Abigail frowned in thought. “I don’t think so. At least, I don’t recall seeing it.”
“Let’s go look,” Kitty said, whirling toward the door and setting off down the corridor.
“Kitty!” William mildly chastised, following behind.
Abigail laughed. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”
Kitty slowed when she reached the room, pushing open the door with apparent reverence. Abigail and William quietly followed her inside.
Sunlight shone through the tall oriel window, dust motes whirling in its angled rays. The second large chamber mirrored the first, with the bed, fireplace, and window in the same positions. They all looked expectantly over the mantel. There was a painting of a lady there—not a young woman, as they’d expected, but rather a matronly looking woman with wispy white hair and deep grooves framing her mouth and crossing her brow. The painting was not as large as that of Robert Pembrooke either. Odd, when everything else about the two rooms seemed symmetrical.
“That can’t be the man’s wife,” Kitty said, clearly disappointed.
“Not unless his portrait was painted in his prime and hers in later years,” Abigail suggested.
“She didn’t live that long,” William said.
Abigail turned to him in surprise. “What?”
He shrugged. “It’s all supposition at this point anyway. That woman could be anyone.”
Abigail said, “Perhaps I shall ask your father.”
William hesitated. “I . . . wouldn’t advise asking him more than necessary, Miss Foster. He doesn’t like talking about the old place or his days here.”
“I thought you said he talks about the occupants a great deal.”
“Robert Pembrooke, yes. But . . . no one else.”
“Why not?”
“I . . . don’t think I ought to conjecture. Papa wouldn’t like to find he’d been the subject of idle talk.”
Abigail let the matter drop. “Well then. Have you two seen enough?”
Mr. Chapman chewed his lip, then said, “I would like to see the servants’ hall belowstairs, if I might, and the workrooms.”
She tilted her head to regard him. “May I ask why?”
“It’s the only area I was allowed in as a boy, and I wonder if it’s changed.”
Abigail shrugged. “Very well. This way.”
She led them downstairs, through the dining room and servery, and then navigated the steep stairs, warning Kitty to be careful.
Belowstairs, they walked along the main passage, with doors opening from it to the servants’ hall, larders, kitchen, and scullery.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Walsh glanced up from her worktable, frowning to discover unexpected visitors, but her frown melted away at the sight of Kitty.
“Kitty, my love, what a treat to see you. Speaking of treats, come be the first to try my new batch of ginger biscuits. I’m sure the mistress shan’t mind.” She gave Abigail a look sparkling with both humor and challenge.
“Indeed she won’t mind,” Abigail assured her with a grin.
“By the by, miss,” Mrs. Walsh said. “Many thanks for sharing Mac’s jam and Kate’s muffins with us. We all enjoyed them a great deal. . . . Well, most of us.”
“I am glad to hear it. I did as well.”
“You’re a lucky girl, my duckling,” Mrs. Walsh tweaked Kitty’s cheek. “Having two such fine cooks in your family.”
“They’ve nothing on you, Mrs. Walsh,” Kitty said around a bite of biscuit. “Mum’s never tasted half so good.”
Abigail glanced over her shoulder to share a smile with William Chapman, but the threshold where he’d stood was empty. She stepped to the door and peered around the doorjamb, surprised to see him lift a door latch at the end of the passage, only to find it locked.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
He glanced up, his fair complexion flushing. “Just wondered where this leads to. I used to play hide-and-seek here as a boy, but I can’t remember . . .”
Abigail’s stomach prickled with suspicion. First he’d disappeared while they were upstairs, opening doors and drawers and who knew what, and now poking about the cellar? She remembered again what Leah had said about William being paid very ill by the stingy rector. Was he tempted to supplement his meager income with treasure hunting?
Abigail hoped not. She had begun to think he might admire her. But perhaps he was only interested in the house and had feigned admiration to gain admittance. With a sinking feeling, Abigail considered the notion. It was far easier to believe an interest in treasure than an interest in her.
