Leaving the hamlet behind, they turned down a narrow, tree-lined lane. Bumping down the long drive, the coach came to a jarring halt.
Mr. Arbeau’s black eyes flashed. “What the devil . . . ?”
Abigail lifted her chin, trying to see out the window.
The groom opened the door. “Way’s blocked, sir. This is as far as we can go in this big ol’ girl.”
“What do you mean, the way is blocked?”
“Come and see, sir.”
Taking his tall beaver hat with him, Mr. Arbeau alighted, the carriage lurching under his weight. Abigail took the groom’s offered hand and stepped down as well. Her father followed.
Abigail was instantly surrounded by the lush smell of pines and rich earth. Ahead a stone bridge crossed a narrow river. But the bridge was blocked by stout barrels heaped with rocks. The barrels were placed at intervals, allowing pedestrians or single horses to pass but not carriages.
Mr. Arbeau muttered over the barricade and began discussing the situation with the groom and postilion rider. But Abigail’s gaze was drawn beyond the bridge to the manor on its other side—a large house constructed of rubble stone in warm hues of buff gold and grey, with a tile roof and steeply pitched gables. It faced a central courtyard, with stables on one side and a small church on the other, the whole surrounded by a low stone wall and approached through a gate beyond the bridge.
Beside her, her father said, “That’s it, ey? Pembrooke Park?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at him to gauge his reaction, but it was difficult to tell what he was thinking.
Mr. Arbeau stepped nearer, addressing them both. “My client did not mention any such barricade. It must have been erected in recent years without my client’s knowledge.” Mr. Arbeau tugged on his cuffs. “Come. We shall walk from here.”
He employed a gold-headed walking stick as he strode off. Abigail and her father exchanged uncertain looks but followed the solicitor through the barrels and across the bridge.
On the other side, they passed through the gate in the stone wall and crossed the courtyard, their shoes crunching over the pea-gravel drive, where patches of weeds had grown up here and there from disuse.
Nearer now, Abigail noticed the manor’s windows were of different styles and eras. Some were arched, others square casement, and there were even two lovely projecting oriel bays. The front door was recessed under an arched porch. To Abigail it looked like a gaped mouth, and the windows above like frightened eyes. She blinked away the fanciful image.
A chain and padlock bound the double doors closed. Abigail and her father paused as Mr. Arbeau fished an old key on a black ribbon from his pocket. He lifted the padlock and inserted the key.
Suddenly a dog barked viciously and bounded across the drive toward them. Abigail stiffened and looked about for a weapon, ready to grab Mr. Arbeau’s walking stick if he didn’t think to use it. The muscular, square-headed mastiff lurched to a halt a few yards away, body coiled, teeth bared as its warning barks lowered to ominous growls.
Crack! A shot rang out, making Abigail jump and whirl around with a cry.
Her father stretched out an arm as though to shield her, the act touching if futile. Mr. Arbeau slowly turned in the direction of the shot.
There at the corner of the house some twenty yards away, a man held a smoking double-barrel flintlock, pointed up in the air. He was a tall, lean man of perhaps fifty years with faded red hair and trimmed beard, his legs spread in confident stance.
He lowered the gun, leveling it at them. “Next time I’ll na’ aim over yer heads.”
Her father raised his hands.
Mr. Arbeau regarded the man, hooded eyes revealing neither fear nor noticeable surprise.
A second, younger man ran onto the scene. “Pa!” His voice rose on a warning note. “Pa, don’t.” The man was in his midtwenties, with red hair as well.
He flicked a glance in their direction. “Put the gun down, Pa. And call off Brutus. These good people mean no harm, I’m sure. They don’t look like thieves to me.”
For a moment the older man remained poised as he was, sharp eyes darting from Mr. Arbeau, to her father, and at last to her.
The younger man reached out and lowered the barrel of the gun. “There now. That’s better.”
The older man kept his eyes locked on them and demanded, “Who are ye, and what’s yer business here?” His low voice betrayed a faint Scottish lilt. His long, thin nose and high, defined cheekbones gave him the look of an ascetic or aristocrat, though his clothes were less refined than his features.
Mr. Arbeau stepped down from the porch, reaching into his pocket as he did so.
The gun snapped up again in response.
“My card,” the solicitor explained, his hands wide in supplication. “The name is Arbeau. And we have every right to be here, I assure you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Mr. Arbeau offered his card. “I represent the executor of the estate.”
Tucking the gun under his arm, the man snatched the card and glowered down at it.
Mr. Arbeau’s hooded eyes roved the taller man’s face with calculating interest. “You, I take it, are Mac Chapman.”
The man’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “And how is it ye know my name, when I have’na laid eyes on ye in my life?”
The younger man gave them an apologetic look, an ironic smile tugging his mouth. “No doubt your reputation precedes you, Papa. Or certainly will, after this.”
The humor was lost on the elder Mr. Chapman. He lifted his red-bearded chin toward Abigail and her father. “Who are these people? And why do they trespass here?”
Mr. Arbeau sent them a sidelong glance, likely considering how best to disarm the man—quite literally. “Miss Foster and her father have come all the way from London to see Pembrooke Park.”
Her father stepped forward, arms still raised but flagging to waist level. “I am Charles Foster. My maternal grandmother was Mary Catharine Pembrooke, daughter of Alexander Pembrooke.”
Abigail felt a flush of embarrassment on her father’s behalf. She had never heard him speak those names before. He must have been studying the family tree since the solicitor’s first call. His pride in his distant relationship to an old family they barely knew left her uneasy.
