The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Abigail hesitated in his embrace. Torn between relaxing into the arms of a friend, throwing her arms around him like a long-lost lover, or pulling away.

  Over Gilbert’s shoulder, movement caught her eye. She glanced up and saw William Chapman stop abruptly in the library doorway. His dark expression sent her heart plummeting. Before she could react, he turned and left without a word.

  With numb fatalism, William turned on his heel and stalked away. He’d been stunned to find Abigail in Mr. Scott’s embrace. But why should he be surprised? He knew Scott was the man she’d loved for years. It had only been a matter of time. Any man would have to be a blind fool not to realize Abigail Foster’s worth, her character, her heart, her beauty. And apparently Mr. Scott had at last done so, as William had feared he would.

  He returned to the drawing room, heavy resignation descending over him. He suddenly felt exhausted, as though he’d not slept in days. What could he do? With Mr. Morris planning to do all in his power to assure the living of the parish went to his nephew when he retired or died, William might never be able to support a wife—not as long as he remained in Easton, near his family. At least, not a wife like Abigail Foster, who would expect—who deserved—a certain standard of living. There was no point in persisting and no point in staying.

  He made his way to Mrs. Foster’s side and quietly thanked her and excused himself early. He didn’t want to be there if that embrace was soon to be followed by an engagement announcement. He wasn’t ready to see Abigail walk into the room on Gilbert Scott’s arm, her face aglow with love for another man. He was not comfortable in flirty Louisa’s company either. Even the thought of Rebekah’s renewed interest provided no comfort.

  He would be happy for Abigail someday—he would, with God’s help—but it wouldn’t be today.

  The look on William Chapman’s face when he’d stood in the library doorway stayed with Abigail for the rest of the night. What had she seen in his expression? Disapproval of their indiscreet embrace? Disappointment? Resignation? How could she guess his feelings, when she struggled to understand her own?

  Gilbert had asked if he might court her, but she’d put him off, telling him she’d have to think about it. How would William Chapman react if she agreed? And how would Gilbert react when she confessed she had no dowry? She hadn’t been brave enough to tell him. Afraid he would withdraw his offer. Afraid he wouldn’t . . .

  Though her mind and heart were still unsettled the next day, she went with Leah as promised to see Harriet Webb. Leah had suggested her grandmother’s cottage as a neutral and discreet meeting place, since it was currently unoccupied while the older woman recovered at the Chapmans’. And Abigail had sent a note with place and time to Mrs. Webb at Hunts Hall.

  Half an hour ahead of schedule, Abigail walked with Leah to her grandmother’s cottage and waited.

  Nervous, Leah tidied the sitting room, and straightened a knitted blanket folded over the back of the sofa. Glancing around the small cottage, she said, “I’ll never forget the first night I came here. Never liked the place since . . .”

  “Really?” Abigail asked in surprise. “I think it’s charming. And your grandmother seems so kind.”

  Leah sat down at last. “Oh, she is. She’s a perfect dear. The only grandparent I’ve ever known, really.” She grimaced. “I just . . . don’t like her cottage.”

  Mrs. Webb appeared alone and on foot at the appointed hour. Abigail opened the door for her.

  Leah rose stiffly and clasped her hands nervously over her stomach. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Webb?”

  Harriet regarded her in surprise. “So formal. And how strange to hear my married name on your lips. Do you not remember me—your old friend of the potting shed?”

  “Yes, I remember you . . . Jane.”

  A flash of a smile transformed Harriet’s weary face, and for a moment she was young and beautiful again.

  “That’s better. Thank you, Lizzie.” She smiled wryly. “You and I have gone by several names in our lives.”

  Leah’s head snapped up, and she looked at Harriet warily. “What do you mean?”

  Harriet pursed her lips. “Only that you have gone by Leah Chapman and Lizzie, and I have gone by even more names: Harriet Pembrooke, Jane, Miss Thomas, and Mrs. Webb.”

  Leah stared at the woman through narrowed eyes a few seconds longer, as though searching her expression for sincerity or hidden meaning.

  “Why?” Harriet asked, brows high. “What did you think I meant?”

