The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  “And Mac?”

  Leah’s gaze flitted around the room. “Not until I showed him where it was. We hid here that night when . . .”

  When her words trailed away, Abigail prompted, “The night the valet returned to report that your . . . Robert Pembrooke had been killed?”

  Leah nodded again and turned, her focus landing on the portrait on the back of the door. She stilled, arrested, mouth falling slack. Then she stepped nearer to look at it more closely.

  Seen together now, Abigail could see differences in the two faces. But even so, the resemblance was remarkable.

  “Mamma . . .” Leah breathed. And Abigail for the first time fully grasped that the living, breathing woman before her, whom she knew as Leah Chapman—Mac and Kate’s daughter and William’s sister—was in fact Eleanor Pembrooke.

  She tried the name on her tongue. “Eleanor . . .”

  Leah turned sharply, her eyes meeting Abigail’s, then softening into vague focus somewhere beyond her. “No one has called me that in years. It barely seems like my name anymore.”

  She looked at the shelves, the small window, then pointed to the child-size chair and cushions on the floor. “Oh, the hours I spent here, reading and playing dolls . . .” She pressed her eyes closed. “If only all of my moments here had been as pleasant . . .”

  Abigail asked, “Can you tell me what happened that night?”

  Leah shrugged. “I can try. I was only eight years old at the time, but the scenes are still very real in my mind. And now and again over the years, I have begged Papa to fill in the missing blanks for me, which he has done very reluctantly. Even so, he could tell it better.”

  “But Mac won’t tell me, will he?”

  Again Leah shrugged. “Probably not.” She gazed toward the ceiling, apparently gathering her thoughts, then began, “My father was away in Town. With Mamma passed away, he’d decided to sell the London house, and took several servants along to help him pack up the place. He’d planned to close up the manor here for a few weeks and had given the other servants time off. I was supposed to go with him, but at the last moment, I came down with a cold.

  “Father sent Mac for the physician, who proclaimed me in no danger but said a quiet time at home would be wise. I begged Father to let me go with him, but since he had recently lost Mamma and the baby to illness, he insisted he would take no chances with my health and I would remain at home. I had outgrown a nurse, and my governess had only recently left us, so I was left in the care of our steward and housekeeper.

  “My illness was God’s merciful providence, Pa . . . Mac declared later, for had I been with my father, I might have met with the same fate. The official report was that he had been killed by thieves, but by the time the authorities brought the news of his death, we already knew the truth.”

  She paused for breath, then continued, “Mrs. Hayes’s sister had fallen ill, so Mac and I were alone in the manor—me in my bed, and him downstairs somewhere—when Father’s valet came home unexpectedly in the wee hours of the morning. . . .”

  As Leah described the scene, it came to life in Abigail’s mind, like a play in a theatre.

  The front door banged open like a gunshot. Hearing it, young Eleanor left her bed and crept out of her room, standing at the stair rail to see what the matter was. Her father’s valet crossed the hall below, his face ill-white, nearly green. His cravat and waistcoat were stained, his usually pristine boots muddied. Had he galloped all the way from Town?

  From between the spindles she saw their steward rush into the hall, frowning thunderously. “Good heavens, Walter. What is the matter? Where is the master?”

  “He’s coming!” Walter cried. “He’s coming!”

  “Who’s coming—the master?”

  “No! His brother. The master’s dead!” Walter’s voice cracked. “Here . . . read this. He wrote this before he . . .” The valet’s words trailed away. He handed over a note, and the steward read it.

  Grim-faced, Mac tucked it inside an inner pocket. “I’ll gather her things directly.”

  “No, there isn’t time. We mustn’t be here when he arrives. None of us. But especially her.”

  “I just need a few minutes. . . .” Mac started up the stairs.

  Not wishing to be found eavesdropping, Eleanor retreated into her bedchamber.

  “Do what you must, but hurry!” the valet called after him.

