The Secret of Pembrooke Park(53)

She looked at the death dates. Robert Pembrooke died twenty years ago, as Mr. Chapman had said. Killed in London, she now knew from the newspaper clipping. His wife and daughter had died only a few days apart the year before. Typhus, Mac had said. Poor Mr. Pembrooke, to lose his wife and child at the same time like that. How sad. His final year could not have been a happy one. And then to die so violently himself. . . .

She stood there a moment longer, missing her own mother and sister, and then returned to the house. Her father would be coming down to breakfast soon and she wanted to be there to greet him.



Another letter arrived three days later, and when Abigail read its first line, hair rose on the back of her neck, and she experienced that prickly sensation one sometimes feels when being watched. She looked at the date—the letter had been sent the day after she had visited the churchyard. How eerie and fascinating that she should receive this particular journal page after so recently visiting those particular graves.

I visited their graves today. Robert Pembrooke. Elizabeth Pembrooke. Eleanor Pembrooke. As well as my grandparents and great-grandparents. But I felt little connection to them. Only guilt. I don’t feel I have any right to claim kinship with these people, nor any right to live in their house.

I put flowers on Eleanor Pembrooke’s grave. After all, it is her bedchamber I occupy. Her canopied bed I sleep in. Her dolls’ house I amuse myself with. She and her mother died in an epidemic that swept the parish last year. Although she was younger than I, I wish I had known her.

Father was keen to see the birth and death dates for his brother’s wife and offspring, so he looked for the family Bible but could not find it. He then went and spoke to the rector, asking to see the parish records. He says familial feeling drives him. A longing for communion and closure. But I know better. He wanted to see the proof with his own eyes that his brother’s family are all dead. He found the proof he was looking for, but I wished he had not.

I admit I sometimes wonder who put Robert Pembrooke in his grave. They say some nameless thief killed him. But as I listen to my father rant and hear the scurrilous things he says about his brother, I have to wonder if the thief has a name after all. A name I know all too well.

Heart pounding, Abigail read the final paragraph again. Did it imply what she thought it did? Then she remembered Mac’s warning about Clive Pembrooke.

Perhaps it meant exactly that.



William called on ailing Mr. Ford. Afterward, he thought he might stop by and see Mrs. Hayes. He had not visited the woman in some time but knew his father often did so. He glanced up at the ominous sky, hoping the rain would hold off a little longer.

As he approached the house, he was surprised to see his father dropping an armload of chopped firewood near the door with a hollow clunk.

“Papa. I could have done that. Or Jacob.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I was just going to call in. How is she?”

“About the same, physically. Though her mind is slipping.” His father wiped a handkerchief over his brow and said, “You know, Will, I think it best if you leave the visiting to me.”

“Oh, why?”

Mac shrugged. “We’re old friends, she and I. Worked together at Pembrooke Park. Unless . . .” He glanced at the house and lowered his voice, asking, “Or is it Eliza you were hoping to see?”

“Not especially, no.”

Eliza was a pleasant, pretty woman, whom William had known since childhood. In fact, one of his earliest memories was playing hide-and-seek with her belowstairs in Pembrooke Park. He might once have considered courting her—before Rebekah had turned his head and broken his heart. Before Miss Foster . . .

“Good.” His father continued, “You don’t want to encourage a girl like Eliza, or give others the impression you are courting her.”

“What do you mean, ‘a girl like Eliza,’” William asked. “An orphan?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Mac grimaced. “Never mind. I would simply prefer to call on her and her aunt myself. All right?”

There was more going on than his father wanted to tell him, William realized, but he decided not to push the matter.

“Very well, Papa. I shall leave you to it.”

On his way home, a heavy rain began to fall. William put up his umbrella and braced himself for a damp walk. A short while later, he drew up short at the sight of Abigail Foster standing huddled beneath a mulberry tree on the edge of the Millers’ farm.

“Miss Foster?” He diverted from the road, stepping over a puddle to reach her. As he neared, he noticed the rain had curled the hair around her face into spirals. She looked both miserable and charming. His eyes were drawn to her lips, stained dark red. The sight of those unusually red lips, in such contrast with her fair skin, captivated him. He found himself staring at her mouth. Wishing he might kiss her.

Instead he asked, “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I went out for a walk and wasn’t paying attention to the sky. This tree doesn’t offer much protection, I fear, but some.”

“But it does offer refreshment, I see.”

“Oh. Yes.” She ducked her head and tucked stained fingers behind her back. “I did eat a few mulberries. Well, more than a few. I’m wet and cold but at least not hungry.” She glanced down at a stained hand. “I didn’t want to spoil my gloves. This will come out, won’t it?”