  But Leah replied with a question of her own. “May I ask, Mrs. Webb, if you have sought me out of your own volition? Or is it at the behest of your father? And why now, after all these years?”

  It was quite an onslaught of questions, Abigail thought, but she remained silent.

  Harriet tilted her head to one side and studied Leah’s face. She asked quietly, “I know your father resents mine, but what are you so afraid of?”

  Leah lifted her chin. “You haven’t answered my questions.”

  “I have not seen my father in eighteen years, Miss Chapman,” Harriet said, reverting to formal names as Leah had done. “And I would certainly never act as his puppet in this, or anything else for that matter. We assume he is dead. I would even say we hope that is the case.”

  Leah asked, “Why do you assume he is dead?”

  Harriet’s eyes narrowed as Leah’s had. “Why do you wish to know?”

  “I want to know for certain that he is gone—that he will not return someday and . . .”

  “And what?” Harriet prompted. “Yes, I believe he probably killed his brother as well as the valet to get his hands on Pembrooke Park. But even if he were still alive, what harm would he do you?”

  Leah again answered the question with one of her own. “If your father went to such lengths to get Pembrooke Park, why abandon it so abruptly? And why would he stay away all these years?”

  Harriet’s eyes hardened. “That is why we believe he is likely dead, though no report of his death has ever reached us. Or perhaps he is alive but fears some evidence of his crimes exists and has fled the country to avoid hanging, never to return.”

  “If only we could be sure he was well and truly dead!” Leah’s voice rose on a plaintive high note. Then she seemed to realize what she had said to the man’s daughter and sheepishly ducked her head. “Forgive me. That was an unfeeling thing to say.”

  Both Abigail and Mrs. Webb stared at Leah’s tortured expression. Why did she feel this so personally?

  Leah swallowed and said, “I was sorry to hear that your mother and brother are gone.”

  “Yes. There is only Miles and me now. And you know I don’t mean you any harm.”

  “And Miles?” Leah asked.

  “Why would he?”

  Leah feigned a casual shrug. “Do you not find it . . . suspicious, his coming here as he has, so soon after the house was opened and occupied again?”

  “Yes, I do,” Harriet allowed. “I worry about that as well, but only because I fear he will follow in our father’s footsteps and carry on his mad pursuit of the supposed treasure. Why would you think Miles means you any harm? He barely remembered you from the old days, is that not right? In fact, he mentioned to me he had no idea why you found him so repugnant.”

  Leah looked away sheepishly once more. “I don’t find his person repugnant. I am sorry if I gave that impression. But Papa and I did find his return suspicious and feared he might be here on his father’s behalf.”

  “You give Miles too much credit. If Miles is here, it is because Miles wants to be here, because he believes there is something in it for him.”

  Abigail frowned. “Did he say as much when he came to see you last night?”

  Harriet’s thin eyebrows rose again. “Me? I have not seen Miles in a week or more.”

  Abigail felt her brow furrow. “Well, apparently his plans changed. In any case, he’s told me quite emphatically that neither of you had any wish to claim Pembrooke Park or to live
in it again.”

  Harriet nodded. “I don’t think Miles wants to live there. But I do think he’d like to find whatever treasure he can, and take it with him if he could.”

  “But you know where the secret room is,” Abigail said. “You found it—is that not right?”

  “You know where it is?” Leah asked the woman in surprise.

  Harriet nodded. “Yes.”

  “And Miles?”

  Harriet shook her head. “I never told anyone. It was my own secret.” She lifted one shoulder. “Though I was not the only person who knew about it. It seemed clear to me at the time I found it that someone else had been inside recently.”

  “What do you mean?” Leah asked.

  “You have to remember that I found the room nearly twenty years ago, so I don’t recall every detail. But when I first entered, I remember I didn’t find thick dust and heavy cobwebs. The room was neat—a little storeroom or hiding place.”

  “What’s inside?” Abigail asked.

  Harriet flicked her a wry glance. “Don’t tell me you share my brother’s fascination?”

  “Naturally I am curious.”