  Mac entered her bedchamber and knelt before her. “Your father is dead, lass,” he said. “I’m sorry—and sorry to say it so bluntly, but there’s no time to waste.”

  Pain lanced her chest and tears filled her eyes. “Not Papa too.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Breathing hard, the valet scurried into the room, arms spread like a hen’s wings to shepherd her chicks to safety. “Hurry. Gather a few things and let’s go.”

  But no sooner had Mac risen to his feet than the front door downstairs banged open once more.

  The valet’s face stretched into a mask of terror. “No. He’s here.” He slowly backed from the room. “You hide her. I shall do what I can to distract him.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple convulsing up and down his long thin neck.

  The steward nodded gravely. “You’re a good man, Walter.” Then Mac turned to her. “We need to hide, lass.”

  “From whom?” she asked, eyes wide.

  He grimaced. “Your uncle, I’m afraid. You are the last person to stand between him and Pembrooke Park. If he finds us, he will not hesitate to kill us both.”

  Her heart lurched. Her family . . . all dead. Would she be next? She feared she would be sick. But she composed herself and lifted her chin, determined to behave as her parents would wish her to. Like the little lady of the manor her father declared her, after her mother passed on.

  A voice she didn’t recognize called from downstairs. “Hello! Anybody home?” Eleanor shuddered. Was it really the uncle she had never met—a man who would not hesitate to kill her?

  She knew of only one place to hide. But did her uncle know about it as well? He might, she feared, having grown up at Pembrooke Park.

  Taking the steward’s large damp hand in her smaller one, she stepped to the wall and, pressing the invisible latch, opened the hidden door. Beside her, the man sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. She led him inside and closed the door most of the way behind them. They stood there together, listening at the crack. She smelled dust, sweat, and fear and hoped she would not sneeze and give away their hiding place. For a moment, the only sound she heard was Mac’s breathing in the darkness.

  Through the narrow crack, she could see across her bedchamber and out into the corridor beyond, lit with wall sconces. But she didn’t see anyone.

  Her uncle’s voice sounded again from downstairs. “Ah . . . there you are.”

  “I didn’t see . . . anything, sir,” Walter said, his voice strained, its pitch higher than usual. She guessed he stood at the top of the stairs.

  “I think you did,” the other man said, his voice low and menacing.

  She heard a heavy tread mount the wooden stairs.

  “Who have you told?” the man asked.

  The valet’s voice rose in protest. “There is no one here, sir. No one to tell. What with the mistress and daughter passed on and the house all but closed up.”

  “They’re all dead?”

  “Yes. Died in the typhus epidemic last year.”

  “How convenient. But then . . . upon what errand did you race, hell-bent, back here?” It sounded as if the man now stood with Walter at the top of the stairs.

  “I . . .”

  “What did my brother tell you to do—what was his last request? Tell me. If you value your life.”

  Silence, followed by the echoing snap of a gun being cocked.

  “Last chance . . .”

  Panicked, Walter said, “He . . . he wanted us to . . . to hide his treasure.”

  “Ah! And where is it?”

  “Upon my life, sir, I do not know. He w
asn’t able to tell me.”

  “Unfortunately, I believe you.”

  “No!” Walter screamed. An awful scream. Then came a sickening fwank of metal on bone. Then a thud, followed by a series of thuds, like a branch caught in the spokes of a wagon wheel: thum-thump-thum-thump. Walter falling down the stairs, she guessed. She wanted to run out and help—at the same time she wanted to hide forever. Mac grasped her hand, hard, likely feeling the same.

  The heavy footsteps didn’t descend the stairs; instead they proceeded up the corridor. One door was thrown open across the gallery, then another, then the door to the room next to hers. She jumped at the sounds, louder and louder, nearer and nearer. With trembling fingers, she pulled the hidden door closed all the way, praying, God, please don’t let him know about this room. . . .

  Would he really kill her? Kill them both? The man beside her obviously believed it. Fear, anger, disbelief gripped her—there was only one thing to do. Our Father in heaven, help us, she prayed. Deliver us from evil!

