite not to answer letters promptly, Louisa. Surely you might manage a few lines at least? To assure him all is well and you are still . . . friends?”

Louisa flopped into an armchair, her usual concern for posture and poise neglected in only her sister’s presence. “Oh, very well.” Then she grinned sweetly at Abigail, a teasing light in her fair eyes. “Or might you not tell him so for me when you write back? For I know your reply shall be in tomorrow’s post.”



Soon they began receiving offers on their house—the best price contingent on keeping the majority of furnishings in place. They were relieved to receive such a good offer, but even so, once her father finished paying off the bond, there would be little left to spend on new lodgings. Although tireless in her efforts, Abigail began to despair of ever finding a house that would suit them all.

Early in April, while Abigail met with the housekeeper about more modest menus and other economizing measures, a footman came to find her.

“Your father asks that you join him in the study, miss,” he said.

“Oh? I thought he had a caller.”

“Indeed he does.” The servant bowed and backed away without further explanation.

Abigail thanked the housekeeper, made her way to the study, and let herself in.

Her father sat at his desk. A man in black stood to one side, framed by one of the windows.

With an uncertain glance at the man, Abigail began, “You asked for me, Father?”

“Actually, this gentleman requested you join us.” Mr. Foster gestured to the visitor—a man of about sixty years, she guessed. Not tall, but a distinguished figure in his black frock coat and charcoal-grey waistcoat. His high white shirt collar framed an arresting face—deep hooded eyes under heavy arched eyebrows as black as a bat’s wings. Deep grooves ran from either side of a straight nose to the corners of his mouth. He wore a small mustache and beard trimmed in the Van Dyke style—his cheeks cleanly shaven. His hair and beard were black edged with silver. But it was his eyes that drew her back. Keen and calculating. Knowing and judging.

She was quite certain she had never seen him before. She would surely have remembered him. Why then had he requested her presence?

“Have we met before, sir?” she asked.

“No, miss. I have not had that pleasure,” he replied, displaying no pleasure in meeting her even now.

Her father made belated introductions. “My elder daughter, Miss Abigail Foster. Abigail, this is Mr. Arbeau. A solicitor.”

Abigail’s stomach tightened. Was her father in more trouble because of Uncle Vincent’s failed bank? Was he there to announce they were responsible for yet more money? Abigail fisted her hand. They had lost too much already.

Mr. Arbeau cut a crisp bow, then straightened, folding his arms behind his back. He was an intimidating presence with all his dour elegance.

He looked somewhere over her father’s head, then began, “Mr. Foster, I gather that you are facing a financial crisis, and the offer of a commodious abode at a low rate would not be unwelcome at this time?”

Her father’s face darkened. “I do not appreciate my private affairs being bandied about by strangers, Mr. Arbeau.”

“Then I advise you not read the papers, sir.” The man waved a graceful hand, and Abigail noticed the gold ring on his little finger. “Yes, yes. You are a proud man, I understand. But not too proud, I hope, to at least consider the offer I am prepared to make.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “What offer? I suppose you have a commodious abode to let?”

“Not I, no. But a client of mine possesses an old manor house, and has instructed me to offer it to you on very easy terms.”

“And who is your client?” Father asked.

The man pursed his lips. “A distant relation of yours, from a family of consequence and property in western Berkshire. That is all I am at liberty to say.”

“If he is a relative, why the secrecy?”

The man held his gaze but offered no reply.

Her father looked up in thought. “I do have antecedents in Berkshire, now that I think of it. May I know the name or location of this property?”

“Pembrooke Park. Spelt with two o’s.”

“Ah.” Father’s eyes lit. “My maternal grandmother was a Pembrooke.”

The man continued to regard him evenly but neither confirmed nor denied the connection.

Instead Mr. Arbeau said, “Please understand that you are not inheriting said property, as closer heirs still live and the will is held up in probate over some question of ownership. However, the current executor of the estate lives elsewhere and wishes the property to be inhabited—and by deserving relatives if at all possible.”

“I see . . .” Her father tented his fingers, and Abigail saw his mind working, considering whether to be flattered or further insulted to be considered a deserving relation.

Mr. Arbeau went on, “The house has two main levels and five bedchambers. As well as attic servants’ quarters, and kitchens and workrooms belowstairs. Church, stables, and outbuildings. Nine acres of parkland, ponds, orchards, and gardens, though uncultivated for years.”