The Secret of Pembrooke Park(6)
“But an estate so large,” Abigail interjected. “I am afraid it would be beyond our . . . needs.”
The man withdrew a card from an inner pocket upon which was written a figure. He handed it to Mr. Foster, who in turn handed it to Abigail. Glancing at it, Abigail felt her brows rise in astonishment. Curious, she flipped it over. The other side was a simple calling card printed with only Henri Arbeau, Solicitor.
“That is an uncommonly reasonable and indeed generous offer,” Abigail conceded. “But I’m afraid the staff and expense to manage such a place would be beyond our means.”
The solicitor eyed her shrewdly and addressed his reply to her. “My client was right, I see, in wishing you present during this meeting, Miss Foster.” He pulled a second slip of paper from his pocket. “I am authorized to engage and pay basic staff, though my commission does not extend to French chefs or a tribe of liveried footmen.” He glanced at the list on the paper. “You are to be provided with a cook-housekeeper, kitchen maid, manservant, and two housemaids. Personal servants—valet, lady’s maid, and the like—must be provided by yourselves. If that is agreeable.”
Abigail opened her mouth to utter some incredulous comment, but before she could fashion one, Mr. Arbeau held up his palm.
“Now, before you credit me or my client with an overly ‘generous’ offer, I must ask you to moderate your expectations and your gratitude. The house has been boarded up for eighteen years.”
Abigail gaped. She dragged her gaze away from the stranger to her father to gauge his reaction. Did his heart sink as hers did? Why would anyone abandon a house for nearly two decades? What condition would it be in?
Her father said, “May I ask why it has been allowed to sit empty for so long?”
“It is not my place to judge my client’s past decision in this regard. Suffice it to say, neither my client nor anyone else in that family has been able or willing to live there.”
“And it has not been let before?”
“No.” Mr. Arbeau drew an impatient breath. “See here. My client apprehends that your family is in need of a dwelling and wishes to fill that need. Be assured that everything shall be done to render it habitable. I will escort you there myself, and you and your daughter may judge for yourselves whether Pembrooke Park might, by any alteration, be made suitable. And if you are willing to inhabit the place for at least a twelvemonth to make the investment worthwhile, my client will bear the expense of repairs, cleaning, and a staff of five to keep you reasonably comfortable.”
Abigail stared blindly as her mind struggled to tally the sizeable expense his client was willing to bear, compared to the modest rent requested. She blinked at the disparity. A pinch of disquiet, of suspicion, unsettled her stomach. Had the business with Uncle Vincent not taught her that anything that sounded too good to be true usually was? But they could ill afford to pass up such an opportunity.
Her father seemed less aware of the astounding nature of the offer, or simply took it as his due. He said, “I assume the servants will prepare the place ahead of our arrival?”
“You assume wrong,” Mr. Arbeau replied crisply. “My client is most insistent on that point. You and Miss Foster are to be present with me when the house is unlocked and opened for the first time since 1800.”
It was her father’s turn to gape. “But . . . why?”
“Because that is my client’s wish and stipulation.” His tone did not invite further inquiry.
Her father ducked his head to consider the matter, his furrowed brow indicating bewilderment.
The mantel clock ticked.
Mr. Arbeau consulted his list again, then refolded it. “There is an inn not terribly distant from the manor. If we discover that the house is uninhabitable as is, you are welcome to sleep at said inn for a period of up to a fortnight—as long as you return to the house each day to oversee the servants’ preparations.”
He returned the list to his pocket and said in a patronizing, nearly mocking, tone, “If that meets with your approval?”
Abigail stole a glance at her father and found his face growing florid. Fearing he might send the man away with a sharp setdown, she quickly spoke up. “Again, that is very generous, Mr. Arbeau. I can find no objection to at least visiting Pembrooke Park. Can you, Papa?”
He hesitated, taking in her pleading expression. “I suppose not.”
Abigail ventured, “Is the place furnished, or would we bring our own things?” She remembered the highest offer on their own house, contingent on leaving the furnishings behind.
“Fully furnished, yes,” Mr. Arbeau said. “I have never been inside, but my client assures me you will find Pembrooke Park already fitted up when you take it. Beneath the inevitable dust, that is.” His eyes glittered wryly.
Might this be her chance to help improve her family’s circumstances and regain her father’s trust?
Abigail prayed she wasn’t leading her father astray once again. She squared her shoulders and forced a smile. “Well, we are not afraid of a little dust, are we, Papa?”
When they had agreed on a date to visit Pembrooke Park, Mr. Arbeau took his leave. It was a relief when the officious man and his astounding offer departed.
Chapter 2
Abigail and her father rode with the somber solicitor in a well-sprung post chaise hired for the occasion. They traveled for most of the day, on turnpikes and through toll gates, stopping to change horses and postilion riders at regular intervals, or to take a hurried meal at a coaching inn.