The Secret of Pembrooke Park(80)

The next day, Abigail paid a call at the Chapman cottage, hoping to make things right with Leah as well. Leah herself came to the door, and Abigail braced herself to be rebuffed.

“I’ve come to apologize, Miss Chapman,” she began. “I hope you will forgive me. If I had known there was such enmity between you and Mr. Pembrooke, I would not have made the introduction. I never intended to upset you.”

Leah sighed. “I know you meant no harm, Miss Foster. Come, let’s take a walk, shall we?”

The two walked through the grove together. Abigail did not risk, however, trying to take her arm.

Abigail said, “I didn’t realize you were even acquainted with Mr. Pembrooke.”

Leah shrugged. “I was away at school when Clive Pembrooke moved his family into Pembrooke Park. But they were still here when I returned—though they remained only about a year longer.”

“Did you meet Miles then?”

“Not that I remember. He was only a boy. And my father wouldn’t let us have anything to do with the Pembrooke family. He mistrusted—even detested—Clive Pembrooke, and that distrust extended to his wife and children as well. I was forbidden to set foot on the grounds, even though our property was adjacent to the estate.”

“Surely you saw each other at church or around the village?”

She shrugged again. “The Pembrookes didn’t often attend church. And when they did, they had their box in front—entered after we were all seated and left before the rest of us. By the time I returned from my year at school, everyone in the village was either afraid of them or hated them. I didn’t care about the parents, I supposed they deserved it. And the Pembrooke boys had each other and didn’t seem to notice.”

“And the girl?” Abigail prompted. “You must have met her.”

She resolutely shook her head. “I never officially met Harriet Pembrooke. But I saw her from a distance. And that was enough to make me feel sorry for her. I often wonder where she is now, and if she is happy.”

Yes, Abigail thought. So do I.

“When they left,” Leah continued, “everyone was relieved. Now Miles Pembrooke’s return has raised the old fears once more.” She sighed and looked pensively off into the distance.

Abigail took a deep breath and asked gently, “Did one of the Pembrookes do something to hurt you in some way?”

Leah glanced at her with troubled eyes, then looked away. “Me? How could they hurt me . . . ?”

Abigail bit her lip. “I don’t know. But again, I am sorry.”

“I know you are. And I forgive you.” Leah managed a smile and took her arm. “Now, let’s finish our walk.”



When she returned to the manor, Abigail walked into the servery, hoping for a cup of tea, and stopped midstride, taken aback to see Duncan and Molly standing shoulder to shoulder, heads together.

“What is going on here?” she asked, her tone sharper than she’d intended.

Molly straightened and whirled, face suffusing with color. “I . . . Sorry, miss. We were only talking for a minute. Honest.”

Duncan slowly raised his head, sending her a lopsided grin. “I was showing Molly a most interesting book.” He lifted a thin, well-worn volume in his hands.

The girl’s eyes begged for understanding. “That’s right, miss. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Molly. Go about your work, please,” Abigail said.

The maid bowed her head and hurried from the room.

When they were alone, Duncan said, “It’s an old copy of Steele’s Navy Lists. You might find it interesting as well. It’s most telling about your houseguest—a man who passes off his limp as a war wound to gain sympathy from females.”

Abigail frowned. “Mr. Pembrooke is not pretending to have a limp, I assure you.”

“Pretending, exaggerating, I don’t judge. It worked, didn’t it? He looks harmless—the poor injured war hero—and is invited in to stay like some wounded pup.” He shook his head. “Probably murder us all in our beds.”

“Duncan. I don’t appreciate your attitude, or your gossip.”

“Ain’t gossip, miss. I know you don’t think much of me, but you have to give me credit. I did my research. He’s right here on page 72. Served on the Red Phoenix. Do you know anything about the Phoenix, miss?”

She shook her head.

His eyes glinted. “One of the only ships to escape the war with barely a scratch.”

Abigail’s stomach soured. “Perhaps he was injured in a land skirmish then, or during training.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, miss.” Duncan’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Far be it from me to discredit a war hero.”

Later that afternoon, Abigail received the new edition of the Lloyds’ magazine in the post and took it into the morning room to read while she drank her tea. The magazine held news articles, fashion prints, poetry, and short stories. She read the magazine mostly out of loyalty to Susan Lloyd, and because it made her feel closer to her friend to recognize her “voice” in an editorial, or piece of society news, although most of the articles were written by others.

Abigail flipped past the fashion prints and skimmed the table of contents.

One author’s name caught her eye. Condensed as the type was, she at first misread the name as Pembrooke, but then looked closer: E. P. Brooks.