Certain she was right, Abigail said little as she walked them out. But then Mr. Chapman surprised her yet again.
He turned to her and said, “Miss Foster, will you dine with my family this evening, since you’re on your own here?”
She hesitated, not sure how to refuse. “It isn’t very much notice. Won’t your family mind?”
“Not in the least. They shall be delighted, and heaven knows Mamma is used to me showing up with guests at mealtimes. I am no cook, and the parsonage kitchen is from the dark ages.”
“Very true,” Kitty said. “Yes, do come, Miss Foster.”
William added, “Mother has been pestering Leah and me to bring you by. She wants to meet our new neighbor.”
Seeing Kitty’s hopeful smile, Abigail said, “In that case, I will happily accept. Thank you.”
“Excellent. Will five o’clock be convenient? We eat unfashionably early here.”
“I don’t mind at all.” She smiled and drew herself up. “Well, I had better go back down and let Mrs. Walsh know not to make up a tray for me.”
They bid her farewell and turned to go. But then Kitty turned back once more. “Oh, I hear people in London dress up for dinner. But no need. We’re informal at home.”
Abigail looked to her brother for confirmation.
“Kitty is right. You are perfect as you are.” He held her gaze as he said it.
Abigail felt her cheeks warm. Surely he was referring to what she was wearing—that’s all.
Avoiding his eyes, Abigail addressed his sister. “Thank you, Kitty. That is good to know.”
Kitty nodded and smiled. “We girls must stick together.”
William walked his sister back home. He was glad he’d thought to invite Miss Foster to dinner. She had been alone too much of late. And he hoped it would make up for his less than polite behavior during the tour. His curiosity was natural enough, but he ought to have restrained himself.
Beside him, Kitty pulled something from her pelisse pocket.
“What is that?” he asked.
“It’s a basket. From the Pembrooke dolls’ house.”
William stopped in his tracks, stunned. “You took it?”
She rolled her eyes and scoffed, “I am not stealing it. Only borrowing it. I want to show Leah.”
“Why?”
“It looks very much like the baskets she makes, does it not?”
He squinted at it but failed to be impressed. “Looks like any old basket to me. Did you ask if you could borrow it?”
“I meant to when I came and found the two of you. But then we began talking about the portrait and I quite forgot.”
“You must give it back to Miss Foster. And apologize for taking it.” He gave her his most withering look of clerical exhortation.
She screwed up her face. “Of course I will.”
When they entered the cottage, there sat his mother and sister in their customary chairs in the sitting room, knitting.
Kitty hurried over to her sister. “Look at this.”
Leah took the little basket in her fingers. “Is this the one I made for you?”
“No. That’s why I wanted to show you. I found it in the dolls’ house at Pembrooke Park. Did you give one to the girl who used to live there?”
Leah’s brow furrowed as she looked from her sister to the basket, but before she could reply, their father came in from the next room, fr
owning.
“What were you doing in Pembrooke Park?” he asked.
Kitty said, “Miss Foster gave William and me a tour. I’ll give the basket back—I just wanted to show it to Leah.”
Leah said, “I’m sure Kitty meant no harm, Papa. But of course she must return it when she next calls.”
“I don’t want her going back there.”
“Please don’t be angry, Papa. I wanted to see inside. William did too.”
“I have told you all that I don’t want you going over there. I—”
“I don’t see why not,” Kitty protested. “Miss Foster is living there now, and she is perfectly amiable. William must think so too. For he invited her to have dinner with us tonight.”
William felt his ears redden at the insinuation.
“Tonight?” his mother echoed. She raised her eyebrows and pierced him with a startled look. “Did he indeed?”
