Polly came up to help her undress. Afterward, she thanked the young woman and bid her good-night. Abigail certainly hoped it would be good. She always had difficulty sleeping in a strange place. After she blew out her bedside candle, she lay awake for what seemed like hours, hearing every groan of wind through the windows, and every creak the old house made. Even after she fell asleep, she awoke often, not sure what had disturbed her and forgetting where she was. She reminded herself she was not alone in the house. There was no need to be frightened—the servants were there.
Why did that thought bring little comfort?
She was about to drift off again when she heard something. A whirring rise and fall, like a warbling brook or garbled, distant voices. Mrs. Walsh and Duncan had rooms belowstairs. Their voices wouldn’t carry all the way from there. Though voices might carry from the attic above. Perhaps her room was under the sisters’ room and she was hearing their conversation. Abigail could not identify any particular voice, or even its gender. In fact she wasn’t certain it was a voice at all. It could be a trick of the wind, winnowing through the chimneys.
As Abigail listened, she suddenly heard a ghostly moan, “All alone. All alonnnnne . . .”
She gasped and lay still, listening hard. But all she heard was the wind. Surely she had imagined the voice. Yes, of course, she told herself, long into the night. It had only been the wind.
In the morning, Abigail stayed in bed later than usual, having slept poorly. It was Sunday, but Abigail decided against attending church. She wasn’t ready to meet all those strangers, to feel their stares as she, the newcomer, entered. And what if they did things differently in the country? She would feel uncomfortable and uncertain what to do. Her family had attended divine services only sporadically in London, when they had not been out too late the night before, or when her mother decided they ought to show up for appearances’ sake, especially if a prospective suitor was known to be devout. Besides, Abigail had several letters to write, and she would finally have the time to do so.
Polly brought up a breakfast tray and helped her dress before leaving to attend church herself. Mac had strongly suggested the servants be given a day of rest on the Sabbath, so they might attend church and visit their families. Abigail had agreed, wishing her own family were there so she would not be alone.
After breakfast, Abigail reread a letter she had received at the inn the day before from Gilbert’s sister. Susan expressed regret that Abigail had left Town and concern over her family’s new situation. She had also added a postscript:
You described Pembrooke Park as being a remote place near the tiny hamlet of Easton and the village of Caldwell. Interestingly enough, Edward and I have heard of Caldwell. One of the magazine’s regular contributors lives there. What a small world it is!
Abigail idly wondered who it was. She dipped a quill in ink and began her reply, trying to sound optimistic about the change in their circumstances, to ward off her friend’s pity or worry. She was fine. They were fine. She asked the name of the local writer, in case she encountered this person.
But she soon found herself distracted and rose and crossed the hall to her father’s room. From his window, she saw a few wagons and gigs stopping on the other side of the bridge. The habit of leaving horses and vehicles was well ingrained, she saw, though Mac had finally agreed to removal of the barricade. Duncan had not enjoyed the task, she knew.
Other families came on foot from nearby Easton, greeting one another as they passed through the gate. The church bell rang, startling Abigail after the silence of the empty house. The last of the parishioners disappeared inside, and with a sigh Abigail returned to her letter.
Later, when the service ended, Abigail again rose to watch the congregation depart. As the small crowd diminished and trickled away over the bridge, she finally saw the Chapmans emerge—Mac, a middle-aged woman who must be his wife, William, Leah, the younger girl, and a red-haired boy as well. They talked and laughed as they walked across the courtyard on their way home. Mac’s cottage was somewhere just beyond the estate grounds. William, she’d gathered, had recently moved into the small parsonage behind the church, though clearly he still spent time with his family.
