The Secret of Pembrooke Park(81)

Ah! The local author . . .

She turned to the gothic story, entitled “Death at Dreadmoore Manor.” She skimmed through the introduction of a young woman, the daughter of an earl, kidnapped after his murder and raised as a lowly housemaid by plotting relatives. Unprotected, the poor young woman was left to her own defenses when an evil rake came calling. Would someone discover her true identity and rescue her in time?

The story reminded Abigail of Cinderella stories she’d heard, and a French opera, Cendrillon, she’d seen in London. The young heroine of the story was selfless and unbelievably good-natured in the face of hardship. The preening, mustachioed villain with a maniacal laugh came across as nearly comical instead of terrifying, as the author no doubt intended. Although she was no expert, Abigail thought the writing quite good, despite its flaws.

Again, she regarded the author’s name, E. P. Brooks—or rather, her pseudonym—as Susan had told her most female writers submitted under a nom de plume.

She thought again of Eliza’s ink-stained fingers and the periodicals she had seen in her kitchen. Could it be . . . ?

Abigail decided to pay another call on Mrs. Hayes and Eliza. The older woman was napping in a sitting-room chair when she arrived, but Eliza invited Abigail into the kitchen to wait while she put the kettle on. “She’ll rouse herself when the tea kettle whistles.”

Abigail casually wandered around the kitchen while Eliza set the tea tray. With a jolt of recognition, she saw the latest edition of the Lloyds’ magazine on the table, and ventured, “I read this as well.”

Eliza glanced over. “Do you? I thought I was the only one in the county who subscribed.”

“No.” Abigail added tentatively, “In fact, the editor is a friend of mine.” She watched the woman’s reaction.

Eliza’s hands momentarily stilled over the sugar bowl. Then she said, “Oh? How interesting.”

“Yes, she finds it very interesting work. Do you . . . enjoy the magazine?”

“I do, yes, when I find the time.”

Abigail was disappointed Eliza didn’t take the opening she’d offered but decided not to press her. Perhaps she was mistaken in the matter.

Eliza picked up the tray. “Come, Miss Foster. Let’s join Auntie and have a nice visit.”

Abigail followed the woman into the sitting room.

The old housekeeper looked up eagerly at their entrance. “Another visitor? Has Master Miles called again?”

“No, Auntie, it’s Miss Foster.”

“Oh . . . too bad.” The woman’s expression fell, and she turned her attention to the tea.

Eliza explained, “Mr. Pembrooke called here a few days ago.”

“Did he?” Abigail asked, taken aback.

“Indeed he did,” Mrs. Hayes said over her teacup. “And how well he has turned out. So charming and well spoken. Twice the gentleman his father ever was. But you didn’t hear me say a word against the man.” She turned sightless eyes toward the door, as though Clive Pembrooke himself might be hovering nearby.

Eliza held up the plate. “Here, Auntie, have a biscuit.”

She took one, adding, “And so attentive to Eliza.”

“He was only being polite,” Eliza insisted, pouring another cup.

Mrs. Hayes shook her head. “I may be blind, but even I could see he was interested in you.”

Eliza sent Abigail a pained look, silently shaking her head to signal her disagreement.

Abigail took her hint and changed the subject. Lifting her teacup, she began tentatively. “You mentioned your aunt raised you, Miss Smith. May I ask about your parents, if that is not too painful a question?”

“Painful, no, though perhaps a bit uncomfortable for delicate ears.”

Abigail tipped her head back in surprise. “Oh? How so?”

“My mother was housemaid at Pembrooke Park until she came to be with child.”

“Oh.” Abigail swallowed, the hot tea scalding her throat and her eyes watering. “I . . . see . . .”

Eliza looked at Mrs. Hayes. “And we don’t talk about my father—do we, Auntie?”

“Your father was a good man,” Mrs. Hayes insisted. “He let her stay on at Pembrooke Park far longer than many a master would have.”

Abigail stared. Good heavens. Was she insinuating Robert Pembrooke was Eliza’s father? Or even . . . Mac? Is that why he visited so often? Helped around the house? No, it couldn’t be. She reminded herself that Mrs. Hayes wasn’t in her right mind.

The former housekeeper took a noisy sip, then turned in her general direction. “You do know that Robert Pembrooke had more than one daughter, don’t you, Miss Foster?”

No, that was one rumor she hadn’t heard.

“Auntie . . .” Eliza warned, with a worried glance at Abigail. “We are not to talk about that.”

Mrs. Hayes sipped again, then set down her cup with a clank. “Miss Foster living in Pembrooke Park. It isn’t right! Not when another young woman deserves it so much more. E for Eliza. E for Eleanor . . .”

Did Eliza fancy herself a Pembrooke? The astounding question was on Abigail’s lips, but she swallowed it down with hot tea and bile.

Eliza gave Abigail a tight smile. “You mustn’t listen to her, Miss Foster. Lord knows, I don’t most days.”