The Secret of Pembrooke Park(73)

I didn’t ask about her family, because I didn’t want to invite similar questions in return. I didn’t want to talk or even think about my real family. Especially my father. I wanted to escape for an hour or two into the company of this new friend. And into a world of make-believe.

Before long, I figured out who her family was, and heard her real name. And I assume she learnt mine. But we never spoke of it. It was as if to do so would break the spell and end our private world, the sanction of our friendship.

But all too soon it ended anyway. My little brother saw us together, and she was afraid word would get back to her family. She left me a note behind a loose brick in the garden wall. Ending our friendship as I had begun it. Fitting, I remember thinking later. At the time, I thought only how unfair life was.

Abigail felt a heavy sense of sadness as she finished the letter. She wondered where the girls were now, and if they ever saw each other again. If Harriet Pembrooke, or “Jane,” had ever made another friend. And what of Lizzie, the village girl? Was she married, with a little girl of her own playing house somewhere nearby? Or was she alone?

Wherever the girls were, Abigail hoped they were happy. But somehow, after reading this account, she doubted it. Again she wondered if she should show Miles the letters. Why was she so hesitant to do so? Perhaps she could at least ask Miles about his sister.

She went and found him in the library, perusing the fashion prints in a copy of the magazine Susan and Edward Lloyd published.

“May I join you?”

“Of course!” he said, beaming. “Look at this well-dressed couple in their new fashions for spring. That could be you and me—we are easily as handsome. And what about this promenade dress and tall hat? I think it would suit you.”

She glanced at it with feigned interest. “I never cared for ostrich plumes. But that bicorn hat would look well on you,” she added, earning herself a smile.

She sat down with her novel, and he returned to his magazine. The ticking of the long-case clock had never sounded so loud.

After a few minutes pretending to read, she said casually, “Miles, may I ask about your sister?”

“What about her?” he said, eyes still on the page.

“Where does she live, for starters?”

He looked up at her. “She splits her time between Bristol and London, I believe. When she’s not traveling about.”

Abigail thought of the Bristol postmark on the letters she received. “How does she fare? Are you two in contact?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I’ve only seen her twice since I returned to England.”

Seeing his discomfort, she changed the subject. “I was surprised when you told Mac your brother had died. I don’t think anyone here knew that. I suppose no one thought to send word back to the parish.”

Miles nodded vaguely. “We only lived here for two years after all.”

Abigail swallowed, and then said tentatively, “May I ask how he died?”

“You may well ask. You may ask how . . . and why. I know I did for years. Still do.”

She waited for him to explain, the clock ticking loudly again. But he did not. He sat there, wiping at some invisible spot of dirt on his breeches.

Abigail said gently, “I spoke with old Mrs. Hayes, who used to be the housekeeper here. She’s blind now, poor old dear. She told me she found blood in the hall after your family left.”

“Blood?” Miles echoed. “What a thought!” He tucked his chin. “I say, Miss Foster, you read too many gothic novels. My dear brother was alive when we left here. And is now buried in a churchyard in Bristol, near my mother’s family.”

“And . . . your father?”

“I honestly don’t know. We never saw him again. And I hope we never shall.” He rose abruptly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am weary and would like to rest before dinner.”

“Of course. I am sorry to have upset you. I shouldn’t have pried.”

He paused beside her chair and reached down his hand. Uncertain of his intention, she tentatively raised her own. He took it in his and pressed it warmly.

“You do not upset me, Miss Foster,” he whispered with a sad smile. “You are a balm to my soul.”



Standing in the nave of the church the next afternoon, Abigail handed William another taper as he replaced the spent ones in the chandelier.

“May I tell you something?” she began.

He shifted his weight on the ladder. “Of course.”

“I haven’t told anyone yet, though I’m not sure why. It’s been going on for some time.”

He looked down at her, a wary light in his eyes. “What has?”

“I have been receiving letters.”

“Letters?” he asked carefully. “From a gentleman?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. They’re anonymous.”

“A secret admirer?”

“Of course not. From someone who used to live here.”

He stiffened. “From Mr. Pembrooke?”

“No. From his sister, Harriet, I think. About the years she lived here.”

“Why would she not sign them?”

“I don’t know. But some of what she writes does not reflect well on her father, so perhaps anonymity gives her the courage to divulge her secrets.”