On Sunday, Abigail looked through the gowns in her wardrobe, wondering what to wear to church, which she planned to attend for the first time that morning. In London, the soaring church they’d sporadically attended was immense and crowded, so few knew whether they attended or not, especially as Louisa was always slow getting ready and they often arrived so late that they’d had to sit in the back or, heaven forbid, in the gallery.
But here in rural Berkshire, with the small church located on her very doorstep, she felt she ought to attend. Her presence or absence would surely be noted by the small congregation. And by the Chapmans. She guessed Leah Chapman would be glad to see her there, and her neighbor’s esteem seemed an elusive yet worthwhile goal. And yes, she admitted to herself, she was curious to see the Reverend Mr. Chapman in his clerical role.
At the bottom of the wardrobe, something caught Abigail’s eye. She bent to look closer and was surprised to find a small doll pressed into the corner. Polly must not have noticed it when she’d put away her things. With a shrug, Abigail placed it in the dolls’ house drawer with the others.
Polly entered, and with her help Abigail dressed in a printed muslin gown with modest fichu tucked into its neckline and a warm blue spencer. Then she tied a demure bonnet under her chin, tucked a prayer book under her arm, and set off across the drive. She had fussed too long with her appearance, and by the time she walked through the gate into the churchyard, the bell began to ring, signaling the beginning of the service.
Her heart beat a little harder than it should have for such a mundane excursion. Her palms within her gloves felt damp. Where was she to sit? Would it be presumptuous to sit in the Pembrooke box? What if she inadvertently took someone’s regular seat? She dreaded the thought of all those eyes on her, judging her every move.
When she opened the door, she saw the congregants already seated and scanned the pews for an inconspicuous place to sit.
Mac appeared, his beard neatly trimmed, and dressed as dapper as any London gentleman in black coat, waistcoat, and trousers. “Miss Foster, good to see you. Allow me to show you to your seat.”
Ah, that’s right, Abigail thought. Mr. Chapman had mentioned his father served as parish clerk. He led her up the aisle, all the way to the front row. As Abigail feared, she felt many pairs of eyes upon her. Reaching the box on the right, Mac opened the low door for her.
“Are you sure I should sit here?” she whispered.
An odd wistfulness clouded his green eyes. “The residents of the manor have always sat here, lass. It’s good to have someone sitting here again, even if it’s not who it should be. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”
With that dour benediction, Abigail took her seat. She noticed Andrew Morgan and an older couple seated across the aisle from her in the other place of honor.
A whisper hissed from a few rows back. “Miss Foster!”
Abigail looked over and saw Kitty Chapman, pretty in ivory frock and straw bonnet. The girl beamed and waved enthusiastically until her mother laid a gentle hand on hers and admonished her to sit quietly. Kate Chapman sent an apologetic smile Abigail’s way, and Abigail smiled in return. Leah, beside her mother, nodded politely in her direction.
Abigail glanced up and saw the candles in the chandelier above her had been lit for the service. She wondered if William Chapman was even now in the vestry wiping the soot from his hands before donning his white surplice. She felt a grin quiver on her lips at the thought.
A moment later a side door opened and that very man entered. She blinked at the sight of ironic and playful William Chapman in white cleric’s robe. Hands clasped, he beheld his congregation with a benign closed-lip smile before making his way to the altar. For a moment his gaze landed on her. Did a flicker of doubt cross his fair eyes? She hoped he was not sorry to see her, nor that he had guessed her secret motive for attending.
Mac, in his role as clerk, pronounced in a loud voice, “Let us sing to the praise and glory of God the forty-seventh psalm.”
Abigail found it strangely affecting and edifying to hear the small clutch of congregants in this humble parish church raising their voices together in the praise of their Maker. In the soaring London church, there had been instruments and professional singers, but somehow the music here was all the sweeter for being performed by the peaceful and pious inhabitants of this rural village. The congregation sang and prayed alternately several times. The tunes of the psalms were lively and cheerful, though at the same time sufficiently reverent. William Chapman read the liturgy. The responses were all regularly led by his father, the clerk, the whole congregation joining in one voice.
Mr. Chapman looked at his father meaningfully, and Mac took his cue, rising to stand at the reading desk and positioning spectacles on his long, narrow nose. He traced his finger along the page of the book, already open on the stand, and read in a deep voice. “A reading from the first chapter of James, the last two verses. ‘If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain. Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.’”
William Chapman nodded his thanks to his father and then climbed the stairs into the pulpit. “Good morning, everyone,” he began informally, smiling at the congregation, looking from face to face. He turned his smile on Abigail. “And welcome, Miss Foster. We are pleased to have you among us. Those of you who have not yet met our new neighbor will wish to do so after the service.”
He glanced down at his notes, cleared this throat, then began his sermon.
“A man I recently met told me that he was not interested in religion because religious people were a bore, not to mention hypocritical, pretending to be righteous while inwardly being as selfish and sinful as the next man. And during my years at St. John’s College in Oxford, I heard many fellows and professors espousing that very view. Bemoaning the fact that Sunday services are often attended only for appearance sake, while our churches echo empty during the week on high days and holy days.
