The Secret of Pembrooke Park(95)

The next day, Abigail sat in the window seat in her bedchamber, looking idly out over the back lawn and gardens beyond. She was bored and lonely. William Chapman had gone off to London for a few days with Andrew Morgan, and the house, the neighborhood, seemed empty without him.

Suddenly she saw something through the window, and her heart banged against her ribs. She bolted up and pressed her nose nearer the glass. There was the veiled woman again. What was she doing in the garden, behind the potting shed? As if sensing she was being watched, the woman began walking away.

Abigail’s nerves tingled to life. This was her chance to test her theory of the woman’s identity. She rushed around, finding her slippers, tripping in her haste on the woven carpet and nearly falling. She dashed out into the corridor and toward the stairway. Duncan came carrying two huge cans of water up the stairs—her father must have requested a bath—so she had to wait at the top of the stairs. When the manservant and his heavy load finally passed by, she skimmed down the stairs and across the hall, hoping the woman had not already disappeared.

She eagerly threw open the front door, and it banged loudly against the wall.

In the drive, two women stood in conversation. The veiled woman and . . . Leah Chapman?

Both whirled at the sound. The veiled woman turned away and stalked toward the barouche waiting just outside the gate.

Abigail jogged across the drive, but Leah grasped her arm and hissed, “Abigail, don’t.”

The woman called something to the coachman—Abigail heard only her last word, “Quickly!”—and then let herself inside without waiting for help. The coachman cracked his whip and urged his horses to “Get up.”

“Who was that?” Abigail asked.

Leah appeared shaken. “I’m not sure. I saw her as I was leaving the churchyard.” She shivered. “I found it eerie, talking to that woman, her face covered in that heavy veil.”

Abigail watched the barouche pull away and rumble over the bridge. If she ran fast enough, she might be able to overtake it before the horses picked up speed, but what would she do then? Leap up on the footboard and demand admission? She was no highwayman. “You didn’t recognize her?”

Leah shrugged. “I don’t think so . . . I could only see her eyes, and her mouth when she spoke. But it was her voice that struck me. Strange and yet familiar all at once. She asked me who put flowers on Robert Pembrooke’s grave.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I . . . didn’t. I wasn’t sure I should. Eliza Smith leaves them now and again.”

“Yes . . .” Abigail remembered seeing her near his grave that day. “Do you know, I think Eliza believes Robert Pembrooke might have been her father.”

Leah frowned. “She told you that?”

“Not directly, but her aunt hinted at it. Eliza as well.”

Leah winced. “Papa told me Mrs. Hayes has become confused in her old age, and talks about a connection that doesn’t exist. He thought Eliza knew better than to listen, but apparently not.” She sighed. “Leave it with me, Miss Foster. I’ll speak to Papa. He’ll know what to do.”

“And the veiled woman . . . Any idea who she might be?”

Leah shook her head. “She reminded me of someone, but no, I could not place her.”

But Abigail had a definite idea of who she might be.

After talking with Leah a few minutes longer, Abigail returned to the house. On an impractical impulse, she decided to write an anonymous letter of her own. Going into the library, she sat at the desk, pulled forth a small sheet of note paper, and paused to think.

She dipped a quill in ink and, remembering Harriet Pembrooke had not used her real name, wrote:

Dear Jane,

I would like to talk to you. Will you meet me here in person?

Abigail did not sign it.

Nor did she suggest a specific meeting time. She left the note behind the loose brick in the garden wall, not knowing when, or if, it would be found.





Chapter 19


The following week, Abigail again sat in the library, large drawing pad and pencil in hand, architecture books spread around her, as well as the renovation plans of Pembrooke Park for inspiration.

“Good day, Miss Foster.”

Startled, Abigail looked up. There stood William. She hadn’t heard him enter. “Mr. Chapman, you’re back!” She quickly rose to her feet. “How was your time away?”

“London made for a nice change of pace for a few days, but I am glad to be home.”

“Me too. That is, uh . . . Mr. Morris’s sermon was twice as long as yours.”

He grinned, then glanced over her shoulder. “What is it you’re working on?”

She quickly turned over the drawing pad. “Oh. Nothing. Just sketching.”

“Looked like a building of some sort—what I saw of it. Glad to see you haven’t given up your interest in architecture.”

She smiled vaguely.

“Is it a plan for a house?” he asked. “Or . . . ?”

“Yes. That’s it. Just playing around.” She cleared her throat and asked, “How did the repairs progress in your absence?”

“Well enough, I suppose, though Papa thinks the entire front wall should be torn out and replaced. The old window is warped anyway and does little against a fierce wind, and it leaks whenever the rain comes from the south. His opinion is that we ought to take advantage of the damage to do some other repairs as well.”