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
T hat 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 noises?” 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
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
T hat 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 noises?” 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
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