“Jesus himself clashed with the religious leaders of his day, namely the Pharisees, who were guided by their own tradition and man-made rules and less by love for God or their fellowman. Jesus wanted fellowship with them, but they were not willing to come to Him, nor to receive Him. Relying instead on their outward adherence to the law.
“Are you religious? Am I? If being ‘religious’ means following a set of rules so we can impress others, so that we can appear righteous—instead of cultivating a deep relationship with the Savior himself—then I agree with the detractors. I am not interested in that sort of religion. And, I suggest, neither is the Lord. Jesus offers forgiveness and love to all who truly seek Him, believe in Him, and worship Him. Regardless of which pew we sit in on a Sunday morning. Or our annual income. Or our family connections.”
Abigail slid lower in her seat. Was that comment directed at her?
“He is waiting for you to come to Him,” he continued. “To rely on His guidance and goodness. To listen and obey and serve. Are you listening—spending time reading His Word and seeking His guidance in prayer? Are you serving Him and your fellowman—the widows and orphans among you? I hope you will this week.”
Did she spend time listening, obeying, and serving? Abigail asked herself. Not really. Not enough, at any rate.
“Let us pray . . .”
Abigail blinked as around her heads bowed and eyes closed and Mr. Chapman led them in prayer in preparation for the offering and Communion. She didn’t recall ever hearing a sermon so brief and to the point. If she had, she might have attended more often. Around her the whole congregation joined in solemn prayer, and the sound of it touched Abigail’s heart.
William had meant to go on to expound on several verses in Matthew 23 and John 5, but having Miss Foster there in the front box, staring at him with those keen dark eyes, had unsettled him, and he’d
quite forgotten. His parishioners, especially the older ones, already gave him grief about his short sermons. And he would hear about this one, no doubt.
After the service concluded, he proceeded down the aisle to bid farewell to his parishioners at the door and to receive their comments. Although the title officially belonged to the rector, most called William Parson as a term of fond respect. But there was one exception.
“I must say, Mr. Chapman, that was an exceedingly short sermon today,” Mrs. Peterman began. “Could you not be bothered to compose a longer one? I do wonder what we are paying you for.”
“You pay him nothing, Mrs. Peterman,” Leah tartly retorted, coming to stand near his elbow. “And the rector pays him a very small sum indeed.”
Mrs. Peterman humphed. “Apparently you get what you pay for.”
“You are correct, Mrs. Peterman,” William admitted. “The sermon I delivered today was shorter than I intended, and I apologize. Did you have any concerns about the content itself, or only its brevity?”
“I didn’t much care for the content either. I have half a mind to write to Mr. Morris and tell him his curate spends insufficient time in his duty. Perhaps you ought to spend less time fawning over pretty girls from the pulpit, and more time making sermons!”
“He only welcomed Miss Foster,” Leah objected. “He certainly did not fawn over her.”
William’s mother joined the trio and, with a keen look at William, took the older woman’s arm. “I would be happy to introduce you to Miss Foster, if you’d like, Mrs. Peterman,” she offered. “A charming young woman.”
Mrs. Peterman sniffed. “I think she’s received more than enough attention for one day.”
The woman’s husband spoke up at last. “Now, my dear,” Mr. Peterman soothed, “you overstate your case. Our good parson did nothing improper.” He gave William an apologetic look. “And I for one appreciate short sermons.” He winked.
William nodded. “I shall keep that in mind, sir.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Mrs. Peterman protested. “The only saving grace of your short sermons is that my husband hasn’t sufficient time to fall asleep and embarrass me.”
The old man clucked and gently led his wife into the churchyard.
William glanced at his sister, eyebrows raised. He had never heard her speak so sharply to anyone.
“I am sorry, William. But she vexes me no end.”
“I understand. And I appreciate your loyalty. But remember that she is one of my flock, and I am supposed to love and serve her.”
“I know. But I cannot stand to hear her criticize you. I don’t think she has any idea how hard you work and how much you do for your flock, as you call them.”
“At least she has the courage to tell me what she thinks to my face.”
“Unlike most of the sour tabbies who merely grumble and gossip behind your back?”
“Precisely.” He grinned. “Though I wouldn’t say it quite so . . . colorfully.”
“I hate to see you ill used,” Leah said. “You’re easily twice the clergyman Mr. Morris is. Were it in my power, I would see you had the living in this place.”
“Shh . . .” Mrs. Chapman said, eyes round in concern and laying a hand on her daughter’s sleeve. “That’s enough, my dear.”
Leah glanced around at her mother’s gentle warning, as if suddenly aware of the listening ears around her. “You’re right. Forgive me. Like the Pharisees, I apparently need to learn to bridle my own tongue.”
After the service, Andrew Morgan led his parents across the aisle toward Abigail and introduced them. Mr. Morgan senior was a rotund, handsome man with a smile as broad as his son’s. Mrs. Morgan, a thin, sharp-featured woman, had shrewd eyes that instantly put Abigail on her guard.
“Ah yes. Miss Foster. I have heard of you.”
