The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Surprised, Abigail watched him go. Her surprise increased when she noticed him limp and use his walking stick for support—the implement not merely a dandy’s affectation as she’d originally assumed.

  Her father followed her gaze, then said, “War wound, he told me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Did you have a good time last night?”

  “I did, Papa. Thank you. And you’ll never guess who was there. . . . ” At the raising of his eyebrows, she supplied, “Gilbert Scott.”

  His mouth momentarily slackened. “You don’t say.”

  Abigail explained Gilbert’s connection to the Morgan family through his new employer.

  Her father nodded in understanding, then said, “I hope you invited him to call on us while he’s here.”

  “I did. He seemed eager to see you again, and the house as well.”

  “Emphasis on the latter, no doubt, and who could blame him? I’m surprised we haven’t had more people showing up, asking to tour the place.”

  Abigail managed a weak grin and nodded her agreement, thinking of Miles Pembrooke. Strangers showing up for tours was not what worried her.

  Abigail situated herself in the drawing room ten minutes before two o’clock. She had forewarned Mrs. Walsh she would likely be asking for a tea tray. She didn’t wish to appear as though she’d been eagerly awaiting Gilbert’s visit, but she knew better than to request any baked goods without giving Mrs. Walsh proper notice.

  Arranging her skirts around her, she picked up a book, a biography of architect Christopher Wren, but found it difficult to concentrate.

  Her palms were damp. She felt jumpy and nervous, quite unlike her normal reserve.

  Stop being foolish, she told herself. This was Gilbert, plain old next-door Gilbert, whom she’d known through his awkward, pudgy days, his blemish days, his voice-changing days. Whom she’d played with and argued with and studied with and . . . loved. She began to perspire anew.

  Two o’clock came and went. Two thirty. Three. Abigail’s heart deflated, and her stomach sank. She’d been nervous for nothing. Worn a pretty dress and had Polly arrange her hair . . . for nothing.

  Her father came in. “No sign of Gilbert?”

  Abigail shook her head, astonished to find tears stinging her eyes. She sternly blinked them dry and said as casually as she could, “Apparently I misunderstood him. Or the Morgans had other plans for him today.”

  “That’s it, no doubt. I’m sure he’ll be by when he can. I’ll be in the library. Do let me know when he comes.”

  Abigail nodded and resolutely turned a page in her book.

  A few minutes later, Molly popped her head in and looked curiously about the room, probably sent by Mrs. Walsh to discover how long to keep the water hot.

  “Apparently we shall not be needing tea after all,” Abigail said, rising. “Please apologize to Mrs. Walsh for me and let her know my father and I will happily eat whatever she has prepared for our dinner tonight.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Abigail left the drawing room, feeling restless. Should she change her clothes? No, she decided. She was wearing a walking dress, so she would walk. Gathering bonnet and gloves, she went outside and walked back to the gardens. She stopped in the old potting shed and found shears and a basket, planning to cut flowers. Instead she began pulling weeds from a border of lilies. She had asked Duncan to do so, but he had yet to get to it. Perhaps it was time to ask Mac to recommend a gardener or at least a youth who could help with outside chores. Next she yanked a clump of grass from the flower bed. The exertion felt good. She released a bit of frustration with every weed she yanked from the ground. If only she could root out her worries and disappointments as easily.

  Weary at last, she returned the gardening tools to the shed and made her way back to the house. As she rounded the front, Gilbert appeared, crossing the drive on foot, hands extended in supplication.

  “Abby. Forgive me. I know I’m late. Mr. Morgan gathered all the men for a shooting tournament, and I didn’t feel I could refuse, being a guest there and with my employer no less. The contest lasted far longer than I anticipated. But I remembered you said you were at your leisure today, so I decided to come over late. Have I been presumptuous?”

  “You know you are welcome, Gilbert. Papa will be happy to see you.”