  She had never been afraid of the dark, but she was afraid of being alone. And if she survived that night, that was exactly what she would be.

  Leah sighed and sat down on the cushions on the floor.

  The lights went out on the stage in Abigail’s mind, but she knew she would imagine the horrific scene for a long time to come.

  Leah continued more lightly, “At all events, my uncle didn’t find us. After he left, we slipped back into my room. Mac gathered a few things and took me to Grandmamma’s cottage and hid me there until he could decide what to do. He met with the housekeeper. Apparently she and the other servants agreed to say I had died with my mother, to keep my identity secret from my uncle. To save me.”

  She expelled a breath. “All my life, my adoptive parents have warned me over and over again to stay away from Pembrooke Park. Not to reveal my true name or identity to anyone. Not even to William. Even after Pembrooke Park was abandoned, I could not feel safe. After all, Papa would remind me, we never knew when my uncle or his offspring might return. . . .”

  Leah shook her head. “William tells me that I must trust God will protect me eternally, even if not on this earth. But I have to say, it’s this earth I most worry about.” She managed a weak chuckle.

  Abigail’s mind whirled with questions. She snatched one from the air and asked, “Where did ‘Leah’ come from?”

  “Oh, who can say how family pet names evolve. . . .” Leah considered, then explained, “My father, my first father, called me Ellie—short for Eleanor. When I came to live with the Chapmans, little William took to calling me by the second syllable of Ellie: Lee, which became Leah.” She shrugged. “Papa thought it best for me to go by another name to help keep me hidden until the danger had passed. Papa . . . that is how I think of Mac now.”

  “Understandable, after so many years.”

  “Yes. Mac Chapman has filled the role of father far longer, and in many ways better, than Robert Pembrooke ever did, no matter how high a pedestal Papa insists on placing him on. Don’t misunderstand me, I loved my father and mother, and was devastated by their deaths. But my father, like many men, was often absent—gone to Town for business or pleasure, or off riding or hunting. I simply didn’t spend much time with him.

  “Mac is the best of men, and has been an excellent father to me, if a bit overprotective. And in all truth, I don’t remember my first father very well.” She glanced again at the portrait. “And less so my mother. Though she and I were very close, she died about a year before my father. This is the first time I’ve seen her likeness in twenty years.”

  “William mentioned he only recently found out, and I haven’t told a soul—don’t worry.”

  She nodded. “William was so young when it all happened. Too young to be trusted with such an important secret. Mac and Kate made arrangements to send me away to school just before my uncle and his family took up residence in the house, to foster the ruse that Eleanor had died in the same epidemic that killed my mother.”

  Abigail said, “But the grave in the churchyard has your name on it. . . .”

  She nodded. “My infant sister died a few days before my mother. But headstones take a long time to quarry and carve. Especially that year, with so many dead in the epidemic and such a long list of headstones to prepare. . . .

  “Mac allowed people to believe the infant had been buried in the same casket with my mother, as was often done in the case of newborns. Mamma—Kate—argued against it, I recall, but Papa insisted on having the headstone carved with my name. We could always replace it, he said. Rectify the mistake if and when the danger was passed and I could reclaim my rightful name and rightful place as Robert Pembrooke’s daughter and heir.”

  Abigail shook her head. “How you must have detested our coming and moving in to your home. . . .”

  “Not at all! You mistake me, Abigail. It has saddened me to see my family home sitting empty and slowly decaying all these years, despite Papa’s efforts to keep the roof sound and vandals away. I am glad you are here. And I am glad you’ve lifted the lid on this long stewing pot. It was only a matter of time before it all boiled over, or scorched and burned. . . .”

  She shook her head as though to dispel the notion. “I have been content with my lot, Abigail. Truly. There are times I wish I might lighten Mamma’s load or see the Chapmans living here in Pembrooke Park in style and ease, compared to that crowded old cottage. But they would never want to live here. And I’m not certain I would either, even if it were mine free and clear and safe. Don’t feel sorry for me, I beg of you. I don’t.” She smiled bravely, charming dimples framing her gentle mouth. “Well, not often, at any rate.”

