The Secret of Pembrooke Park (2 page)

Soon they began receiving offers on their house—the best price contingent on keeping the majority of furnishings in place. They were relieved to receive such a good offer, but even so, once her father finished paying off the bond, there would be little left to spend on new lodgings. Although tireless in her efforts, Abigail began to despair of ever finding a house that would suit them all.

Early in April, while Abigail met with the housekeeper about more modest menus and other economizing measures, a footman came to find her.

“Your father asks that you join him in the study, miss,” he said.

“Oh? I thought he had a caller.”

“Indeed he does.” The servant bowed and backed away without further explanation.

Abigail thanked the housekeeper, made her way to the study, and let herself in.

Her father sat at his desk. A man in black stood to one side, framed by one of the windows.

With an uncertain glance at the man, Abigail began, “You asked for me, Father?”

“Actually, this gentleman requested you join us.” Mr. Foster gestured to the visitor—a man of about sixty years, she guessed. Not tall, but a distinguished figure in his black frock coat and charcoal-grey waistcoat. His high white shirt collar framed an arresting face—deep hooded eyes under heavy arched eyebrows as black as a bat’s wings. Deep grooves ran from either side of a straight nose to the corners of his mouth. He wore a small mustache and beard trimmed in the Van Dyke style—his cheeks cleanly shaven. His hair and beard were black edged with silver. But it was his eyes that drew her back. Keen and calculating. Knowing and judging.

She was quite certain she had never seen him before. She would surely have remembered him. Why then had he requested her presence?

“Have we met before, sir?” she asked.

“No, miss. I have not had that pleasure,” he replied, displaying no pleasure in meeting her even now.

Her father made belated introductions. “My elder daughter, Miss Abigail Foster. Abigail, this is Mr. Arbeau. A solicitor.”

Abigail’s stomach tightened. Was her father in more trouble because of Uncle Vincent’s failed bank? Was he there to announce they were responsible for yet more money? Abigail fisted her hand. They had lost too much already.

Mr. Arbeau cut a crisp bow, then straightened, folding his arms behind his back. He was an intimidating presence with all his dour elegance.

He looked somewhere over her father’s head, then began, “Mr. Foster, I gather that you are facing a financial crisis, and the offer of a commodious abode at a low rate would not be unwelcome at this time?”

Her father’s face darkened. “I do not appreciate my private affairs being bandied about by strangers, Mr. Arbeau.”

“Then I advise you not read the papers, sir.” The man waved a graceful hand, and Abigail noticed the gold ring on his little finger. “Yes, yes. You are a proud man, I understand. But not too proud, I hope, to at least consider the offer I am prepared to make.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “What offer? I suppose you have a
commodious
abode
to let?”

“Not I, no. But a client of mine possesses an old manor house, and has instructed me to offer it to you on very easy terms.”

“And who is your client?” Father asked.

The man pursed his lips. “A distant relation of yours, from a family of consequence and property in western Berkshire. That is all I am at liberty to say.”

“If he is a relative, why the secrecy?”

The man held his gaze but offered no reply.

Her father looked up in thought. “I do have antecedents in Berkshire, now that I think of it. May I know the name or location of this property?”

“Pembrooke Park. Spelt with two
o
’s.”

“Ah.” Father’s eyes lit. “My maternal grandmother was a Pembrooke.”

The man continued to regard him evenly but neither confirmed nor denied the connection.

Instead Mr. Arbeau said, “Please understand that you are not
inheriting
said property, as closer heirs still live and the will is held up in probate over some question of ownership. However, the current executor of the estate lives elsewhere and wishes the property to be inhabited—and by deserving relatives if at all possible.”

“I see . . .” Her father tented his fingers, and Abigail saw his mind working, considering whether to be flattered or further insulted to be considered a
deserving
relation.

Mr. Arbeau went on, “The house has two main levels and five bedchambers. As well as attic servants’ quarters, and kitchens and workrooms belowstairs. Church, stables, and outbuildings. Nine acres of parkland, ponds, orchards, and gardens, though uncultivated for years.”

“But an estate so large,” Abigail interjected. “I am afraid it would be beyond our . . . needs.”

The man withdrew a card from an inner pocket upon which was written a figure. He handed it to Mr. Foster, who in turn handed it to Abigail. Glancing at it, Abigail felt her brows rise in astonishment. Curious, she flipped it over. The other side was a simple calling card printed with only
Henri Arbeau, Solicitor
.

“That is an uncommonly reasonable and indeed generous offer,” Abigail conceded. “But I’m afraid the staff and expense to manage such a place would be beyond our means.”