The Chapman cottage sat nestled in a wood bordering the estate grounds—on the same side of the river—which allowed Mac to guard the place from outsiders who had to cross the bridge to reach the house, unless they knew the back way through the wood. Abigail had seen the Chapman home from a distance on her walk with William Chapman, but approaching it now, cast in the golden late-afternoon sunlight filtered through a canopy of lime trees, Abigail thought it looked more charming than ever—like a painting in soft hues of gold, green, and ivory. Dark green shutters framed its windows, and tulips and daffodils crowned window boxes beneath. A low stone wall surrounded the cottage, the enclosed space filled with cheerful kitchen and flower gardens boasting blooming herbs and spring flowers. The only object marring the idyllic picture was a high-fenced dog kennel on one side—the dog within barking furiously as Abigail opened the gate.
She heard Mac Chapman’s voice before she saw him stalking out from a side door, sternly chastising his dog. “Brutus. Quiet. Down!”
Drawn by the hubbub, a woman in mob cap and apron hurried out the front door. “Sorry about that. Don’t worry. His bark is worse than his bite.” She winked. “The dog’s too.”
The wink, the grin, the bright blue eyes identified the woman as William Chapman’s mother.
“You must be Miss Foster,” she said. “I’m Kate Chapman. A pleasure to meet you. What a welcome! Your second inauspicious welcome at our hands! I am surprised you could be persuaded to join us. Come inside, my dear. The dog will calm down when he can’t see you—the scary stranger.”
Abigail returned the woman’s smile, liking her immediately. Mrs. Chapman was a pretty woman in her early fifties with golden-brown hair and dancing blue eyes. Her teeth were a bit crooked but together formed a warm and welcoming smile. She showed none of her husband’s suspicious nature nor her elder daughter’s wary reserve.
“William would no doubt have escorted you over, but I’ve sent him to the Wilsons’ for fresh cream. Should have done it earlier, I know, but I’m a bit scattered by the prospect of such august company!”
“Really—you oughtn’t to have gone to any special trouble.”
Mrs. Chapman opened the door for her. “Of course I must! And do be sure and notice Mac’s collection of shooting trophies. Knowing you were joining us, he spent the last hour polishing them.”
“Oh! I feel terrible. Your son assured me you would not mind—that you have guests all the time.”
“He may have exaggerated just a bit, my dear. To put you at your ease, no doubt. And don’t mistake me—I have been longing to meet you.”
She took Abigail’s arm and led her through the vestibule and down the passage. “Mary! Check the fish, if you please.” She looked back at Abigail and explained, “We have a plain cook, and she is very plain indeed. We’re attempting a fine dinner for you, my dear, but no guarantees.”
“What may I do to help?” Abigail asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t much experience, but I am happy to try.”
“Oh, my dear—I like you already.” She squeezed Abigail’s arm. “Come back to the kitchen.”
She followed the woman toward the back of the house and into a chaotic kitchen, with a worktable strewn with flour and mixing bowls and a stove covered with pots and stewing pans.
“Something smells good,” Abigail said.
Leah looked up from where she sat, shelling peas. “Oh! Miss Foster. We are behind schedule, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t mind in the least. Give me something to do.”
Mrs. Chapman snagged an apron from a peg on the wall, whisked it around Abigail, and tied the strings. “Look at that tiny waist! I had one of those once upon a time.” She winked and plunked a bowl of glistening red strawberries on the table before her. “Stem these, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
Mac Chapman came in, and drew up short at seeing her there at the worktable with his wife and daughter. “Miss Foster, you may wait in the sitting room, if you like, whilst we finish—”
“I am happy to help.” She smiled at him.
He looked from her to his daughter, to his wife, and sadly shook his head. “It isn’t right, my dear. Two such fine young women, working like kitchen maids, when they ought to be living like ladies.”
“Mac . . .” Mrs. Chapman sent a meaningful glance toward Abigail.
“It’s all right, Papa,” Leah said. “Miss Foster has said she doesn’t mind, and you know I don’t. There is no place I’d rather be.”
When Mac left the kitchen for more wood for the fire and Mrs. Chapman retreated into the scullery to consult with the cook about a sauce for the fish, Abigail leaned nearer to Miss Chapman and asked softly, “What did your father mean?”