The dog, so fierce when she’d first seen him, bounded over and joined the family with a lolling tongue and wagging tail. The tall red-haired boy of perhaps fifteen tossed a stick to him and then went chasing after the dog. His younger sister followed suit. Mac called some ireless admonishment after them, while his wife laughed and took his arm. Behind their parents, Leah took William’s arm as well. The sweet picture of familiar affection caused a little ache in Abigail’s heart. Her own family was not terribly affectionate. But she’d always secretly hoped that she and Gilbert would make up for it with their own children someday. Tears bit her eyes, and she blinked the painful thought away.
As though sensing he was being watched, William Chapman glanced back, looking up at the house. Although she doubted he could see inside the dim room on the sunny day, she stepped away from his view.
Later that afternoon, Abigail buttoned a spencer over her day dress—preparing to go out for a walk—when someone knocked on the front door. Since the servants had not yet returned from their day off, Abigail jogged lightly down the stairs and answered it herself, hat and gloves in hand. She felt a momentary hesitation about opening the door to a stranger—or possible treasure hunter—while she was alone in the house, so she was relieved to recognize the caller as William Chapman, basket in arms. Nothing about his fashionable green coat, patterned waistcoat, or simple cravat marked him as a clergyman.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
He glanced behind her toward the empty hall. “Servants abandon you already?” A wry glint shone in his boyish blue eyes.
“No,” she assured him. “Not at all. They are enjoying a day of rest.”
“That was generous of you.”
“Your father’s idea.”
“Ah. Yes, he isn’t shy about offering his ideas on how I ought to conduct things on Sundays either.”
“Oh?”
“He is the parish clerk, after all. So . . .” He shrugged helplessly.
“You poor man,” she teased. William Chapman was handsome, she decided. His hair was darker than his father’s, more auburn than red. And he was nearly as tall. His features were pleasing—straight nose, broad mouth, and fair skin.
He held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for my father. But he can be a bit . . . overbearing at times. I wouldn’t want you to think you were the only one on the receiving end of his . . . suggestions.”
He smiled, causing vertical grooves to frame his mouth and his large eyes to crinkle at the corners. Abigail felt a flutter of attraction.
“Here, this is for you. A welcome basket from my sister.” He held forth the basket, bulging with gifts: embroidered hand towels, homemade soap, tins of tea and jam, a loaf of bread, and a mound of muffins.
“My goodness. Did she make all this herself?”
“Most of it, yes—even the basket—though Kitty helps with the soap, Mamma is the baker, and my father is famous round the parish for his jams.”
“No . . .”
“Oh yes. Walking about as land agent, he’s discovered all the best patches of wild strawberries, gooseberries, and blackberries. Plus, he’s long had the run of the Pembrooke orchards. I hope you shan’t tell the new tenant. . . .” He winked.
“His secret is quite safe with me. Especially since he shared his jam. But . . . why didn’t your sister come herself? I would have liked to thank her in person.”
He grimaced as he considered his reply. “Leah is a bit . . . not shy exactly, but cautious around strangers.”
“Oh. I see. I did wonder, when I saw you escorting her away the day we arrived. Actually, when I saw you with her and a younger girl too, I thought they were your wife and daughter. . . .”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms behind his back and rocked on his heels.
“No, I am not married. I have not had that privilege. Though I was—” He broke off, and she thought she saw pain flash across his eyes before he blinked it away. “You saw my two sisters, and I have a brother as well. Kitty looks young for her age, but she is twelve.”
“I see.” Abigail stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure whether she ought to ask him in. “I would invite you in to share this with me, but as I am alone in the house, I . . .”
He waved away the offer. “No, no. I have no intention of begging an invitation and wouldn’t dream of depriving you of a single bite. Though if you share the jam with Mrs. Walsh, you shall have a friend for life.”
She smiled up at him. “Then I shall indeed.”
Duty discharged, William Chapman knew he should excuse himself, but felt oddly reluctant to part ways with the lovely newcomer. He forced himself to say, “Well, I can see you are dressed to go out, so I shan’t keep you.”
“I was only going for a walk,” Miss Foster said. “I have been indoors all day and haven’t had a chance to explore the grounds yet, so . . .” Her words trailed away.
