The Secret of Pembrooke Park by Julie Klassen Read Free Book Online

porch—a later addition to the original building, she guessed. Above was an arched window, and a square bell cote topped by a crocketedspire. She stepped into the porch, pushed open the old wooden door, and entered the cool interior.
    It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light—dim compared to the sunny day, yet surprisingly well lit from a large window on either end. Her mind quickly identified a fifteenth-century stone screen dividing chapel and long narrow nave. Paneled walls and wagon roof. Box pews, communion rail, and canopied pulpit—all of oak. Even Gilbert would have approved.
    In the central aisle, a ladder stood empty beneath a high brass chandelier. She wondered where the workman was.
    She stepped nearer the back wall to study a series of old paintings.
    As she stood there in the shadows, a man entered from the vestry in plain waistcoat and rolled up shirtsleeves, a box under his arm. He climbed the ladder and began removing the spent tapers. Humming to himself while he worked, he’d obviously not noticed her there.
    Not wishing to startle him, she cleared her throat and softly greeted, “Good afternoon.”
    He looked in her direction. “Oh! Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
    It was the younger man she’d seen with Mac—his grown son, she assumed, though they’d not been introduced.
    She walked slowly up the aisle. “If you are ever looking for more work,” she said, “we’ve no end of it at Pembrooke Park.”
    He chuckled and readjusted the box under his arm. “I imagine so, but as you can see, I have my hands full here.”
    She nodded. “Keeping the church in good repair the way your father does the house?”
    “In a matter of speaking.”
    “I am surprised your father did not hire you officially.”
    He grinned and said fondly, “He is accustomed to assigning me chores without having to pay me. Family privilege and all that.” He pulled out another stub and tossed it in the box.
    Watching him struggle to balance ladder, box, and tapers, she said, “That high chandelier doesn’t strike me as terribly practical.”
    He glanced down at her, then returned his focus to his task. “I suppose it isn’t. Wall sconces would be easier to refill and maintain. But I like this impractical thing. I think it’s beautiful. An endowment from the lady of the manor long ago.”
    He descended the ladder and nodded toward the paintings she’d been studying. “That’s Catherine of Alexandria, the Martyr. Many paintings of saints were destroyed after the Reformation. But the artwork in our little church here was spared.”
    He set down the box and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “We haven’t been formally introduced. If you will allow the liberty, I shall introduce myself.” He tucked away the cloth and bowed before her. “William Chapman. And you, I believe, are Miss Foster.”
    “Yes. How do you do,” she said, and dipped the barest curtsy, not sure whether a land agent’s son would expect such a courtesy or think it out of place.
    At the sound of footsteps, Abigail turned. A woman entered the church behind them, head bowed over a box in her arms. “I’ve found more tapers,” she called, glancing up. She drew up short at the sight of Abigail.
    It was the woman Abigail had seen with the young girl the day she and her father first arrived. Seeing her more closely now, Abigail guessed the woman was in her mid to late twenties. Her pretty brown eyes and golden-brown hair well compensated for her plain day dress and unadorned bonnet. Was this the man’s wife?
    “It’s all right, Leah,” William Chapman said. “This is our new neighbor. She and her family come from London. Distant relations to the Pembrooke family. Very distant.”
    “Yes, Papa told me. Miss Foster, I believe?”
    “Forgive me,” Mr. Chapman said, turning to her. “Miss Foster, may I present Miss Leah Chapman, my sister.”
    Sister . . . She would not have guessed. “How do you do.”
    Mr. Chapman added,