The Secret of Pembrooke Park Read online

  Abigail went in search of Mac Chapman and found him oiling his guns in his woodshed.

  “Mac, what can you tell me about the former residents of Pembrooke Park? Not Robert Pembrooke—I mean the people who lived here after his death. His brother’s family, I believe.”

  He shot her a wary look, then returned his focus to his task. “What about them?”

  “Their names, to begin with. And how long they lived here.”

  He began, “After Robert Pembrooke and his family died—”

  She interrupted him to ask, “How did they die?”

  Mac huffed a long-suffering sigh. “Mrs. Pembrooke and her wee daughter died during an outbreak of typhus, as did many that year. Robert Pembrooke was laid very low indeed and died the following year. A fortnight after his death, his brother, Clive, moved in with his family. But they were here only about two years.”

  “Why did they leave so soon after moving in—and so suddenly?”

  “I don’t know. I never pretended to understand Clive Pembrooke, and I cannot pretend I was sorry to see them go.”

  “Were you there when they left?”

  Mac shrugged and re-oiled his cloth. “I showed up as usual one morning to meet with Clive Pembrooke, only to find the place deserted. The housekeeper at the time told me the missus had let all the servants go without notice, though she paid them their quarter’s wages in full. We have’na seen the family since.”

  “So Mrs. Pembrooke knew in advance they were leaving? And that’s why she sent the servants away?”

  He turned to study her, eyes narrowing. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “I . . . am only curious.”

  Should she tell him about the letters? Instead she asked, “Is there a portrait of Elizabeth Pembrooke somewhere? I’ve seen the one of Robert Pembrooke, but not his wife.”

  He frowned. “Why do you ask me that?”

  She shrugged. “You were the steward—you knew the family. And the old woman in the portrait in the master bedchamber . . . Who is she?”

  “Robert Pembrooke’s old nurse, I believe. But again, why are you asking? Why do you care?”

  “It’s only natural I should care about what went on in the place I now live.”

  His green eyes glittered like glass. “You know what Shakespeare said about ‘care,’ Miss Foster?”

  She nodded. “‘Care killed a cat.’”

  “Exactly.” He tossed down his cloth. “Look. I don’t want to talk about the Pembrookes or the past, Miss Foster. Not with you, nor with anyone. Let it lie.”

  Abigail held his gaze a moment, then turned to go.

  Mac called her back. “Miss Foster . . . if Clive Pembrooke should ever show his face at the manor, promise me you’ll let me know directly. I know it’s unlikely. But, I never thought the house would be occupied again after all this time either, and here you are.”

  Abigail was surprised by the request but agreed. “Very well, I shall.”

  “He may not give his real name,” he warned. “He might come under some guise or assumed name. . . .”

  She frowned. “Then how will I know who he is? Is there a portrait of him somewhere, or has he some distinguishing feature?”

  “No portrait that I know of. He did look something like his brother, though not as tall, and rather paunchy after two years of idleness, though who knows how the past eighteen years have changed him.”

  “That isn’t terribly helpful,” Abigail said.

  Mac held up a finger as a memory struck him. “He always wore the same long cloak, left over from his navy days. With a deep hood for standing watch on deck in rough weather. It is unlikely he would still be wearing it after all these years, but if a man shows up at your door wearing such a thing, be on your guard.”

  In spite of herself, Abigail shivered. “I shall indeed.” She remembered the hooded figure she thought she saw on the stairs—but she had only imagined that, hadn’t she?

  In spite of Mac’s warnings, Abigail did not let the matter lie. Wondering if any of the former servants still lived in the area, she looked in the library, hoping to find the old household account books or staff records but finding nothing of the sort. Odd, she thought, unless such ledgers had been kept in the former butler’s room or housekeeper’s parlor. She asked Mrs. Walsh if she had come across any old staff records, but she had not.

  “Were you acquainted with any of the former servants?” Abigail asked her.

  “That was long before my time,” Mrs. Walsh said. “I only moved to the area ten years back.”

