The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Perhaps if the tower had begun as a servants’ staircase and then been converted to a water tower or water closets, windows would have been unwanted. Might that explain it?

  “What are we looking at?”

  Abigail started and whirled about, surprised to see William Chapman standing there, hands behind his back, staring up at the house as she’d been doing.

  “Mr. Chapman. You startled me.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t intend to.”

  She pointed out the area above. “Do you see that section of lighter stone—at about the second level?”

  He squinted up at it. “Yes. It looks as if there used to be a window.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “No big mystery,” he said with an easy shrug. “Many people have bricked over or otherwise covered unnecessary windows, to avoid exorbitant glass taxes.”

  That was logical. She felt foolish not to have thought of it herself. Likely some thrifty owner or steward of generations past had ordered some of the windows to be filled in to save money. Had he covered other windows as well? It didn’t make sense to brick over merely one window for tax reasons. She stared up higher, trying in vain to see evidence of another filled-in window on the level above. She did not see one at the ground level either.

  A gig came rumbling up the drive. Abigail glanced over and saw Miles Pembrooke seated beside the coachman, returning from Hunts Hall. When the gig halted, Miles gingerly climbed down, one leg buckling a bit before he righted himself. He waved to thank the driver and turned toward the door. Seeing them standing there at the side of the house, he lifted his hat and hobbled toward them, leaning on his stick.

  “That’s Miles Pembrooke,” she said. “Do you know him?”

  Beside her William stiffened but said nothing.

  “Hello, Miss Foster,” Miles called out as he neared. “Don’t you look a picture in that bonnet.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pembrooke. Did you enjoy your visit to Hunts Hall?”

  “It was most . . . enlightening.” Miles glanced with interest at William. When Mr. Chapman said nothing, Miles looked back expectantly at her.

  “Forgive me,” Abigail said. “I thought perhaps you two knew each another. Miles Pembrooke, may I introduce William Chapman.”

  “Will Chapman . . .” Miles echoed. He offered his hand, but William continued to stare at the man’s face, as if he didn’t notice. “I can’t believe it,” Miles said, shaking his head in wonder. “You were but a wee ginger-haired scamp last I saw you. Perhaps, what, four or five? Darting about the place like a redbird. Of course I was only a lad myself.”

  “What brings you here, Mr. Pembrooke?” William asked, his voice uncharacteristically stern and clipped.

  Miles hesitated, then took a step nearer Abigail. “I wanted to see the house again. And my good friends and distant relatives the Fosters have been kind enough to invite me to stay. Haven’t you, Miss Foster?” He beamed at her.

  She felt self-conscious and illogically guilty under Mr. Chapman’s disapproving gaze. “Yes, Father is very kind,” she murmured.

  “I saw your father today, Mr. Chapman,” Miles said. “Though only from a distance. Shot a cork off a bottle at fifty yards. How well I remember Mac. He frightened the wits out of me when I was a boy. Though not nearly as much as—” Miles broke off. “He is in good health, I trust?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do greet him for me.”

  “I shall certainly tell him you’re here.”

  Arms crossed, William glanced at her and then looked at Miles, as if expecting the man to excuse himself and take his leave.

  But Miles held his ground. He looked from Mr. Chapman to Abigail, as though trying to sort them out. Finally he said, “Miss Foster, you have not been here that long, I gather, so you have only recently become acquainted with our former steward and his family. Is that right?”

  “Yes. They are excellent neighbors. And perhaps you are not aware, but Mr. Chapman here is our curate.”

  “Will Chapman? A clergyman? Inconceivable.” His dark eyes glinted with humor. “You can’t be old enough.”

  “I am indeed. I am nearly five and twenty, and recently ordained.”

  “Astounding. Well. Good for you.”

  Still neither man made a move to leave. Miles glanced up at the exterior of the house. “And what have you two found so interesting out here?”