  “But are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  He smiled into her eyes, and for a moment she felt herself falling into them, but then she drew herself up. “So, who won the tournament?”

  “A young sir somebody. I forget. But then Mr. Morgan summoned his land agent, and he easily bested our champion.”

  “Mac Chapman?”

  “Yes, that was his name.”

  “I am surprised Mr. Morgan brought Mac into the contest.”

  “Wanted to give the proud young buck a setdown, I gather. Either that or he is awfully proud of his agent.”

  “He used to be steward here,” Abigail said. “I am fairly well acquainted with him. He’s our curate’s father.”

  “Ah. The red-haired chap. I should have guessed.” He smiled playfully. “The local competition.”

  Abigail realized they were no longer talking about a shooting competition. Was Gilbert flirting with her?

  An annoying tendril of hair kept blowing across her face. She brushed it away with a swipe of her glove.

  Gilbert smiled indulgently, reached out, and stroked her cheek.

  She stilled, inhaling a long breath.

  He held up his buff glove to show her the smudge of soil there. “How did you manage to smear dirt on your face, fair lady?”

  “Oh . . . I was pottering about in the garden.” She ducked her head, self-consciously wiping the spot again. She glanced up at him tentatively. “All right?”

  “More than all right. Perfect.”

  Her cheeks heated. She was not accustomed to Gilbert paying her compliments. No doubt a skill he’d learned in Italy. Weren’t Italian men notorious for flirting with every female they encountered? It didn’t mean anything.

  She gestured toward the house. “So, what do you think?”

  “Beautiful.”

  Something in his voice caused her to turn her head. His eyes remained on her face.

  She’d had enough. “I’m talking about the house, Bertie, as well you know.” She referred to him by an old nickname, hoping to dissolve the unfamiliar tension between them.

  Gilbert dragged his eyes from her, up toward the house, taking in its gables, arches, and elaborate oriel windows.

  He released a low whistle. “You live here?”

  She nodded. “It’s something, isn’t it.”

  They slowly walked around the house. After they turned the corner, Gilbert paused and pointed up. “Looks like a water tower. Do the upper floors have running water?”

  “No. Only the kitchen belowstairs.”

  “Hm. The main hall is clearly fifteenth century. But that shaft looks like a later addition to me.”

  “To accommodate a servants’ staircase, perhaps?”

  “Bit narrow for that.” He squinted upward. “But if it was a water tower, evidently it has fallen out of use. Cheaper and easier to have servants haul water than to maintain the system, apparently.”

  They walked around the back of the house.

  “Another later addition,” Gilbert noted, gesturing toward the two-story structure occupying part of the rear courtyard.

  “Yes. That’s the drawing room on the ground level, and a lovely bedchamber and dressing room above.”

  “Your bedchamber?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I thought Louisa would like it.”

  He said nothing, but his gaze lingered on its windows.

  From the side of the house, her father came striding toward them, hand extended, smile creasing his thin, handsome face. “Gilbert! How good to see you here, my boy.”

  “Mr. Foster. A pleasure to see you again, sir.”

  Th
e two shook hands.

  “I saw you from the windows,” her father said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was eager to greet you.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “We were just coming in to find you,” Abigail said, hoping that the servants had not already eaten all the cake.

  In the spacious, sunny drawing room a few minutes later, the three visited together over tea and slices of cake, her father asking Gilbert questions about his family and his new position. Then he asked, “How long can you stay?”

  Gilbert glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I should return in time to dress for dinner.”

  That didn’t give them much time. Abigail smiled at Gilbert. “Before you go, may I show you those house plans I mentioned?”

  Gilbert met her gaze with a knowing look and rose. “Very well.”

  He bid her father farewell, and he and Abigail excused themselves.

  As they crossed the hall, Abigail asked, “May I tell you something in confidence?”

  His eyes roved hers. “Of course.”