  Abigail thanked the woman. As she left the housekeeper’s parlor, Abigail paused at the former butler’s room across the passage. Steeling herself, she knocked briskly. The door creaked open. She waited, but no one answered. Through the crack, she glimpsed a rumpled bed, a wad of faded green wool amid the bedclothes, and a pair of discarded trousers tossed on a chair. As mistress of the house, she had every right to look in a servant’s room. Dared she? She placed her hand on the door and opened it a few inches more. . . .

  “At my door again, miss?”

  Abigail started and looked over her shoulder to find Duncan smirking down at her.

  She drew herself up. “There you are. Good. I was looking for the old household account books, or staff records. Thought the butler might have kept them.”

  “And why do you want those?”

  “Just curious about the former servants. If any of them still live in the area.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Let’s see . . . Not many, that I know of. One housemaid married and moved away, I understand. Another died. As did the old gamekeeper, last year.”

  Remembering something Mac had said, Abigail prompted, “Mac mentioned a former housekeeper . . . ?”

  “Did he?” Duncan asked, brows high. “I am surprised he would.”

  “Do you know her?”

  He nodded. “Mrs. Hayes. I am acquainted with her niece, Eliza Smith.”

  “Does Mrs. Hayes live nearby?”

  “Yes. In Caldwell. She is all but blind now, Eliza says, and her mind isn’t as sharp as it once was. Eliza takes care of her now.”

  Duncan obliged her by describing the house and where to find it, ending with, “Be sure and tell Miss Eliza I said hello.”

  “I shall.” Abigail thanked him and went upstairs.

  Donning hat and gloves, she set out for a chilly walk. The day was sunny, but the wind was brisk. As she crossed the bridge, a heron rose from the river and sailed over the wood, where the ash trees and some of the young sycamores were in full flower and leaf. She walked through nearby Easton and on to neighboring Caldwell, enjoying the sight of vivid bluebells among the trees.

  Reaching Caldwell, she easily found the modest, well-kept house and knocked on its door. An intelligent-looking woman in a printed frock, fichu, and apron answered. She had reddish-gold hair, blue eyes, and a rather long nose, and was perhaps a few years older than Abigail.

  “Hello. I am Miss Foster, new to Pembrooke Park. And you must be Eliza.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Duncan asked me to say hello.”

  “Did he?” Eliza blushed and looked down awkwardly.

  Abigail followed her gaze and noticed the woman’s work-worn, ink-stained hands. She said, “I hoped to pay a call on your aunt. If she is . . . able to receive visitors?”

  Eliza smiled, which made her somewhat plain features pretty. “How kind, Miss Foster. Come in.” She stepped back, and Abigail followed her into the entryway.

  “Auntie so rarely receives callers these days—except for Mac Chapman, kind man that he is.”

  Abigail hesitated. “William Chapman, do you mean?”

  “No. His son used to come, but now his father comes in his stead.”

  “Oh.” That surprised Abigail. She added, “And Miss Chapman, I suppose?”

  “No. Just Mac,” Eliza said. “He comes by every week at least. Helps us keep the house in good
repair, and brings things for Auntie. But otherwise . . . it’s as if people have forgot her.”

  Abigail wiped her feet on the mat. “It’s kind of you to look after her.”

  Miss Smith shrugged. “She looked after me, when I was a girl. Raised me as her own after she left Pembrooke Park.”

  The young woman didn’t mention her parents’ fate, Abigail noticed, but decided not to ask.

  Abigail’s gaze rested on a brooch pinning together the ends of the linen fichu around the woman’s neck. She’d seen something like it before. . . .

  “Pretty brooch,” she commented, admiring the letter E in gold, or perhaps brass.

  The woman touched it self-consciously. “Thank you, it was a gift. I’d forgot I had it on. If you will wait here a moment, I will see if my aunt has awakened from her nap.” She slipped into the next room.

  While she waited, Abigail glanced idly around the entryway, noticing a bonnet and veiled hat on pegs near the door. Then she looked through the open door into a small kitchen. A pot of something sat simmering on the stove, sending savory aromas throughout the house. Upon the worktable lay writing paper, quill, and ink, and what appeared to be a stack of quarto-sized periodicals.

  Eliza reappeared and said, “She’s awake.” She hesitated, then added, “I have to warn you, miss. Her memory isn’t very keen. Or her mind. You can’t take everything she says as fact. Or to heart.”