  Mr. Chapman looked at her, waiting for her to answer. But for some reason, she was hesitant to point out the stoned-in window to Miles Pembrooke.

  In her stead, Mr. Chapman reluctantly began, “Miss Foster just noticed that—”

  “That the clematis are climbing the wall in such profusion this year,” she interrupted. “Had you noticed? I adore flowering vines on old houses.”

  Both men blinked at her.

  Miles politely agreed, “Very charming, yes.”

  Abigail hesitated. She didn’t want to mention the secret room, but thinking Miles might be able to tell her something about the tower, she said tentatively, “We were discussing past renovations to the house, Mr. Pembrooke. Do you know anything about it?”

  He pursed his lip and shrugged. “You may ask me anything, Miss Foster. I am yours to command. But remember I lived here as a boy between the ages of ten and twelve, not an age to notice things like walls and climbing vines.”

  “You’re right. Never mind. Shall we go in? I imagine Father is already dressing for dinner. Will you join us, Mr. Chapman? You would be most welcome.”

  With another uneasy glance at Miles Pembrooke, Mr. Chapman said, “Thank you, Miss Foster. I should enjoy that. But perhaps another time?”

  “Very well.”

  “And now I shall bid you both good day.” He made a brief bow toward Abigail, and then turned and walked away, not in the direction of the church and parsonage, but rather in the direction of his parents’ home.

  Miles watched him go. “Hard to believe Will Chapman is so grown. Almost makes me feel old.”

  Abigail followed the direction of his gaze on William’s retreating back. Then she felt Mr. Pembrooke’s focus swivel to her.

  She glanced over, saw another glint of humor in his brown eyes. “That was your cue to assure me I am not at all old, Miss Foster.”

  Abigail complied. “You are not old, Mr. Pembrooke. I’d guess you are only, what, thirty?”

  He pressed a hand to his heart. “You cut me deeply, miss,” he said, with melodramatic flair. “I shan’t be thirty for two whole months yet.”

  “Then I beg your forgiveness,” she said, matching his mock serious tone.

  “And I shall forgive you . . . on two conditions.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tell me how handsome I am and agree to sing for me after dinner.”

  “Mr. Pembrooke!” she mildly protested.

  He ducked his head and playfully pouted. “You don’t think me handsome?”

  “Yes, you are handsome, as you well know. In fact you would be more so if you did not beg compliments.”

  “Touché, madam. And you will sing for me? I hear you have a lovely voice.”

  “Who told you that?” She doubted either William or Leah would have offered the information to this relative stranger.

  “Some lads I met along the way. They asked me who I was and where I lived. When I told them I was a guest at Pembrooke Park, they said, ‘That’s where the lady who sings like the angels lives.’”

  “The boys exaggerated, I assure you.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  William found his father cleaning his guns after the recent shooting tournament.

  “Papa, have you heard the news? Miles Pembrooke has returned. He’s staying in the manor as a guest of the Fosters.”

  His father’s whole body stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “The devil he is.”

  “It’s true. I just met him. In fact, he said he saw you today out at Hunts Hall, but from a dist
ance, while you were shooting.”

  “Did he indeed? Good thing I didn’t see him. Though I doubt I’d recognize him after all these years.”

  “Dark hair. Dresses like a dandy. He walks with a limp now, and carries a stick.”

  “A stick? But he can’t be more than, what, thirty?”

  “Something like that. An injury of some sort, apparently.”

  “Does Leah know?”

  “Not from me. I came to you first.”

  “Good. Don’t say anything yet. First we need to know why he’s here and where he’s been all these years. Where is the rest of his family?”

  “He said he is only here to see the house again. But I did not demand to know his intentions or the whereabouts of his family upon our first meeting.”

  “You should have.”

  “Then perhaps you ought to pay a call yourself.”

  Mac rose. “I shall indeed.”

  William grasped his father’s arm. “I know you have reason to despise Clive Pembrooke. But remember this is not that man himself but his son—who was only a boy when it all happened.”