Leah glanced toward the door, then whispered, “Oh, he thinks I should have married some wealthy gentleman by now.” She ducked her head, self-consciously averting her gaze.
Why hadn’t Leah Chapman married? Abigail wondered, looking at her lovely profile and thick golden-brown hair. She was certainly pretty enough. But she looked to be in her late twenties if not thirty. Was it too late for her? Was she destined to remain a spinster? Perhaps Leah and Abigail had that in common.
Kitty bounded into the kitchen, welcomed Abigail enthusiastically, and joined them at the table. She dug out a fistful of pea pods to help her sister, chatting happily all the while. Abigail decided to keep the rest of her questions to herself.
William hurried through the kitchen door, regretting how long he’d been away on what should have been a quick errand. But Mr. Wilson had talked on and on. . . .
He stilled right there in the threshold. Stopped so abruptly the cream sloshed over the edge of the pail. The scene that greeted him was as unexpected as it was delightful: Leah laughing at something their father said. Miss Foster—Miss Foster—sitting at their kitchen table as though one of the family, laughing right along with her.
Mac said, “No, now, you two will be thick as thieves in no time, I see, and I shall be in trouble.”
How wonderful to see Leah smile—really smile, eyes and all. To laugh with ease in the presence of someone not of their immediate family. When had he last seen it?
His father glanced up. “There you are, Will. Milk the cow yourself and separate the cream?”
Kitty added, “You have been gone an age.”
His mother ran her gaze over him. “You were supposed to fetch cream, my dear, not wear it. Good gracious, your shoes. Kitty, get a cloth, will you? And, Jacob, take that pail from your brother before he drops it. He seems dumbstruck.”
William hadn’t noticed Jacob at his elbow, waiting for him to move past the threshold so he might enter the kitchen as well. William surrendered the pail to his gangly brother and smiled sheepishly at his guest. “What a poor host I am, Miss Foster. To invite you and then be so tardy in joining you. I see you have already been initiated into the pack in my absence?”
“Yes. And happily.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Wash your hands, Jacob.” His mother snatched the pail from him. �
�And then I need you to whip the cream with a little sugar.”
“Let Will do it,” the fifteen-year-old said sullenly. With his red hair, green eyes, and frown, he looked very like their father.
“Lazy bones,” William gently chided him. “Tell you what. Half in two bowls and a race to see who can thicken his faster.”
Jacob met his gaze with a gleam in his eye. “You’re on.” He turned to their father. “Care to place a wager, Pa? Me against William?”
“No, you know we Chapmans don’t gamble,” Mac said sternly. Then he winked at Kitty and whispered, “Sixpence on William.”
She giggled and shook his hand.
“Oh, you two . . .” Mrs. Chapman sighed, but obliged with two mixing bowls and whisks. She poured even amounts of cream in each bowl and eyeballed a palmful of ground sugar. “Dinner will be at midnight at this rate.”
William took up his whisk and readied for the challenge. “Ready. Steady. Go!”
“Back up, Miss Foster,” his mother warned, “or you’ll end up wearing your pudding.”
He and his brother began whisking, now and again each looking at his rival to check his progress, only to grimace in effort once again.
“I don’t want butter, mind,” his mother said. “There, that’s enough.”
“Who won?”
His mother declared it a tie.
“May I taste?” Kitty blinked up at him.
“You may.” William extended the whisk toward her, and she stuck out her tongue, but at the last moment, he tapped it to her nose instead, leaving a dollop of whipped cream on her small pert nose.
Taking the teasing in stride, Kitty fingered the cream from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tongue and pronounced it delicious.
After the filling meal, flavored with plenty of conversation around the table, William suggested a walk to stretch their legs. Miss Foster offered to help with the dishes but his mother refused, insisting both Leah and Abigail accompany him for a walk and leave the dishes to the rest of them, to the groans of Jacob and cheerful compliance of Kitty.
While the women collected their bonnets and wraps, William stepped outside to wait for them, drawing in a breath of cool evening air, refreshing after the warmth of the small house.
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 7