Mr. Chapman seemed to consider her father’s words with sincere interest, his eyes lifting to the sky as he searched his memory. “Mary Catharine Pembrooke . . .” he echoed. “Oh, aye. She would have been Robert Pembrooke’s great-aunt.”
“I . . .” Her father hesitated. Like her, he probably had no idea who Robert Pembrooke was.
The man continued to search his memory. “She married a Mr. Fox, I believe.”
Father’s head reared back in surprise. “That’s right. My grandfather. But how did you know?”
The younger man clapped his father’s shoulder. “My father served as Pembrooke Park’s steward for many years. He took great pride in his work, and the family he represented.”
“Apparently, he still does.” Mr. Arbeau drew back his shoulders. “Well, if we are finished with our genealogy lesson, I think it is time we went in.” He turned toward the door.
Mac Chapman stiffened and scowled. “Go in? Whatever for?”
“Why, to show Mr. and Miss Foster around the house. My client has offered to let the place to them for a twelvemonth, if it meets with their approval.”
Abigail did not miss the stunned look father and son exchanged. They were certainly not happy to learn people might be moving into the abandoned house.
Mr. Arbeau returned his attention to the padlock, struggling to unlock the rusted old thing. But Mr. Chapman handed his son the gun and strode forward, pulling a tangle of keys from his coat pocket.
“Allow me,” Chapman said. “That key ye have is for the door itself.”
Mr. Arbeau stepped aside, offense sparking in his dark eyes. “By all means.” Noticing a rusty orange-brown smear on his s
ilky black palm, he wiped his gloved hands on a handkerchief.
Mr. Chapman employed one of his keys, and the padlock gave way. He unhooked it from the heavy chain and pulled the links from between the door handles.
The son offered, “My father has kept the roof and exterior in good repair over the years, as I believe you will see.”
Mr. Arbeau surveyed man, dog, and gun. “And taken it upon himself to padlock the place and act as self-appointed guard?” he suggested, black eyebrows raised high.
“What of it?” Chapman said, setting the chain aside.
“I suppose it is you we have to thank for the barricade on the bridge?”
“There have been attempted break-ins in the past.”
Her father said, “Youthful dares and vandals, I’d guess?”
“No, sir. Ye guess wrong. Treasure hunters. Thieves.”
“Treasure hunters?” Abigail asked sharply.
Mac Chapman looked at her directly, and at such close range, she was struck by his intense green eyes. “Aye, miss. Brought on by old rumors of treasure hidden in the house. In a secret room.” His eyes glinted. “Stuff and nonsense, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed faintly. Treasure? Abigail wondered. Could it be?
He inserted a second key into the door lock. “Stuck eighteen years ago, and I doubt disuse has helped matters.” He butted his shoulder against the wood while pressing the latch. The door released with a shudder, then creaked open.
“Well, Mr. Chapman,” the solicitor said, “would you like to do the honors of giving us the tour?”
“It’s just Mac, if ye please. And no thank ye.”
His son said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing it, Pa. I haven’t been inside since I was a boy.”
Mac gave him a pointed look. “I am sure ye have important duties to attend to.”
He met his father’s steely gaze. “Ah. Yes, I suppose I do.”
Movement caught Abigail’s eye. She looked over her shoulder and saw a young woman step through the gate, accompanied by a girl of eleven or twelve. They crossed the courtyard, then stopped in their tracks at the sight of the visitors.
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.
As they took their leave of him, Mac cautioned Abigail, “Now you’ve taken the place, yer sure to hear gossip. Pay it no mind.”
“Gossip?” she asked. “About the supposed treasure, you mean?”
“Aye.” His green eyes glinted. “And other rumors far worse.”
Chapter 3
They returned home, told Mamma and Louisa all about their new lodgings, and accepted the highest
offer on their London house. The buyer, having recently returned from the West Indies, desired to take possession immediately, so Abigail launched herself into preparations to vacate the premises.
Some of the art was to be sold separately, and a few special pieces of china and linen taken with them, but the rest would remain with the house. Abigail oversaw the packing of trunks but left the negotiations with the art dealer to her father.
She felt nostalgic as she packed things from the bedchamber she had occupied for most of her life. How strange to leave the furniture and bedclothes for someone new to sleep in. She hoped he or she would appreciate them. She packed away her own clothes, sorting between those she would take in her valise for immediate use and those she would pack away in her trunk to be sent down later. She packed her favorite books—books of house plans, landscaping essays by Capability Brown, and a few novels.
Because the new owner was willing to retain the household staff, the Fosters decided they would take only the lady’s maid, Marcel, though she would remain behind in London with Mamma and Louisa for the time being. Her father’s valet refused to leave London and requested a character reference to use in seeking another situation.
The horses were sold, as well as the town coach. They would hire a post chaise for travel.
A fortnight later, everything was settled, allowing Abigail and her father to return to Pembrooke Park. Meanwhile, Mrs. Foster and Louisa removed to Aunt Bess’s home, planning to join them in Berkshire after the season.
The night before they left, Abigail finished packing her remaining personal belongings, checking to be sure she had everything she would need for a week or so in her hand luggage—nightclothes, a clean shift, toiletries, the novel she was currently reading. She went through her desk drawer, looking for a drawing pad and pencils to take along. She spied a tube of paper and unrolled it, her heart aching as she recognized the house plans she and Gilbert had drawn up long ago. After much discussion and many revisions, here was their ideal house.
Perhaps it had only been a game to him. An exercise. But for her it had been very real. She had imagined living in those rooms. Filling those bedchambers with their children. Eating their meals together in that dining room with its bow window overlooking a landscaped garden through which she and Gilbert would stroll arm in arm. . . .
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 3