The Secret of Pembrooke Park(74)
“What sort of secrets?”
“Apparently she was afraid of her father. She also writes about her friendship with another girl from the village.”
“Oh, who?”
“Someone called Lizzie.”
“Lizzie is a common name. No surname?”
Abigail shook her head. “And Harriet didn’t give her real name for fear the girl wouldn’t associate with her. I gather the Pembrookes were ostracized while they were here.”
“Yes, they were.”
“I wonder where the girls are now,” Abigail continued. “They would be about thirty, give or take a few years, if I’ve done my sums correctly. Do you know any Lizzies that age?”
William paused to consider. “Mrs. Matthews’s given name is Elizabeth. She is in her early thirties—the woman with the five boys?”
“Ah, yes.”
“And Mrs. Hayes’s niece is named Eliza. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call her Lizzie, but it’s possible. . . . Though she is only in her midtwenties.
Abigail thought of Eliza, taking care of her aunt, who once worked and lived in Pembrooke Park. She had seen Eliza writing something, and standing near Pembrooke graves in the churchyard. . . .
William climbed down the ladder, adding, “I could ask Leah—she might remember if there were any other girls by that name.”
“Thank you. Or I could ask her myself next time I see her. Was Leah acquainted with Harriet Pembrooke?”
“I don’t think so. She was away at school for a year when they lived here.”
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
William slanted her a telling glance. “I forget you don’t know my sister all that well yet. She doesn’t like to talk about herself. Or the past. Or the Pembrookes.”
Abigail nodded, recalling Leah’s reticence to enter Pembrooke Park, and again wondered if she’d had a bad experience there. Or if one of the Pembrookes had mistreated her. She couldn’t imagine charming Miles doing so. He’d only been a boy at the time. And Harriet had been so desperate for a friend.
The older brother? Or Clive Pembrooke himself? Abigail felt a little shiver pass over her. She prayed she was wrong.
Chapter 15
The next day Gilbert sent over a note, letting Abigail know he was returning to London. He had not visited her again. Could he have not at least come and said good-bye? Drawing her shoulders back, she went and gave her father the news with feigned nonchalance.
Abigail left her father and Miles playing a game of backgammon and took herself out of doors. She walked to the garden and began pulling weeds again, to clear her mind, to think, and to avoid Miles for a while. Natty Mr. Pembrooke would not be offering to help her in this chore, she knew.
The day was sunny and mild, and her only company was the occasional bee and a pair of warblers flitting about a wild service tree, its white blooms garlanding the garden wall.
Sometime later, Kitty Chapman appeared and joined in the task without being asked.
Abigail paused to smile at the girl. “Thank you, Kitty. I would be happy to pay you something for your trouble.”
“That’s all right. I needed to get out of the house for a while anyway. Will and Papa were arguing about something.”
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear it.”
The girl shrugged, then brightened. “But I wouldn’t say no to some flowers, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not. Help yourself.”
They pulled weeds for a time, then Abigail walked over to the potting shed for shears. She hesitated, looking at the quiet corner between the potting shed and the walled garden with a pinch of sadness, thinking of the time the two secret friends had spent there. For a moment she closed her eyes and imagined them, could almost hear their young voices, reading lines from some play. She breathed deep, and found the air smelled deliciously of thyme and honeysuckle. She opened her eyes and was surprised to find two butterflies had alighted on her rose-colored sleeve—a garden white and an orange-tipped butterfly. So different, yet so alike. The sight stilled her for some reason. Then the two fluttered away in opposite directions.
Abigail rejoined Kitty in the garden and handed her the shears. She watched as the girl began selecting oxeye daisies, yellow irises, lilies, and wild roses.
“Who will you give the flowers to, Kitty?”
“My grandmother. She has come to stay with us.”
“Has she?”
The girl nodded, adding some greenery to her clutch of blooms. “She’s had another fall, and Mamma frets so. Grandmamma says she’ll be up and about in no time and wants to return to her own house as soon as may be, but . . . well, we’ll have to see.”
“It’s kind of you to bring her flowers.”
“I thought they might cheer her. We only have the three bedrooms, and I share with Leah. So we put her in Jacob’s room and set up a little bed for him in the back porch. William’s offered to have him in the parsonage, but Papa wants him at home. I thought the flowers would help decorate my brother’s room. And hopefully overcome the smell of his foul stockings.” Kitty grinned and winked. The expression reminded Abigail of William’s wry smiles and mischievous winks.
Abigail said, “I hate the thought of all of you being cramped when we have so much room, but I don’t suppose your father would allow you or Jacob to stay at Pembrooke Park while your grandmother is recuperating?”