  She led the way into the library and stepped to the map table. Behind her she heard the door latch click and turned in surprise. Gilbert had shut the door, and now walked toward her, a small smile on his face.

  Abigail licked dry lips and looked away. She retrieved the old plans from their drawer and spread them atop the map table, her hands slightly unsteady.

  “You really wanted to show me house plans?” he asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

  She shot him a questioning look. “Yes. . . .” Realization dawned, followed by embarrassment. “Did you think it a ruse to get you alone? My goodness, Gilbert. You were in Italy too long.”

  He sighed playfully. “Can’t blame a man for hoping . . .”

  She turned away sharply, but he touched her arm, his voice apologetic. “Abby . . .”

  She gentled her voice and faced him. “You should know that Mamma has written to me. She mentioned that you have called on Louisa since your return.”

  “Ah. . . .” He finally had the decency to look sheepish.

  She inhaled and turned back to the plans. “Yes, I really wanted your opinion on these plans. You see, there are rumors of a secret room somewhere in Pembrooke Park, and if it exists, I want to find it.”

  “A secret room?” he echoed, brows rising.

  “Yes. Supposedly it hides a treasure of some sort, though the former steward assures me those rumors are nonsense. Still, I would like to find the room.”

  “Have you anything to go on beyond the rumors?”

  “A little. I’ve received a few letters from someone who used to live here. She mentioned studying the plans for clues.” Abigail decided not to mention the dolls’ house to Gilbert when he already looked skeptical.

  “And did this former resident find the room?”

  “She hasn’t said. Yet.”

  He gave her a doubtful glance.

  “Just look at them, Gilbert, and tell me what you see.”

  “Very well.” He sighed. Offended, or disappointed?

  He began a casual survey, then frowned and bent his head closer to the drawings.

  “May I have more light?”

  “Certainly.” She went and drew back the drapes all the way and opened the shutters.

  Gilbert pored over the drawings. “These are a series of renovation plans. Do you happen to have the original plans?”

  “I don’t know about original. But these are older. Before the west wing was added.”

  She spread another set beside the others.

  He compared the two. “Yes, see? At some point, the tower was added in the corner there. Probably mid-1700s, when many modernized their ancestral homes by adding water closets. A cistern on the roof collected rainwater, which then ran down through a series of pipes drawn by levers below. Then at a later date, another wing was added in front of the tower.”

  He looked up at her, eyes alight with interest of a different sort now. “Perhaps it is time you gave me the tour of the house.”

  Satisfaction. This was the inquisitive Gilbert she knew.

  Together they walked from the library into the main hall. There, he pointed up. “This is the original hall, open several stories high to allow the smoke of open fires to dissipate in the days before chimneys. You can see that staircase is a later addition, as well as the gallery above it.”

  They walked through the morning room and into the dining room. Gilbert glanced around, then stepped to the corner of the room and pressed his hand against a panel of wooden wainscoting. The panel slid open.

  Abigail’s heart lurched and she hurried forward. “Did you find it?”

  “I found the hoist from the kitchen belowstairs.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t noticed that before.” Embarrassment singed her ears.

  “No doubt the servants raise trays with this pulley, and lay breakfast on the sideboard before you raise your pretty head from the pillow.”

  Hearing Gilbert mention her pillow felt strangely intimate. Silly female, she remonstrated herself. Had she not hit Gilbert with her pillow on several occasions when they were children?

  He walked to the other side of the dining room, to a narrow door beside a recessed china cupboard. “Having looked at the older plans, I would have imagined the servants’ stairs on this side of the room.” He opened the narrow door, but it led only to a linen cupboard.

  “What’s above this room?”

  Abigail thought. “My bedchamber.” She hesitated. “Would you like to see upstairs as well?”

  “If you don’t mind showing me.”

  “Of course not.” Abigail led the way up the hall staircase, around the gallery railing, past the door to Louisa’s room. She supposed she should offer to show him, but she did not. She saw how he had looked up at the windows, and she had no wish to help him imagine Louisa in her bedchamber, or anywhere else for that matter.

