Before I forget, I wanted to mention that Gilbert Scott has returned from Italy and accepted a position with an esteemed architect here in London. With his new polish and promising future, Gilbert is turning many heads, including our Louisa’s. He has called at the house once or twice and sends his regards. I am still holding out for a title at present, but your sister could make a worse match.
Abigail’s heart pounded. Gilbert . . . back in England. If only she were in London to see him. How she longed for her old friend’s company—to hear all about his travels and see his latest drawings and plans. To see him smile at her . . . But was she fooling herself? If he had set his sights on pretty Louisa, he would be directing his smiles at her from now on. She recalled the letters Gilbert had written to her, in which he’d asked her why Louisa had not replied to his letters. Abigail had allowed herself to hope that Louisa’s apparent interest in Gilbert Scott had faded. But now that he had returned more “polished and promising” than ever, had her hopes been dashed?
Abigail sighed and pulled forth another piece of paper. Ignoring the little stab of loneliness, she wrote back to assure her parents that she was just fine on her own.
After the Sunday service, the congregation waited until the clergyman and those in the front boxes exited before filing out behind them. So Abigail was the first to greet Mr. Chapman at the door and then step outside. As she walked toward the manor, she glimpsed movement in the churchyard and was surprised to see Eliza Smith turning from one of the graves. Abigail paused where she was while the young woman walked her way, wearing a pretty bonnet and blue overdress, her brooch peeking out from beneath her shawl.
Eliza looked up at her in surprise. “Church out already?”
“Yes, another short sermon today.” Abigail wondered why Eliza and her aunt, apparently such favorites with Mac Chapman, had not attended church.
“And how is your aunt today?” Abigail asked politely.
“About the same. I don’t bring her to church anymore. Never know what might come out of her mouth and disrupt the service.”
“Oh. That’s too bad—for you both.”
Eliza shrugged. “I don’t mind. I come on my own now and again. Sit in the back and slip out early. But today I had another destination in mind. . . .”
Visiting her parents’ graves, Abigail guessed but did not say so.
Eliza glanced across the drive toward Pembrooke Park. Eyes on its windows, she asked, “Which room have they put you in, Miss Foster?
“I have a small bedchamber in the west wing.”
“Ah. The one with the dolls’ house. Miss Eleanor’s old room.”
Abigail hesitated. That was a name she had not heard before. It must be the given name of the Miss Pembrooke Mrs. Hayes had mentioned. “Um, yes, or so I assumed.” She wondered why Eliza was familiar with the room. She asked, “You have been inside the house, I gather?”
“Oh, I . . .” Eliza ducked her head, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, a few times. Mamma died while Auntie still worked here. And now and again when our neighbor was unable to watch me, I would stay with Auntie belowstairs.”
“I see. It must have been hard for you, after your mother died.”
“Yes, and my father gone too . . .” Eliza’s eyes misted over. “The happiest days of my childhood were those spent playing here. I snuck upstairs to explore once, but I slipped and fell. Mr. Pembrooke himself picked me up and patted my head. Instead of reprimanding me, he gave me a sweet.”
“Which Mr. Pembrooke?” Abigail asked, doubting the kindness of the infamous Clive.
“Robert Pembrooke, of course.”
Eliza inhaled a long breath and drew herself up. “Well, if you will excuse me.” She turned to go.
“May I walk with you?” Abigail asked, knowing she had a few hours until her dinner with the Chapmans. “I long to stretch my legs after sitting on that hard bench.”
“If you like.”
The two young women walked companionably toward Easton, on the way to Caldwell. The warm May breeze felt good on Abigail’s skin. Hawthorn blossoms dotted the hedgerows, and two whitethroats chased each other through its branches, singing all the while. The meadows beyond were yellow with cowslips, and the air smelled of apple blossoms.
Abigail drew in a deep, savoring breath. “Spring is so much more vibrant here than in London,” she observed. “Have you been there?”
“No, not yet,” the woman said wistfully. “Maybe someday.”
“I imagine it’s difficult to get away with your aunt needing someone to look after her.”
“Yes, it would be.”
As they passed the public house in Easton, Duncan swept out, then drew up short at the sight of his mistress. “Ah. Miss Foster.”
“Hello.”
“I saw Miss Eliza. And I hoped she might walk with me to Ham Green.”
Abigail glanced at Eliza, saw the flush of pleasure she tried to hide.
“Then I shall leave you to it,” Abigail said with a smile. “A good day to you both. And do greet your aunt for me.”
“I shall, Miss Foster. Thank you.”
Abigail continued her walk alone for a time, then turned and started back. As she strolled again down the tree-lined road, she remembered when she and her father had first arrived in Mr. Arbeau’s carriage and were stopped by the former barricade. Now she crossed the bridge unimpeded, admiring the marsh marigolds and silvery white lady’s smocks growing along the riverbank.
She looked ahead and was surprised to see two boys run through the churchyard. They threw open the church door, and from within she heard the hum of many voices before the door closed again, muffling the sound. Was there some special service she was unaware of?