  “But surely some people knew, or guessed, who you really were?”

  “Of course. After all, Mac and Kate Chapman had announced the birth of their firstborn son four years before. But when I returned from school after a year away, they told anyone who asked that I was an orphan of relatives in the north that they were raising as their own. William grew up believing that story, more or less. I don’t think he was ever lied to directly—though many lies of omission, yes. Papa felt no remorse about lying to outsiders, though. He would have done anything to protect me. Some of our neighbors knew or recognized me as a Pembrooke. But with the man we all believed guilty of killing my father living right here in Pembrooke Park—all were willing to keep our secret, apparently.

  “How Mac worried over the years, coddling this neighbor or that with loose lips or a tendency to drink too much, or growing old and forgetful. . . . But, thankfully, his worst fears have never come to pass. At least . . . so far.”

  Abigail thought of Mrs. Hayes. Did this explain Mac’s visits and gifts?

  Leah glanced at the hidden door behind them. “Papa won’t be happy when he hears you know about me. But William and I agree we must tell him. He has every right to know.”

  Abigail nodded, a tremor of dread pinching her gut at the thought of Mac’s anger.

  “William has ridden to Hunts Hall to tell him, if he can find him around the estate. I think I shall wait to look through the rest of these things until he’s with me. Or at least, until he knows that I’m in here with you.” Leah expelled a breath of amazement at the thought.

  “I understand.” Abigail led the way back into the bedchamber, carefully closing the hidden door behind them. She looked around the room with new eyes. “How strange to think this is your room . . .”

  “Was my room. Twenty years ago.”

  “That’s why you cried—when you watched Kitty play with the dolls’ house. It’s yours.”

  “I don’t know why I cried, exactly.”

  Abigail shook her head in bemusement and said gently, “You have many valid reasons to choose from.”

  “Perhaps. But I choose not to dwell on them. Now, would you mind terribly if I returned later, after I have talked to Papa?”

  “Not at all. You are welcome any time. More than welcome. This is your home. Your room.”
>
  “Shh . . . Enough of that.”

  “Very well. For now.” Abigail went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. “But in the meantime, you might wish to read these.” She handed Leah the ribbon-tied bundle of letters and journal pages she’d received from Harriet Pembrooke.

  Leah glanced at them, saw Abigail’s own name written on the letters, and lifted questioning eyes to her face.

  “Your friend ‘Jane’ has been writing to me these many weeks. And I think she’d want you to see them.”

  Early the next morning, Duncan knocked on her door and announced that Miss Chapman had come to call. Opening the door a crack, Abigail asked the manservant to send up her guest, as she was not yet fully dressed.

  A few minutes later, she opened the door for Leah and shut it softly behind her. “I thought Mac would be coming with you.”

  “He is. He’ll be here any moment, I imagine. He let himself in through the servants’ entrance but insisted I go to the front door as a proper lady. He’s probably helping himself to one of Mrs. Walsh’s sausages as we speak.”

  “I thought you might return last night.”

  “We considered it. But he thought it would be more difficult to explain to your family.”

  “Ah.”

  “I hope we’re not too early.”

  “No. Just give me one minute . . .”

  Abigail sat at the dressing table and began gathering her long hair. She had shooed Polly away earlier, saying she would take care of her own hair that morning. In case the Chapmans made an early morning call, she wanted to be alone as soon as possible. Now she hurriedly twisted the hair into a coil atop her head. Holding it in place with one hand, she reached for the pins with the other.

  Leah came and stood behind her. “Let me help you.”

  Leah picked up the pins and made quick work of securing Abigail’s hair.

  A soft scratching at the door alerted them, and Leah walked over and opened it, gesturing for Mac to enter. She returned to the dressing table and pushed in the last pin.