The Secret of Pembrooke Park (10 page)

“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.”

“
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.”

Ignoring this, Kitty said, “William will know.” She called to him, “William, does Genesis 4 and Numbers plus 10 mean anything to you?”

Abigail went to the door and opened it all the way, giving the man a welcoming smile. “I’m afraid we’ve stumbled upon a little mystery. Just a game, no doubt.”

“I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “But the door was open, and as I know the servants have the day off . . .”

“William, what is Genesis 4 about?” Kitty called again.

He pursed his lips in surprise and then recollection. “Cain and Abel and their descendants, I believe. Why?”

She thrust the tiny book in his face, and he gently took it from her and held it at a better angle to read.

His eyes narrowed in thought. “Genesis 4. Eat plus e.d. Eated . . . Ate? Perhaps Genesis 4:8?”

“Oh! I had not thought of that. You’re so clever, William,” Kitty enthused.

Abigail privately agreed.

“Numbers plus ten . . .” he continued. “Ten books later? That would be . . .” He murmured to himself through the books. “Second Chronicles. Or perhaps it means to add ten to the chapter or verse? Four plus ten, meaning Numbers fourteen? Or eight plus ten equals eighteen?”

“Which is it?” Kitty asked.

“I haven’t the foggiest. Have you a Bible handy, Miss Foster?”

“Not the Old Testament, I’m afraid.”

“Then I’m glad for an opportunity to spur your interest in cracking open that volume.”

“Even for a game—and no doubt a wild-goose chase in the bargain?”

He said gently, “One might open the book idly, but one never knows what treasures one might find.”

She snapped her head up.

His blue eyes twinkled. “Though I’m guessing that’s not the type of treasure you had in mind.”

Abigail said, “Come. If you are both so interested, let us go down to the library. No doubt there’s a Bible there. Perhaps even the family Bible.”

Together they went downstairs and looked through the library—its desk and shelves—but found no family Bible.
Too bad,
Abigail thought. She would have liked to look inside and seen the births, marriages, and deaths recorded in the front leaves of the Pembrooke family Bible.

Mr. Chapman offered to run across the drive to the parsonage and retrieve his own Bible. He returned a few minutes later with a well-worn copy.

He opened the volume and flipped through the first thin pages. “Here we are. Let’s see if I remembered correctly. Genesis 4:8. ‘And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.’”

Kitty frowned. “Perhaps that isn’t the right verse.”

“Perhaps it is . . .” he murmured.

Abigail wondered what he meant.

“And what about Numbers?” Kitty asked.

Mr. Chapman flipped past the rest of Genesis, Exodus, and Leviticus. He skimmed through Numbers 18 but apparently nothing caught his eye. Then he turned to Numbers 14. “Verse eight is about the land of milk and honey. . . .” he murmured. He slid his finger to verse eighteen, and read it aloud, “‘The Lord is longsuffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.’”