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elder sister, who had volunteered to serve as Abigail’s personal maid—helping her dress and so on—along with her other duties as upper housemaid. Both were pleasant, hardworking girls, daughters of a local farmer, who found even heavy housework far lighter than the chores they were accustomed to on their father’s farm.
    Duncan worked hard those first few days as well, even offeringto help the maids carry cans of water and other heavy loads. Now and again Abigail saw him glance at Polly to see if she noticed his efforts. Abigail hoped she would not have a staff romance on her hands—though Polly, nearly ten years younger than Duncan, did not exhibit anything but friendly politeness in return, so perhaps all would be well.
    Abigail had quickly discovered, despite the friendliness of the staff, that all were tight-lipped about the past and the former residents. When she’d asked Mrs. Walsh about the Pembrookes, the woman shook her head, eyes wary. “No, miss. We’re not to talk about that.”
    “Why not?”
    “No good can come of it, Mac says. It’s too dangerous.”
    “Dangerous? How?”
    But she only shook her head once more, lips cinched as tight as a drawstring reticule.
    When Abigail asked Polly what she knew about the former residents, the young woman had shrugged. “Not a thing, miss. I was only a babe when they left, wasn’t I?”
    “But surely you’ve heard rumors.”
    “Aye, miss. But rumors is all it is. I don’t want to lose my place for gossipin’, do I?”
    Clearly Mac had laid down the law when he’d hired the servants.
    So Abigail set aside her questions for the time being and lost herself in sorting, cleaning, and organizing, as well as writing up lists of needed repairs and orders for the larder and supply cupboards.
    Standing there now on the front stoop, sipping her tea, Abigail found her gaze drawn across the courtyard to the church within the estate’s walled grounds.
    Mac passed by in a long Carrick coat, leather breeches, and knee-high boots, his dog at his heels. He wore a greenish-brown Harris-tweed cap in honor, she’d heard, of his Scottish mother. The strap of a game bag crossed his chest, and he carried a veterinary case in one hand and a fowling piece in the other.
    She had learned Mac Chapman was not only the former steward and protector of Pembrooke Park. He also served as land agent for Hunts Hall, an estate owned by a family of gentry on the other side of Easton.
    Seeing her standing in the doorway, he tipped his hat to her. “Miss.”
    “Good morning, Mac. What are you about today?”
    “Oh, off to try a new remedy on an ailing cow, and to check a new drainage ditch while I’m out there.”
    “And the gun?”
    “In case my doctorin’ fails.”
    She looked up in alarm.
    “Only teasing you, lass,” he said. “Often carry a gun when I walk about on my duties. Never know when a wild dog or mangy badger might decide to harass me or the livestock.”
    “Or a trespasser?” she suggested wryly.
    He frowned. “That’s no joking matter, lass. As you may discover for yourself.”
    She changed the subject. “May I ask about the church, Mac? Has it been locked up like the house?”
    He paused to follow the direction of her gaze. “Not at all. It’s the parish church, along with the church in Caldwell, and the chapel of ease in Ham Green. Services every Sunday and on feast days.”
    “May I peek inside?”
    “Aye. It’s always open. The parson’s a good man, if I do say so myself.” His mouth quirked in a grin. How different he appeared now compared to the fierce stranger who’d given them such an inhospitable welcome not long ago.
    Later, while the servants ate a light midday meal, Abigail walked across the gravel drive toward the churchyard. Stepping onto the spongy grass verge, she passed through the opening in the low wall. She glanced around the well-kept graveyard and then looked up at the narrow church itself. The front door was sheltered by a hooded