  “I remember shelves and a jumble of boxes. A small chair, and several portraits. One of a beautiful woman, I recall, though I cannot see her face in my mind’s eye any longer. I do remember wondering if she was my Aunt Pembrooke who died.”

  The missing portrait . . . Abigail thought, then asked, “But no treasure?”

  Harriet gave her a sardonic look. “I don’t know that it would be wise to further fuel your interest, Miss Foster. I don’t need two Mileses on my hands. Mostly papers, if I recall correctly. Boxes of old baby clothes and things. But I will say there were a few pieces of jewelry. Family heirlooms, I believe.”

  “Still there?” Leah breathed. “Like what?”

  “I recall a necklace and earrings . . .” She squinted in memory. “Some other jewelry, though I forget what. In any event, I was careful to only enter the secret room when no one was about, so I would not give away its location. I didn’t want my father, or even Mac Chapman, to—”

  “You didn’t want Mac Chapman to what?” That very man appeared in the doorway, scowling down at Harriet. His gaze flicked to Abigail, then to sheepish Leah, before returning to the former Miss Pembrooke.

  “Harriet Pembrooke . . .” he breathed, his dark red eyebrows like lobster claws, drawn low.

  For a moment, no one said a word, and the tension in the room thickened.

  “You might have knocked, sir,” Harriet rebuked.

  “Why? What have you got to hide? Besides, ’tis my mother-in-law’s house you’re making yourself at home in. But your lot excels at that.”

  “Papa, stop,” Leah said, rising. “I invited Mrs. Webb here.”

  “Mrs. Webb, is it?” His eyes shifted to Leah. “And why would you do that?”

  “Because I wanted to ask her about her father.”

  “And what did she tell you?”

  “She assumes he’s dead but doesn’t know. But she does know where the secret room is.”

  “Does she indeed?” Now his eyebrows rose like a redbird’s wings. “Did you take anything from there?”

  Harriet met his suspicious green glare with a cool blue gaze. “Anything like, say, personal letters, or jewels, or the Pembrooke family Bible? No, I did not.”

  Abigail asked eagerly, “Won’t you tell us where it is? Or show us?”

  Harriet shook her head. “I already told you. You can find it on your own, Miss Foster—I know you can—and collect that reward for yourself.”

  Harriet sent Mac a knowing glance and wagged a finger. In a singsong voice, she urged, “No helping her, now.”

  Chapter 24

  Motivated by Harriet’s smug challenge, and her mention of the outstanding reward, Abigail went to the library to retrieve the old building plans again. As she flipped through them, something on the back of one drawing caught her eye. Someone had traced the tower section from the reverse side and sketched in something . . . a ladder? It looked like steep narrow stairs had been penciled in. Perhaps someone had proposed adding a staircase in the unused tower—a set of servants’ stairs to reach the bedchambers directly. From the look of the quick sketch, it had only been an idea, likely never implemented.

  She carried the plans up to her room and spread them on the floor, orienting the drawing with the room. Gilbert had concluded the water tower had been converted into a closet above and kitchen hoist below. She shook her head. The water tower would have been near her closet. But exactly? She wasn’t convinced.

  Once again she knelt before the dolls’ house. Kitty had found a doll inside the small wardrobe. Might something else be hidden inside as well—something they had both missed? She opened one of the wardrobe’s small doors. But with the fading daylight casting shadows it was difficult to see inside. She tried pulling the wardrobe out of the dolls’ house, but it was anchored to the wall. That gave her pause. She tried the bed and then the dressing chest, but those pieces moved easily. Had the wardrobe been purposely glued to the wall, or had it been placed there while the paint was still wet, creating a seal?

  She glanced up at the full-size wardrobe against her bedchamber wall, then rose and peered behind it. It was difficult to see behind the tall cabinet, but in the crack of space she saw no obvious straps or anchoring bolts.

  She stood back and considered the wall the wardrobe stood against. A four-foot section of wall between a tall window and the closet door, trimmed in oak like the wardrobe itself and covered in rosebud wallpaper. If the drawing was accurate, the water tower would have been on the other side of this very wall.