  “I know. But I also know that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  After dinner, Miles and Abigail adjourned to the drawing room. Her father said he would join them after he smoked his pipe alone, as he always did, since his family had never liked the smell. A short while later, Molly brought in coffee. As she set down the tray, she leaned near to Abigail and whispered that Mac Chapman was waiting in the hall.

  The news surprised Abigail, but she said, “Ask him to join us.”

  A minute later, Mac appeared at the drawing room door. He’d removed his hat but still wore his Carrick coat. He said, “I wish to speak with Mr. Pembrooke, if you don’t mind.”

  “I . . .” She looked toward Miles in concern. “Do you mind?”

  “Of . . . course not,” Miles said, then asked Mac, “May Miss Foster stay?”

  “You may not want her to hear our conversation.”

  “Miss Foster may hear anything I say to you. I would like her to stay.”

  “If you wish.”

  Abigail resumed her seat, torn between wishing she might have been excused this scene and curiosity to hear more.

  Mac remained standing. “Why are you here, Mr. Pembrooke?”

  The man’s confrontational stance and glinting eyes reminded Abigail of her first sight of Mac Chapman, gun in hand, ready to shoot any intruder to protect his beloved Pembrooke Park.

  Miles appeared slightly nervous, but anyone targeted by that green-eyed glare would be.

  “I . . . I wished to see Pembrooke Park again. That’s all.”

  “Why do I doubt that?”

  “I have no idea.” Mr. Pembrooke’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Chapman, I don’t know what I have done to so vex you, but I—”

  “Do you not? You were only a boy at the time, but you’re a man now. Surely you heard the rumor about your father and Robert Pembrooke’s death.”

  “Yes. And I am sorry to say the rumor is likely true.”

  Mac’s eyes flashed. “You mean he admitted he killed his own brother?”

  Miles raised a hand. “I never heard him admit it, no, but I am ashamed to say I can believe it of him.”

  Abigail thought of the Genesis verse referenced in the miniature book. “Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.”

  Mac clenched his jaw. “And where is he now? Did he send you here to check up on the old place and . . . the lot of us?”

  “Heavens no. I have not seen Father since we left Pembrooke Park eighteen years ago.”

  “We thought you all left together.”

  Miles shook his head. “My mother, brother, sister, and I left together. Father was . . . delayed.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “I . . . don’t know. As I said, we have not laid eyes on him these many years. My mother believed him dead, but there is a part of me that fears he might still be alive.”

  “Fears?” Abigail asked.

  Miles looked at her. “You did not know my father, Miss Foster, or you would not ask such a question.”

  “True enough,” Mac agreed. “And the rest of your family?”

  “My brother died not long after we left here, and my mother died last year. There is only my sister and me now.”

  Abigail interjected, “But you said Harry was the executor of the estate. I assumed you meant your brother. But how can that be if he is dead?”

  Miles turned to stare at her. “Oh! No, Harri is my sister. Short for Harriet.”

  “Oh . . .” Abigail said, feeling foolish. But then she realized it was the first time she had heard the given name of the executor, the person who had likely been sending her the journal pages—Harriet Pembrooke.

  Mac asked, “And how long will you be staying?”

  “I have not yet decided. Mr. Foster has been kind enough to invite me to stay on as long as I like.”

  “Has he indeed?” Mac pierced Abigail with an accusing look, then returned his focus to Miles. “Do you intend to take over Pembrooke Park?”

  “Me? Good heavens, no. Besides, there is some question of ownership.”

  “A problem with the will?” Mac ventured.

  “You’d have to ask my sister, but I believe the will is clear. Pembrooke Park was to go to Robert Pembrooke’s oldest child. It isn’t entailed away to the male line, as you may know.”

  Mac nodded. “Aye, I know.”