  Abigail nodded her understanding and followed the woman into the dim parlor.

  “Auntie? There’s someone here to see you. A Miss Foster. She lives at Pembrooke Park now and wanted to meet you.” Eliza began opening the shutters for Abigail’s benefit.

  A diminutive white-haired woman sat hunched in an armchair, knitting needles clenched in her gnarled hands. She lifted her head and sightless eyes. “Pembrooke Park? No one’s lived there for years.”

  Abigail stepped forward. “My family and I have only recently moved into the house.”

  “You live there? You’re not her, are you?”

  Abigail hesitated. “Not who, Mrs. Hayes?”

  “The girl that used to live there?”

  “No. I have only lived in Pembrooke Park for the last month or so.”

  “And not a Pembrooke, you say?”

  Eliza sent her an apologetic glance. “No, Auntie. Remember, this is Miss Foster.”

  “Well, Miss Foster,” Mrs. Hayes said tartly, “does she know you’re living in her house?”

  Abigail blinked. “Does who know, Mrs. Hayes?”

  “You have to forgive us, Miss Foster,” Eliza said. “It’s a long time ago and we don’t remember details so well.”

  “I remember perfectly well,” her aunt snapped. “Miss Pembrooke. His daughter, of course.”

  Assuming she was speaking of Clive Pembrooke’s daughter, Abigail said gently, “I have never met her. Do you know where she lives now, Mrs. Hayes?”

  “Where who lives?”

  Eliza winced in embarrassment.

  Praying for patience, Abigail repeated, “Miss Pembrooke?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion. She told me to lock the house and not look back, and I haven’t. Said she wouldn’t look back either, not like Lot’s wife. No matter what.”

  Abigail frowned, trying to follow. “Mrs. Pembrooke told you that, do you mean?”

  “Not Miss Elizabeth. The other one.”

  “Are you talking about Clive Pembrooke’s wife?”

  The woman shuddered and crossed herself. “Don’t say his name, miss. Not if you value your life.”

  “There, there, Auntie,” Eliza soothed. She glanced up at Abigail. “If you will excuse me a moment, Miss Foster. I need to stir the soup. I’ll make some tea as well.”

  After Eliza departed, Mrs. Hayes tsked and said, “Poor Eliza. Living here in this small house . . . waiting on me like a servant.” She sighed. “How unfair life is.”

  “I think she is happy to do it,” Abigail said. “She told me you took care of her after you left Pembrooke Park.”

  Mrs. Hayes nodded, expression distant. “Aye. Dark days them were. . . .”

  When she said nothing more for several moments, Abigail asked, “Why did Clive Pembrooke’s family leave, Mrs. Hayes? Did you see them go?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “I was in my bed. Mindin’ my own affairs. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. I was fast asleep all night.”

  The line “The lady doth protest too much” crossed Abigail’s mind. But she said only, “I see. So you were in the house, but when you rose the next morning, they were gone? The whole family?”

  Mrs. Hayes nodded. “I was sorry to see the missus go. Always decent to me she was.”

  “Had she planned to leave for some time? Mac said you’d all been paid through the end of the quarter and let go.”

  Again she nodded. “I think she feared what he would do to us if we were there when he discovered his family had left ’im. He was away hunting, you see. But he came home early and figured out what she was plannin’—that’s my guess. And tried to put a stop to it.” She shook her head. “Poor Master Harold.”

  “Master Harold?” Abigail said. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I saw nothing.”

  “Mrs. Hayes, what do you think happened that night, if you were to guess?”

  “I think he found her valise. Packed to leave. And her purse full of the money she’d been saving. Either that, or one of the boys gave it away. Not the girl. Not one for talkin’, she weren’t.”

  “And what did Clive Pembrooke do when he found out they were planning to leave him?”

  “Don’t know exactly. I may have heard a gunshot that night. Or maybe it was only a lightning strike. In the morning, after everyone had gone, I found blood on the hall floor.”

  Abigail sucked in a breath. “Blood? Whose blood?”

  “Can’t say for sure. I may have peeked, or I may have only dreamt it.”