Deciding to follow, Abigail entered the churchyard. As she did, she glanced over to where she’d seen Eliza standing earlier. Sure enough, flowers lay on one of the graves. She squinted, but the name on the headstone was not Smith as she’d expected. It was Robert Pembrooke.
She must have mistaken the spot Eliza had stood. Blinking away confusion, Abigail continued on to the church door. She quietly opened it and crossed the vestibule on the balls of her feet, to keep the heels of her half boots from disrupting the quiet within.
Inside she saw William Chapman sitting amidst several older boys and girls, their heads bowed over slates. Leah was sitting with a group of younger children, heads bent over books. William glanced up, and his quick smile at seeing her lightened her heart.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he said to the children. “Colin, you’re in charge.”
The older boy nodded, and William walked over and joined Abigail at the back of the nave.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No problem.”
“I saw a few children coming back to church and wondered what was going on. You must think me a terribly nosy neighbor. Are you teaching them the Scriptures, or . . . ?”
“We teach reading, writing, and ciphering, as well as the catechism, yes.”
“Don’t they go to school?”
“Our little Sunday school here is the only education some of these boys and girls will receive.”
“But why?”
“Most begin farming with their fathers as soon as they are able or are apprenticed by age thirteen or so, or sent out to service, in the case of girls. For many, Sunday is their only day free to learn.”
Abigail glanced at Miss Chapman. “And your sister teaches as well?”
“Yes, she is excellent with the younger children especially.”
“Has there always been school here?”
“No, it’s something we’ve started recently.”
A young man raised his hand, and William excused himself to answer his question.
Leah came over and greeted her. “Hello, Miss Foster.”
“Miss Chapman, it is very good of you and your brother to teach these children.”
She shrugged off the praise. “I enjoy it.”
/>
“I suppose their parents contribute something—or is the schooling free?”
Leah shook her head. “I understand some schools charge a penny or twopence a week to help defray the cost of books and slates, but William insists we charge nothing. He buys what we need out of his own modest income.”
“I’m sure if others knew of the work you’re doing here, they would be happy to help.”
“You’re probably right. But William is proud and hates to ask for anything.”
William returned and clearly overheard his sister’s last few words. “You give me too much credit. I have asked for donations of books and supplies and have received a few, though many people don’t believe in educating the poor. Some say it’s futile, or even dangerous—rendering them insolent to their superiors.”
“I take it you disagree?” Abigail asked.
He nodded. “I think every person deserves to understand enough of basic mathematics to take care of his expenses and know when he’s being overcharged. To be able to read the newspaper and keep abreast of what is going on in the world. To know how to write a letter to a loved one. And to read the greatest love letter of all—the God-breathed Scriptures.”
He flushed. “Forgive me. I did not intend to preach another sermon today.”
“That’s all right,” Abigail said. “I admire your passion. And your efforts.”
He grinned. “I’ll take your admiration. But I’d prefer your help.”
Abigail felt her brows rise. “Me? How can I help?”
Leah said, “Good idea, Will. You could help me with the younger children, Miss Foster. Take Martha there. She’s joined us only recently. Neither of her parents can read, so she’s a bit behind the others.”
“I have no idea how to teach . . .”
“Just listen to her read aloud, and when she struggles, help her sound out the words troubling her.”
“Very well,” Abigail agreed.
She sat with the little girl for half an hour and did as Leah suggested. She soon found herself transported back to her younger days, sitting with Louisa when she was four or five, helping her read a children’s book.
The time passed quickly and pleasantly, and soon Mr. Chapman announced it was time to clear away for the day. Around her, books closed and children rose and began stacking slates.
“All right, time for a closing hymn,” Leah said.
The children gathered, and Leah named the hymn, “‘Lord, Accept Our Feeble Song.’ Ready?”
The children nodded and opened their little robin mouths and began to sing.
“Lord, accept our feeble song!
Power and praise to Thee belong;
We would all Thy grace record,
Holy, holy, holy Lord!”
As they warbled out the melody, Abigail tried not to wince, thinking, Feeble song, indeed!
When they finished, Leah suggested, “Shall we sing another?”
This time Leah named a hymn Abigail was familiar with, and she joined in.
“Glory, glory everlasting
Be to Him who bore the cross,
Who redeemed our souls by tasting
Death, the death deserved by us!
Spread His glory
Who redeemed His people thus. . . .”
William turned to stare at her. “My goodness, Miss Foster. You have a lovely singing voice.”
She felt her cheeks heat. She hadn’t meant to sing above the others or to show off. “Thank you. Sorry. Go on.”
Leah chuckled. “Don’t apologize, Miss Foster. You have a gift. Perhaps you might lead the children in singing from now on?”
Abigail hesitated. “I don’t wish to usurp anybody’s role.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Leah said. “The two of us have more than enough roles as it is, I assure you. You would be doing me a favor.”
“You would be doing all of us a favor,” William added. The approval shining in his eyes did strange things to Abigail’s heart.
She smiled self-consciously. “Then it shall be my pleasure.”