  Stepping to the window, she opened it and stuck her head out—a wall of about eight feet jutted out at a ninety-degree angle. If it was a shaft used to collect rainwater in former days, it was unlikely there would be an access point from her room.

  Was there something behind that wardrobe worth hiding? A young girl like Harriet could not have moved the wardrobe herself. Had she asked Mac for help? Or some servant long gone? Then left this clue, if clue it was, in the dolls’ house? There was one way to find out.

  Who could Abigail get to help her move the wardrobe?

  Duncan? When she believed he may have been searching the house at night before Miles even arrived? No.

  What about Miles, who had suggested they join forces? No. Harriet would never forgive her if she did anything to inflame his interest.

  Gilbert was still in the area, overseeing the construction at Hunts Hall. He would be willing, though he would likely tease her for her overactive imagination, or perhaps even be offended to learn she questioned his opinion of the placement of the old water tower. Besides, she wasn’t ready to give him her answer.

  Her own father was not exactly a strapping man, but Mac Chapman was. What had Mrs. Webb meant when she’d told him, “No helping her, now.” Even if the former steward knew where the secret room was, it didn’t mean he would be eager to assist her.

  Or . . . Jacob Chapman was only fifteen. But he was already nearly as tall as his brother and strong from helping William chop wood for the family. He and William together would certainly be able to move it. But would she need to confide in them the reason she wished it moved? And then be embarrassed if she was wrong?

  Would she need to share the reward with whomever helped her find the “treasure”? She wouldn’t mind sharing the reward with William Chapman, if it came to that. He could certainly use the money, and a more deserving man she could not imagine.

  She sought him out the next day and found him in the church, checking the water level in the baptismal font. “Mr. Chapman, might I ask you and Jacob to help me with something?”

  He turned, auburn eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Of course.” In his wary uncertainty, she thought she saw the question “Why not ask Mr. Scott?” flicker there. But she was likely flattering herself.

  “I’m afraid it’s not a very glamorous favor,” she said. “I ne
ed two strong men to move something for me.”

  Another question flickered, and she answered his unspoken thought before he could voice it. “I hope you aren’t offended. But I don’t want to ask Duncan. I don’t trust him—not fully.”

  “Very well. What is it?”

  “Could you and your brother come by the manor this afternoon—whenever it’s convenient for you? I’ll tell you then.”

  He thought. “I have a christening shortly, but I could come this afternoon. I’ll bring Jacob with me.”

  “Thank you. And I shall ask Mrs. Walsh to prepare a cake for your efforts.”

  He lifted one corner of his mouth in a grin. “Or you could make us a cake.”

  She shook her head, mirroring his grin. “Oh no, you wouldn’t want that, I promise you.”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Garwood, Andrew Morgan’s widowed sister, entered, child in arms. She hesitated at seeing Abigail there but greeted her politely. She shifted the child, apparently trying to open her reticule for the christening fee, and William quickly offered to hold the infant for her.

  Seeing William comfortably and naturally hold that child in his arms caused Abigail physical pain. Here was the woman he once loved and her fatherless child . . . Would he offer to fulfill that role in the child’s life? Would he marry Rebekah as he’d once wished to, and maybe still did?

  Suddenly that seemed more probable than a union between him and Louisa. Despite her flirtation and his stammering admiration, her sister was unlikely to marry a poor curate. But Rebekah Garwood, a wealthy widow? The thought hurt to contemplate.

  But why should it? she berated herself. Gilbert wants to court me, as I’ve long hoped. What is wrong with me? Lord, tell me this is not a case of only wanting what I cannot have. I am not such a fool, surely.

  Before the men arrived that afternoon, Abigail moved the dressing table herself, lifting first two legs, then the other two atop a thin rag rug. This allowed her to slide the dressing table over the wooden floor with relative ease—and quiet. She placed it on the other side of the fireplace, freeing up a space for the Chapmans to move the wardrobe into. Did she need to reveal why she wanted it moved? She hated to lie, especially to a clergyman, but could she trust his adolescent brother with her secret—whether successful or mortified?