Abigail smiled uncertainly. “Have you?”
“Yes. Well. A pleasure to meet you. Andrew tells us he has invited you to our little dinner party.”
“Your son is exceedingly polite, Mrs. Morgan. But do not feel obligated—”
“I don’t feel obligated—in this case. It is a pleasure to extend an invitation to you. Your father is in London, I understand?”
“Yes, but he should return soon.”
“And your mother?”
“She remains in Town with my younger sister, guiding her through the season. They are staying with my great aunt in Mayfair but will be joining us at season’s end.”
“Mayfair, ey? Well. I shall include your father in the invitation as well. Tell him he is most welcome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. You are very kind.”
The woman was impressed, Abigail saw. She was familiar with prestigious Mayfair but not, apparently, with her father’s financial ruin. Her good opinion—and her invitation—would likely evaporate if she learned the truth.
After bidding the Morgans farewell, Abigail walked out of the church alone.
“Miss Foster!” Kate Chapman called a cheerful greeting and, leading William by the arm, walked over to join her. “I’m so glad you came today. Doesn’t our William make excellent sermons?”
“Indeed he does,” Abigail agreed sincerely, though she had not heard all that many.
“Short sermons, I think you mean, Mamma,” William said good-naturedly.
“Brevity is a virtue in my view, yes,” Abigail said. “But I also found the words convicting and to the point. Virtues as well.”
“Not all would agree with you.”
“Well, Miss Foster,” Mrs. Chapman said, “you must join us for dinner later this afternoon. Cook has left us a roast of beef and several salads. I shall not even have to put you to work this time.”
Abigail hesitated. “I would love to, truly. But Mrs. Walsh has left me a tray, and I don’t think . . .”
Leah said, “You can save it for supper. Mrs. Walsh can’t mind that.”
“Actually, she could,” Kate Chapman said with a little frown. “Tell you what. Join us next Sunday instead. That will give you plenty of time to give Mrs. Walsh notice—all right?”
“You do plan to attend church again next Sunday?” Leah asked.
Abigail hadn’t meant to commit to every Sunday by attending once, but she found she didn’t mind. She had enjoyed it, actually. “Yes, I do.”
Leah smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”
How pretty and young Leah Chapman looked when she smiled. Abigail thought attending church and gazing at Leah Chapman’s brother every week would be a pleasant price to pay for the woman’s approval. And hopefully her friendship.
Chapter 8
On Tuesday, the post brought the promised invitation from Mrs. Morgan, and a third letter from Bristol in that ornate feminine hand. Pulse accelerating, Abigail took the journal page into the library to read in private.
Her portrait is missing. How strange. I don’t think anyone else has noticed. I suppose it’s not surprising I had not noticed it earlier. For I have not dared to enter Father’s bedchamber before today. But he has gone to London on some business or other related to his brother’s will. So I felt safe in entering.
I have been in Mamma’s rooms often enough. And over the mantelpiece in her bedchamber hangs a portrait of a handsome gentleman in formal dress. When I asked who it was, she said, “Robert Pembrooke,” and we both stared up at it.
It was the first time I had laid eyes on my uncle Pembrooke’s face. And considering he was dead, it was the only way I would ever see him.
“Did you ever meet him?” I asked.
“Once. Years ago,” Mamma replied. “The day your father and I were married.”
“Was this his wife’s room, then?”
“Yes. So the housekeeper tells me.”
My father had claimed Robert Pembrooke’s room, but I know better than to think he’d done so in a nostalgic attempt to be close to his older brother after their long estrangement and his recent passing. No, I have heard him rail against the injustice of being a second
son too often to think so.
I tiptoed into the master bedchamber, assuming I would see Elizabeth Pembrooke’s portrait above the mantelpiece as I had seen Robert Pembrooke’s over hers. I was wrong. The rooms are quite similar in other respects, though the furniture is heavier and the bedclothes more masculine. Had her portrait never been painted? Or had it been removed for some reason?
Whatever the case, in its place hangs a portrait of an elderly matron with drooping features and mob cap—someone’s grandmother, perhaps.
I asked Mamma if she had ever seen Elizabeth Pembrooke. No, she had not.
“Why not?” I asked. “What happened between Uncle Pembrooke and Papa to cause such a rift between them?”
“It’s the old story, I imagine,” Mamma replied. “Rivalry and jealousy. But I don’t know the details. He never told me. And I’m not sure I want to know.”
A postscript had been added to the page in a darker ink color.
I found a portrait of a beautiful woman hidden away, and think it might be Elizabeth Pembrooke. I wonder who hid it. And why.
Where had she found it? Abigail wondered. And where was it now? Gooseflesh prickled over her as she reread the words. She felt as if someone had been watching them the day she, William, and Kitty looked for Mrs. Pembrooke’s portrait and found the one of the old woman instead. Was someone secretly observing her movements and then sending journal pages related to her comings and goings?
Did the writer live nearby? Near enough to see her? But what about the Bristol postmark? Heaving a sigh she shook her head. She wasn’t going to figure it out on her own.
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 9