The solicitor eyed her shrewdly and addressed his reply to her. “My client was right, I see, in wishing you present during this meeting, Miss Foster.” He pulled a second slip of paper from his
pocket. “I am authorized to engage and pay basic staff, though my commission does not extend to French chefs or a tribe of liveried footmen.” He glanced at the list on the paper. “You are to be provided with a cook-housekeeper, kitchen maid, manservant, and two housemaids. Personal servants—valet, lady’s maid, and the like—must be provided by yourselves. If that is agreeable.”

Abigail opened her mouth to utter some incredulous comment, but before she could fashion one, Mr. Arbeau held up his palm.

“Now, before you credit me or my client with an overly ‘generous’ offer, I must ask you to moderate your expectations and your gratitude. The house has been boarded up for eighteen years.”

Abigail gaped. She dragged her gaze away from the stranger to her father to gauge his reaction. Did his heart sink as hers did? Why would anyone abandon a house for nearly two decades? What condition would it be in?

Her father said, “May I ask why it has been allowed to sit empty for so long?”

“It is not my place to judge my client’s past decision in this regard. Suffice it to say, neither my client nor anyone else in that family has been able or willing to live there.”

“And it has not been let before?”

“No.” Mr. Arbeau drew an impatient breath. “See here. My client apprehends that your family is in need of a dwelling and wishes to fill that need. Be assured that everything shall be done to render it habitable. I will escort you there myself, and you and your daughter may judge for yourselves whether Pembrooke Park might, by any alteration, be made suitable. And if you are willing to inhabit the place for at least a twelvemonth to make the investment worthwhile, my client will bear the expense of repairs, cleaning, and a staff of five to keep you reasonably comfortable.”

Abigail stared blindly as her mind struggled to tally the sizeable expense his client was willing to bear, compared to the modest rent requested. She blinked at the disparity. A pinch of disquiet, of suspicion, unsettled her stomach. Had the business with Uncle Vincent not taught her that anything that sounded too good to
be true usually was? But they could ill afford to pass up such an opportunity.

Her father seemed less aware of the astounding nature of the offer, or simply took it as his due. He said, “I assume the servants will prepare the place ahead of our arrival?”

“You assume wrong,” Mr. Arbeau replied crisply. “My client is most insistent on that point. You and Miss Foster are to be present with me when the house is unlocked and opened for the first time since 1800.”

It was her father’s turn to gape. “But . . . why?”

“Because that is my client’s wish and stipulation.” His tone did not invite further inquiry.

Her father ducked his head to consider the matter, his furrowed brow indicating bewilderment.

The mantel clock ticked.

Mr. Arbeau consulted his list again, then refolded it. “There is an inn not terribly distant from the manor. If we discover that the house is uninhabitable as is, you are welcome to sleep at said inn for a period of up to a fortnight—as long as you return to the house each day to oversee the servants’ preparations.”

He returned the list to his pocket and said in a patronizing, nearly mocking, tone, “
If
that meets with your approval?”

Abigail stole a glance at her father and found his face growing florid. Fearing he might send the man away with a sharp setdown, she quickly spoke up. “Again, that is very generous, Mr. Arbeau. I can find no objection to at least visiting Pembrooke Park. Can you, Papa?”

He hesitated, taking in her pleading expression. “I suppose not.”

Abigail ventured, “Is the place furnished, or would we bring our own things?” She remembered the highest offer on their own house, contingent on leaving the furnishings behind.

“Fully furnished, yes,” Mr. Arbeau said. “I have never been inside, but my client assures me you will find Pembrooke Park already fitted up when you take it. Beneath the inevitable dust, that is.” His eyes glittered wryly.

Might this be her chance to help improve her family’s circumstances and regain her father’s trust?

Abigail prayed she wasn’t leading her father astray once again. She squared her shoulders and forced a smile. “Well, we are not afraid of a little dust, are we, Papa?”

When they had agreed on a date to visit Pembrooke Park, Mr. Arbeau took his leave. It was a relief when the officious man and his astounding offer departed.

A
bigail and her father rode with the somber solicitor in a well-sprung post chaise hired for the occasion. They traveled for most of the day, on turnpikes and through toll gates, stopping to change horses and postilion riders at regular intervals, or to take a hurried meal at a coaching inn.

Finally, they reached western Berkshire, its rolling hills and woodlands giving way to farms and chalk downs near its border with Wiltshire. They passed through the village of Caldwell, with a fine church, cloth mill, and the Black Swan, which Mr. Arbeau pointed out as the nearest inn where they might sleep until they deemed the manor house habitable. A few minutes later, they reached Easton—a small cluster of shops and thatched cottages—near Pembrooke Park.

Abigail felt her pulse quicken.
Please, God, don’t let the manor
be an utter ruin. . . . Not when I advised Father to
come. I cannot stand to disappoint him again.

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 silky 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.