  “Is there a housemaid’s closet on this floor?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  They proceeded to her bedchamber. She opened the door and looked inside, making sure she had left no item of feminine apparel in plain view. She saw the room with new eyes—with Gilbert beside her, the flowery pink bed-curtains and dolls’ house suddenly seemed too little-girlish.

  He hesitated on the threshold. “May I?”

  “Of course,” she whispered, feeling self-conscious about having a man in her bedchamber—even if the man was her childhood friend. Abigail remained in the doorway. Polly walked past with an armload of linens, her eyebrows rising nearly to her hairline to see a man disappear into her mistress’s bedchamber. Abigail gave her a closed-lip smile and said quietly, “It’s all right.”

  Gilbert walked slowly around the room, pausing to look at the dolls’ house. “Someone went to a lot of trouble. My employer built a scale model of his London house for his daughter. It was quite the undertaking.”

  He paused again at the door to her closet. “May I?”

  “If you like.”

  He opened it and knocked on the wooden panels, pulling and pushing on the various shelves and gown drawers within. Then he opened her oak wardrobe cupboard beside it and pushed and prodded there as well. “No false back or moving panels.”

  “No. I couldn’t find one either.”

  “And the dining room is below us?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the kitchen hoist is on this wall downstairs.”

  “Right.”

  In the end, he shook his head and said, “In my professional opinion, I would say your ‘secret room’ was this closet. At some point, it might have served as a housemaid’s closet or water closet, but the pipes have been removed. Perhaps the door was not as it is now, but a hidden panel like the one used to conceal the hoist below it.”

  “Ah . . .” Abigail swallowed her disappointment. “I should have known there was a logical explanation for the rumors.” She sighed.

  He gave her an indulgent grin and
tweaked her chin. “Not too disappointed, I hope.”

  “No.” She braved a smile. “There is an attic as well, with a storeroom and a few servants’ bedchambers, if you would like to see them, but . . .”

  “What time is it?” He glanced around for a clock and not finding one pulled out his pocket watch and consulted the face.

  “I had better head back or I shall be late for dinner, and Mrs. Morgan will scowl at me.”

  “Horrors,” Abigail teased.

  He patted his pocket and said, “Before I forget, Susan sent a name you asked for. She says she’ll write a proper letter soon, once their next edition is printed.” He extracted a slip of paper from his pocketbook and handed it to her. “A writer for her magazine, I think she said?”

  “Mm-hm.” Abigail read the name but didn’t recognize it: E. P. Brooks. “Thank her for me.”

  Together they walked companionably back downstairs and to the front door.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “Better late than never, I hope.”

  “Yes, definitely. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay at Hunts Hall.”

  “I don’t know how much of my time shall be my own, but if I find myself free, may I call again?”

  “Of course. You are always welcome.”

  “Thank you, Abby.” He reached out and gently grasped her fingers. Bending low, he pressed a slow kiss to the back of her hand for the first time in her memory.

  The spot remained warm and sensitive long after Gilbert had crossed the bridge and disappeared from her view.

  For nearly an hour after Gilbert departed, Abigail walked around the house and about her tasks in a contented daze, thinking she would give up her search. If Gilbert was right, there was no secret room, beyond perhaps her own closet. But the notion left her unsatisfied. Perhaps Gilbert was wrong. For all his education and experience and travel, he didn’t know everything.

  Illogical or not, she put on her bonnet and clean gloves and went back outside. Again she walked slowly around the house, looking up at the rooflines, the windows, and the tower Gilbert had pointed out, perhaps eight feet square. Something caught her eye in the tower, some twenty feet or more above her. There were no windows in that narrow wall. But . . . what was that? It appeared as if the stones of a roughly rectangular section were lighter than those around it. As if there had been a window there decades ago but it had been filled in.