  “Since his family have all died, my father would have been next in line. As he is missing, the lawyers have it tied up in probate, and Harri refuses to pursue the matter. She doesn’t want the place, but nor is she keen on seeing it come to me for some reason. Which is fine by me, as I have no interest in living here again—beyond a visit, of course.” He smiled broadly at Abigail. “And a very pleasant visit it is.”

  “Why not?” Mac asked, clearly skeptical.

  “Bad memories here for us, as you might guess. Though being here with such charming hosts has soothed some of the bad memories, I own. Yes, I could quite get used to living in such fine quarters, with such pleasant company.” Again he smiled at her, his eyes shining with possessive warmth that sent a prickle of unease through Abigail’s stomach.

  “I would’na advise it,” Mac said.

  “Oh? And why not?” As much challenge glinted in Miles’s eyes as in Mac’s.

  “You’d best be on your way. And leave these good people in peace.”

  “Peace?” Miles looked at her and asked pleasantly, “Am I disrupting your peace, Miss Foster?” He pressed a beseeching hand to his chest. “Pray, do tell me if I am, and I shall leave forthwith.”

  Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be watching you.”

  Miles smiled. “I am flattered, Mac, by your attention.”

  Her father came in and drew up short at finding Mac Chapman there. “Oh, I didn’t realize . . .”

  “I was just leaving.” Mac stepped to the door, then turned back. “I trust your houseguest will very soon follow my example.”

  After the conversation between Mac and Miles, something niggled at Abigail, some little detail that lingered on the murky edges of her memory. Why did Miles’s sister allow the will to languish in probate? And why warn her to turn away anyone named Pembrooke? Did Harriet Pembrooke want the “hidden treasure” for herself? The second verse marked in the miniature book—the one from Numbers—flitted through her mind: “Visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.” Was that somehow related?

  After Polly helped her into her nightclothes, Abigail sat on the edge of her bed and pulled out the bundle of letters and journal pages. As she reread the last one she’d received, one line jumped out at her: A detail in those plans that does not jibe with something I have seen in the house itself. Or am I not thinking of the actual house at all, but rather its scale model?

  That was the detail she’d been forgetting. Had Abigail overlooked
a clue about the secret room in the dolls’ house itself? She crossed the room and regarded the model of Pembrooke Park.

  There were the master’s and mistress’s bedchambers with their matching fireplaces, except for the missing miniature portrait, just as in the house itself. Two smaller bedchambers lay beside each large bedroom, instead of behind them across the gallery as they were in reality. But surely this was a simple contrivance for practicality, to make all the rooms of the dolls’ house accessible from one side.

  Abigail knelt in front of the dolls’ house until her knees ached, opening tiny doors, and searching the drawer beneath by candlelight. Nothing. She noticed a black streak painted up the kitchen wall above the open hearth. A very realistic effect. But otherwise she saw nothing she hadn’t noticed before. Suddenly she glimpsed her reflection in the looking glass and stilled.

  What was she doing? She was a woman of three and twenty, not a little girl. And a practical woman at that—not some dreamer or desperate gambler. She rose stiffly and returned to her bed. She closed her eyes and listened but heard nothing. The house was unusually quiet. No winnowing voices. No trespassing footsteps. When was the last time she had heard any? Apparently Duncan, or whomever it was, had long ago given up the search.

  It was time for her to do so as well.

  She blew out her candle and pulled up the bedclothes. As of tomorrow, she would lay aside her search for treasure and find a more useful way to spend her time. She had been foolish to entertain the notion. To hope.

  Would Gilbert expect the woman he wed to bring a hefty dowry into the marriage? He was just starting out in his career, likely many years away from financial success. Even a poor clergyman like William Chapman no doubt hoped for a wealthy wife, or at least one with some sort of dowry. She sighed. It couldn’t be helped. She had no dowry, and the majority of her father’s wealth was gone. And no mythical treasure was going to appear to replace it.

  The next afternoon, another letter arrived. Abigail had begun to fear she had received her last word from that source. She opened it right there in the hall and read the journal page eagerly.