Was she hoping he would join her? Unlikely, yet there was only one way to find out.
“A beautiful day for it,” William agreed. “Would you mind some company?”
“Not at all.”
He smiled. “A walk is exactly what I need after Mamma’s roast dinner.”
She returned his smile with apparent relief. “Just let me set this inside and put on my things.”
A few moments later, she joined him in the courtyard wearing gloves and a straw hat.
“After you.” He gestured her toward the side of the house, and they walked around it. “Other than the church, everything I love is back here.”
Behind the house, lush green vines with white flowers climbed the manor walls. In the rear courtyard, a terrace overlooked a neglected rose garden, overgrown topiaries, and a lily pond.
He said, “It isn’t as beautiful as it once was, of course.”
“Perhaps when the house is ready, I might give the gardens some attention.”
“Mamma would be happy to help. She loves a garden. And Papa would be eager to offer you many suggestions of how to go about it.”
The two shared another grin.
They passed a walled garden, potting shed, and orchard. William pointed toward a large pond beyond. “That’s the fishpond. Robert Pembrooke left Papa the use of it, along with ownership of our cottage, in his will.”
“Robert Pembrooke . . .” Miss Foster echoed. “Is that who lived here before us?”
“Not immediately before. He died twenty years ago.”
William did not expand on his reply. His father didn’t want him inviting questions about the manor’s former occupants.
As if sensing his reserve, she asked instead, “Where is your family’s cottage?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Then I’ll just point it out to you. You should know where it is, in case you ever need anything, or if there is ever any . . . trouble.” Lord willing, there would not be, William thought, though his father was full of dire predictions and warnings.
He led her past the former gamekeeper’s lodge, then along a well-worn path through a grove of trees, carpeted with green-and-white wood anemones. Nestled in a clearing sat his family’s white cottage with a thatched roof.
She paused to look at it from a polite distance. “How charming,” she murmured.
He regarded the place fondly. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
After a moment, she asked abruptly, “Is your family as happy as they seem?”
He considered her unexpected question, pursing his lips in thought. “Yes, for the most part we are a happy lot. Or perhaps content is the better word. We have our squabbles like any family, but woe to anyone who tries to harm a Chapman.” He tried to smile but felt it falter. “If only Leah . . .”
She regarded him in concern. “If only Leah, what?”
Why had he said anything? “I am not criticizing,” he hurried to assure her. “But Leah has struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. I wish I could help her. Scripture says fear not. And perfect love casts out fear, but nothing I say—or pray—seems to make any difference.”
“Love without fear . . .” Miss Foster murmured, considering the notion. “It doesn’t sound very practical, I’m afraid. For the more one loves, the more one has to fear losing.”
He looked at her, a grin tugging his mouth. “Impractical, maybe. Difficult, yes. But what a beautiful way to live.”
He cocked his head to one side, allowing his gaze to roam her lovely face. “You value practicality, I take it, Miss Foster?”
“Yes, I do.” She drew herself up. “Speaking of which, perhaps I ought to get back to the house and let you return to yours. I am certain you must be tired after services.”
“A little weary, yes. But nothing a quick nap can’t fix.” He turned and gestured for her to lead the way back.
As they walked, she said tentatively, “Thank you for not pressing me about attending church.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He had been a bit disappointed when she hadn’t come but had no intention of pressuring her. Instead, he sent her a sidelong glance and said wryly, “You’ll come when you’re ready. I hear the sermons are quite . . . interesting.”
She shot him a puzzled look. Had he piqued her interest? He certainly hoped so.
Chapter 5
That night, Abigail went up to bed early, weary from sleeping so poorly the night before and hoping she would sleep better her second night at Pembrooke Park.