Recalling their mother’s dinner invitation, William and Leah asked Abigail to walk home with them, and Abigail happily agreed. She enjoyed the simple Sabbath meal of cold meat, pie, and salads, and a lovely sponge for dessert. She also enjoyed talking with Leah, the camaraderie and sparring between siblings, Mac’s grumpy sense of humor, and Mrs. Chapman’s infectious laugh. She did not mind the admiration in William Chapman’s eyes either.
After the meal, Leah played a few hymns on their old harpsichord, and the family all sang together. Abigail tried to imagine her own family doing something so simple and reverent, but she could not.
Before she left, Abigail invited Kitty to come home with her and amuse herself with the dolls’ house again, assuming her parents didn’t mind. The girl eagerly accepted. Her parents less so.
“I’m sure Miss Foster doesn’t want you loitering about, messing up her room and disturbing her things,” Mac said.
“I don’t mind,” Abigail assured him. “Besides, they aren’t my things really. Seems a pity that no one should enjoy them. I would be happy for Kitty’s company, if you can spare her.”
“Very well, if you are certain,” Kate said. “But don’t overstay your welcome, Kitty. And be sure to return everything to its proper place before you leave.”
“Yes, Mamma.”
William remained behind to discuss some church matter with Mac, and Abigail was oddly disappointed not to have his escort home. But she smiled and thanked everyone for their hospitality, glad to have his younger sister’s company at least.
When Abigail and Kitty reached the house, the two went upstairs together. There, Kitty pulled a small basket from her pocket and handed it to her.
She said sheepishly, “I borrowed this the last time I was here, to show Leah. I shouldn’t have done so without asking, and I apologize.”
Abigail pressed her hand warmly. “I forgive you. Thank you for telling me.” She nodded toward the dolls’ house with a smile. “Now, go on.”
Kitty said, “You needn’t stay with me, if there is something else you need to do.”
“Not at all. As I told your mother, I will enjoy your company. This house is far too empty and far too quiet.” Except at night, she thought.
“I think I shall write to my mother right here at my dressing table. Oh,” Abigail recalled, “I found another doll in the back of my own wardrobe. I’ve added her to the drawer.”
The girl went eagerly to the cabinet and knelt before it and was all but lost from view, save for flashes of movement through the dolls’ house windows.
“I adore these miniature furnishings,” Kitty said. “The tiny balls of knitting wool. These tiny plates and pots and baskets.”
“I do too,” Abigail agreed, sitting at the dressing table and uncorking her inkpot. “Especially the miniature books with real pages.”
“Where? Oh, I see. Here in the drawing room. This fat black one is supposed to be a Bible, I think. But its pages are blank. . . . Look! Someone has written in it.”
Abigail rose and walked over. “Where? I don’t recall seeing any writing.”
“Here in the last two pages. They were a bit stuck together—from the ink, perhaps.”
Kitty held up the miniature black book, her thumb holding it open to the spot. Abigail gently took if from her and squinted at the tiny writing. Foolishly, she hoped for a secret message. A clue to the location of the treasure, if one existed, even as she silently chastised herself for being ridiculous. She was glad Kitty could not read her private thoughts. Abigail was supposed to be the wise older female. Instead she felt like a silly adolescent, excited at the prospect of a secret treasure map.
But no map or message met her gaze. At least not that she could instantly decipher. Not even full words: Gen 4 Eat + ed. Num + 10.
“Does it mean something, like a code?” Kitty asked. “Or is it just scribbles?”
“I don’t know.”
&nbs
p; “Gen and Num could be Genesis and Numbers. Books of the Bible,” Kitty said, looking at the book over her shoulder.
“You’re right.” Abigail smiled at the girl. “Spoken like a fine clergyman’s sister.”
Kitty peered closer. “Genesis 4 and Numbers 10 . . . ? But see that symbol? Is it a plus sign or a t?”
“A plus sign, I think.”
“Numbers plus ten? Ten books later?”
“We’re looking for a code to decipher, when it probably means nothing,” Abigail said. “Perhaps some child decided to write in the blank pages to make it seem more like a real book, but was caught in the act and stopped before he or she finished.”
Kitty frowned. “Odd words to write.”
Abigail agreed. “I wonder why he or she wrote these particular words in the back. Even I know Genesis is in the beginning of the Bible, not here at the end.”
“Maybe it’s a secret message.” Kitty’s eyes shone. “About a hidden treasure . . . ?”
Abigail looked at her. “You’ve heard the rumors too?”
“Of course.” The girl glanced around Abigail’s bedchamber. “Have you a Bible?”
“No,” Abigail admitted, somewhat sheepishly. She had her lovely leather edition of the New Testament and Psalms and a prayer book but rarely delved into the Old Testament.
“Have you seen the Pembrooke family Bible somewhere?” Kitty asked. “Maybe there’s a clue tucked inside at these pages.”
“Good idea.”
A knock sounded at the open door. Abigail looked over in surprise. William Chapman’s profile came into view, though he averted his eyes, not looking directly into her bedchamber. In case she was dishabille?
“Kitty? Papa asked me to stop by and remind you not to stay too late. You are minding Mrs. Wilson’s twins tonight.”
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 11