  “Are you saying Clive Pembrooke shot someone?” Abigail asked in horror. “Someone of his own family . . . ?”

  “I never said that. You didn’t hear it from me. In the morning, everyone was gone. All gone! I saw the blood, see. But no body. So I must have dreamt it, hadn’t I?” Her voice rose. “Don’t tell a soul, miss! Not a soul! We don’t want Master Clive to come back and exact vengeance, do we?”

  Abigail swallowed and shook her head. She glanced through the open door into the kitchen to gauge Eliza’s reaction. Eliza had gone to prepare tea, but at the moment she sat at the worktable writing something.

  Abigail lowered her voice, trying not to rile Mrs. Hayes further. “Did they take the carriage? Were the horses gone?”

  “Aye. The coach and carriage horses were gone. And Black Jack.”

  “But they took none of their belongings?”

  “Oh aye, the mistress and the children took one valise each. But not one thing was missing from Clive Pembrooke’s room. I even asked Tom to come in and look, to see if he agreed.”

  “Tom? Tom who?”

  “Tom Green. The footman. Everyone knows that.” The old woman frowned. “Now, what was your name again?”

  Eliza came in with a tray, and Mrs. Hayes’s attention was soon fully focused on her tea and toasted muffin. Abigail decided not to press the matter any further for the time being, and the conversation turned to more general topics of weather and parish life. When Eliza offered her more tea, Abigail noticed she no longer wore the brooch.

  “Your brooch is gone,” she said. “I hope you didn’t lose it.”

  Eliza ducked her head. “No, I only took it off. Didn’t want it falling into the soup.”

  “What? Who fell?” Mrs. Hayes asked. “He said Walter fell to his death, but I know better. He was pushed.”

  Walter? Was that the name of the valet who died in Pembrooke Park, Abigail wondered, trying to remember what Polly had told her.

  “Hush, Auntie. Miss Foster admired my brooch—that’s all.”

  Mrs. Hayes
nodded over her teacup. “Ah. E for Eliza. That’s right.”

  Later, as she walked home, Abigail reviewed what she’d learned from the letters, along with the information she’d gleaned from Duncan, Polly, Mac, and now Mrs. Hayes. Abigail wondered where Clive’s family was now. The letter writer was apparently his daughter. The “Miss Pembrooke” Mrs. Hayes had mentioned. Abigail thought again of Eliza bent over quill and paper. She should have asked her what she was writing.

  When she returned to Pembrooke Park, Abigail decided to do a little writing of her own. She went into the library, retrieved paper, quill, and ink, and wrote a letter to the solicitor.

  Dear Mr. Arbeau,

  I would like to ask the name of your client, the executor you mentioned of Pembrooke Park. I would also like an address so that I may write to this person. Or more accurately, so that I may write back in reply to her letters. You see, Mr. Arbeau, someone is writing to me here. Someone who has lived here before and is evidently female. I deduce the person must be Miss Pembrooke, though I suppose I may be wrong. In any case, would you please give me the name and direction of your client? Or if you prefer, ask your client if I may contact her?

  Thank you for your assistance in this matter.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Abigail Foster

  Molly knocked on the open library door and brought in the day’s post—a letter from Mamma.

  “Thank you, Molly.” Abigail opened it and read.

  Dear Abigail,

  I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits, and settling well into Pembrooke Park. Your father gives a good account of your efforts, but says it is well Louisa and I were not there to see it in its initial, neglected state. I know you will endeavor long and admirably to put it to rights for us before we arrive at the end of the season.

  Speaking of the season, your sister has made quite an impression, I can tell you. Several well-connected gentlemen of means have expressed their admiration. She is enjoying herself tremendously, and you would be thoroughly proud of her. She sends her love, as does dear Aunt Bess, who has been the most gracious hostess during our stay here.

  Your father asks me to tell you that he intends to return at month’s end, but if you need him sooner for any reason, you are to write and let him know. He trusts you are well looked after by the servants and the protective former steward he told us about. I assured him you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and with the maids to attend you, there should be no concern for propriety. Why, here in London Louisa ventures into Hyde Park with only one servant as escort, and there you have a staff of five! But if you are uneasy without your father there with you, do let us know.