The Secret of Pembrooke Park(9)

Mac Chapman tensed. “Will,” he said under his breath, “take Leah home, please. Kitty too.”

The young man looked up sharply at something in his father’s tone. “Very well.” He gave a general bow in their direction, then turned and strode quickly away in a long-legged stride. He put an arm around the pretty woman and took the girl’s hand.

His wife and child, perhaps? Whoever they were, the young man gently turned them, leading them past the stable and out of view.

“Are you sure you won’t accompany us, Mac?” Mr. Arbeau asked again, adding dryly, “Make sure we don’t steal anything?”

Mac looked through the open door and into the hall beyond with an expression riddled with . . . what? Longing? Memories? Regrets? Abigail wasn’t sure.

“No. I’ll wait here and lock up after ye leave.”

The stale, musty odor of dampness met them inside a soaring hall. Some small creature skittered out of sight as they entered, and Abigail shivered. Cobwebs crisscrossed the balustrades of a grand staircase and draped the corners of portraits on the walls. Dust had settled into the folds of draperies covering the windows and into the seams of the faded sofa beside the door. A long-case clock stood like a silent sentry across the room.

Mr. Arbeau pulled a note from his pocket and read from it. “Here on the main floor are the hall, morning room, dining room, drawing room, salon, and library. Shall we begin?”

Their tentative steps across the hall left footprints on the dust-covered floor. They walked into the first room they came to—it appeared to be the morning room. Through it, they entered the dining room, with a long table and candle chandelier strung with crystals and cobwebs. The table held the remnants of a centerpiece—flowers and willow tails and perhaps . . . a pineapple? The arrangement had dried to a brittle brown cluster of twisted twigs and husks.

Next came the drawing room, and Abigail stared in surprise.

It appeared as though the occupants had just been called away. A tea set sat on the round table, cups encrusted with dry tea. A book lay open over the arm of the sofa. A needlework project, nearly finished, lay trapped under an overturned chair.

What had happened here? Why had the family left so abruptly, and why had the rooms been entombed for almost two decades?

Her father righted the chair. Abigail lifted the upturned needlework basket, only to discover a scattering of seedlike mouse droppings beneath. She wrinkled her nose.

Her father posed her unasked question. “Why did the former occupants leave so suddenly?”

Arms behind his back, Mr. Arbeau continued his survey of the room. “I could not say, sir.”

Could not, or would not? Abigail wondered, but she kept silent.

They looked briefly in the shuttered salon and dim library, its floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with abandoned books. Then they slowly mounted the grand stairway and rounded the gallery rail. They looked into the bedchambers, one by one. In the largest two they found carefully made beds, tied-back bed-curtains, moth-eaten clothes lying listless in wardrobes, and bonnets and hats on their pegs. In the other rooms, they found beds left unmade, bedclothes in disarray and bed-curtains hastily thrown back. In one of these rooms, a chess set waited for someone to take the next turn, as though abandoned midgame. In another room stood a dolls’ house, miniature pieces neatly arranged; clearly a cherished possession. Abigail’s gaze was arrested by a small blue frock hanging lifeless and limp from a peg on the wall.

Again, she shivered. Where was the girl who once wore it now, eighteen years later?

She asked, “What became of them—the family who lived here?”

“I am not at liberty to say,” Mr. Arbeau replied.

She and her father exchanged a raised-brow look at that but did not press him. They made their way back downstairs to the hall.

“Well?” Mr. Arbeau asked, with an impatient look at his pocket watch.

The house, beneath its layers of cobwebs and mystery, was beautiful. Once cleaned, it would be a privilege to live in such a place. She looked at her father as he surveyed the hall once more with a pinched expression.

“It will require a great deal of work . . .” he said.

“Yes,” Mr. Arbeau allowed. “But work you will not personally be required to perform. I shall ask Mac Chapman to recommend qualified staff to ready the house, if that meets with your approval?” Again that condescending glint.

But staring up at the formal portraits of his distant ancestors, her father didn’t reply. In his stead, Abigail answered, “If Mac is willing, yes. I think that an excellent idea.”

“So you will take the place for a twelvemonth, at least? And sign an agreement to that effect?”

Abigail looked at her father. Would he accept her advice after she had failed him before? She wasn’t sure but gently urged, “I think we should, Papa. If you agree.”

Charles Foster nodded as though toward a painted gentleman in Tudor attire. “I think we must.”

They spoke with Mac Chapman before they left, and he assented to engage a trustworthy cook-housekeeper, manservant, kitchen maid, and two housemaids, as requested.

“Give me a few days to interview folks and investigate their characters,” he said, looking uneasily at the dim, blind windows of the upper story as he said the words. “Can’t hire just anyone, you know—not to work here.”

Abigail and her father thanked the man and said they would see him soon.