Polly helped her undress, cheerfully chatting about church—“Mr. Chapman preaches the shortest sermons. Witty too. Some folks don’t appreciate it, but I do . . .”—and about the afternoon she and Molly had spent with her parents and brothers out on their family farm. She also mentioned Duncan had just returned from visiting his mother in Ham Green, several miles away. As Abigail listened to the girl’s happy account, she was glad she had heeded Mac’s advice and given the servants the day off.
After Polly left, Abigail crawled into bed with a book she’d found in the library—a history of the Pembrooke family and manor. But she’d read only a few pages before her eyelids began drooping. She set aside the book and blew out her bedside candle. Lying there, Abigail thought back on the day’s conversation with Mr. Chapman. They had touched on so many topics—family and fear and church . . .
Engulfed in darkness, her ears focused sharply, trying to catalogue every sound. For once identified, she would no longer need to fret about it. That howl? The wind through the fireplace flue. That rattle? A window shaken by the wind. Telling herself she would grow used to the sounds in time, she determinedly pulled the bedclothes to her chin, pressed her eyes closed, and willed sleep to come.
Then she heard something new. A creak, like a door opening nearby. Probably only Polly, she thought, checking to see if the windows in the master bedchamber had been shut after yesterday’s airing.
Faint footsteps reached her ears. In the corridor outside her room? No—it sounded more muffled, like footsteps on carpet and not wood. Was it coming from the next room? The room on that side of the wall was to be Louisa’s. Why would anyone be in there, when they hadn’t even started cleaning it yet?
A scrape—like a chair leg across wood? She was probably imagining things. It was likely only a simple creak of the house, of damp, warped walls and floorboards. After all, it was well past working hours and a Sunday yet.
Sleep, she told herself, closing her eyes again. Fear not.
In the morning, Abigail was still sound asleep when Polly came in with hot water and a breakfast tray.
“Oh. Sorry, Polly. I intended to be up before you came.” Abigail pushed back the bedclothes and hurried to the washstand. “I didn’t sleep well last night. The house makes so many odd noises. Have you noticed?”
“What sort of noi
ses?” Polly asked.
“Oh, you know. Creaks and groans. Though last night I heard footsteps, long after you had gone to bed.”
“You likely imagined it.” The girl’s eyes twinkled. “Or perhaps the place is haunted, like the village children say it is.”
“Haunted?” Abigail echoed, drying her face. “By whom? I suppose my father and I have angered some ghost of Pembrooke past by moving in here?”
“Well, someone did die here twenty years ago. Was killed some say. Probably his ghost what does the haunting.”
“Who died here?” Abigail asked. “One of the Pembrooke family?” She recalled Mr. Chapman saying a Robert Pembrooke died twenty years ago.
Polly’s mouth slackened, face growing pale. “No, miss. I never said a word about the Pembrookes, did I? Please don’t tell anyone otherwise. I don’t know anything about the family. How could I? I was talkin’ about a servant—that’s all.”
Abigail regarded the young woman, surprised by her panic. Hoping to lighten the moment, she teased, “Which servant? A cheeky housemaid?”
But the girl did not smile. “No, miss. Robert Pembrooke’s valet. Walter something, I heard his name was, but that’s the last word I’ll say on the subject. I’ve said too much already.”
Abigail blinked. “Very well, Polly.”
The housemaid stepped to the closet. “My mouth will be the death of me yet, and you don’t want me hauntin’ the place, flapping my ghostly lips all night. Now, let’s get you dressed. . . .”
When Abigail left her bedchamber a short while later, she paused at the door of the room that would be Louisa’s. The door was closed, as it had been the day before. She opened the latch and inched it open, the mounting creak familiar. Is that what she’d heard last night?
At first glance the room seemed undisturbed. But then, in the morning light slanting through the unshuttered windows, she saw something. She frowned and bent to look closer. Yes, unmistakable. Footprints in the dust, all the way to the wardrobe. She had not even bothered to look inside yet, but someone had. The footprints appeared notably larger than her small shoes. So probably not one of the housemaids checking the windows.
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 5