The Secret of Pembrooke Park (26 page)

The villagers began to drift home, Mrs. Chapman and Leah thanking everyone for their help as though hosts at a party. Or a funeral.

When only Abigail and his father stood beside him, William said, “This was no kitchen fire.”

Mac asked, “No? What do you think, then, Will. A spark from the stove?”

“In my bed?” William snapped. “I think not.”

“In your bed? I thought it started in the kitchen.”

William shook his head, mouth pursed, his eyes measuring, thinking. . . .

“Did a candle lamp fall or something?”

“No, Papa.”

“Are you saying you don’t think it was an accident?”

“Keep your voice down, but yes. Someone started that fire.”

“You can’t know that.”

“If you mean can I prove it? No. But I know it. In here.” He pressed a hand to his chest.

“But who would do such a thing?” Mac asked. “And why?”

Abigail spoke up, “I don’t know if I should mention it or not, but I saw a black barouche drive past when I walked up the lane and spied the fire.”

“Whose barouche?”

“I don’t know, but there can’t be many vehicles that fine around here.”

William shook his head. “I don’t think we need to look any farther than Pembrooke Park for a suspect.”

“Duncan, do you mean?” Abigail asked, having witnessed the manservant’s clear dislike of the Chapmans.

Again he shook his head.

Abigail blinked. “You don’t mean
Miles
? I can’t believe he would do such a thing.”

“He was clearly angry with me last night, and perhaps jealous in the bargain.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed. “What happened last night?”

“I’ll tell you later, Papa.” He looked at her. “Where is Mr. Pembrooke now?”

As if summoned by their conversation, Charles Foster came jogging over, Miles Pembrooke hobbling behind with his stick.

“Molly just came and found us,” her father said. “Is everyone all right?”

“Did you not hear the bell, Papa? Or see the smoke?”

“We were playing chess in the drawing room—it’s at the back of the house, so we didn’t see anything. We did hear bells but assumed it was some special service we didn’t know about.”

William and his father exchanged a look. Was he chagrined to have suspected Miles unfairly? Or did he suspect him still?

“Good heavens, Mr. Chapman,” Miles said, pulling a face. “Your shoulder looks horrendous.”

“Hm?” William craned his neck to look at it.

Mac frowned down at the angry patch of charred shirt and skin, which looked as if some wild cat had clawed William’s shoulder. Perhaps the shock and his focus on putting out the fire had masked the pain, for it seemed as if William—as if all of them—were only now becoming aware of the injury. He swayed slightly.

“Sit, lad. Here,” his father said, guiding him to one of the kitchen chairs they’d dragged out to salvage from the flames.

He sat heavily down.

“I’ll ride for the surgeon,” Miles offered, surprising everyone. “Those burns should be seen to.”

“Mr. Pembrooke, I don’t—”

“Don’t worry. I can’t run with this leg, but you’ve never seen anyone saddle a horse faster.” He turned and began hobbling toward the stable. “Mr. Brown still surgeon here?”

“Aye,” Mac called after him. “Same green house.”

True to his word, Miles Pembrooke was seen galloping over the bridge on his horse a short time later.

After he had gone, Charles Foster looked at William and said kindly, “Come, son. Let’s get you into the manor. “You can’t stay here. Not with all the smoke. The surgeon can see you there.”

Soon William found himself lying on a velvet sofa in the Pembrooke Park morning room. How strange it felt to be there, his parents and the Fosters gathered around him. A clean sheet covered the fine old velvet—the housekeeper had seen to it—and considering his sooty state, William took no offense.

Mr. Brown had come, tended his burns in private, and laid an ear to his chest to listen to his heart and lungs. Then he’d asked the others to join them.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the bandages and reapply salve,” he’d announced. “I recommend plenty of rest and liquids for a few days. And clean air—stay clear of the parsonage.”

“But I need to board up the broken windows, at least, and cover the hole in the wall.”

“Now, lad, don’t you worry about that,” his father said. “Leave it to me.”

“That’s right. Listen to your pa,” Mr. Brown admonished him. “Don’t try to return yet. Not with all that soot and smoke in the air. Bad for the breathing.” He looked at Mac. “Keep him from overexerting himself for a few days at least.”

“If I have to tie him down.”

Kate Chapman added, “We’ll nurse him at home, Mr. Brown.”

“But there isn’t room,” William said. “Not with Grandmamma staying with us now.”

“My wife’s mother has recently moved in with us while she recovers from a fall,” Mac explained. “But we’ll make do.”

William shook his head. “I don’t want to put anyone from their beds.”

Mr. Foster spoke up. “Your son must stay here with us, Mac. We have so many spare rooms. You and your family may come and go as you please—and Mr. Brown, of course—until your son is quite recovered and the parsonage repaired.”

“We could’na do that, Mr. Foster. But thank you for your offer.”

“Why on earth not? Come, Mac, it would be our pleasure. The least we can do for our parson and neighbor.”

“It is a very kind offer, but—”

“You may have your pick of the empty rooms upstairs. Or we might fit out this room, if you prefer, so he doesn’t have to negotiate the stairs.”

“I am not an invalid,” William objected. “But even so, I must say the notion appeals to me. For one, if I might have this room here at the front of the house, I could keep an eye on the parsonage. If the fire was the work of vandals, I would be on hand to see their return.”

He glanced at Miss Foster to gauge her reaction and then addressed her father. “I sincerely appreciate the offer, Mr. Foster. And
hopefully after a few days, the worst of the smoke will have cleared and I will be able to make sufficient repairs to return.”

“That seems a bit optimistic, Will,” Mac said. “I think the damage is worse than you realize.”

Mr. Foster said, “You are welcome to stay as long as need be. We don’t mind at all. Do we, my dear?”

Miss Foster’s face remained impassive, her hands folded primly before her. “Not at all, Papa.”

Abigail walked out of the room with her father, leaving Mr. Chapman to rest, while Mac went to gather necessities for his son.

When they were out of earshot, she said, “That was very kind of you, Papa.”

He said, “You know, I quite liked doing it. I must say I was surprised by the surge of . . . em, patronage I felt. I suppose this is what it must feel like to be of the manor born, to experience a paternal fondness for one’s tenants and neighbors. A compulsion toward condescension and benevolence. Yes, I could quite get used to being lord of Pembrooke Park.”

His words stirred warnings in Abigail. “Be careful not to grow too accustomed to it, Papa. Remember what Mr. Arbeau said. You have not inherited the place. You are merely its tenant.”

“For now, yes. But once the tangle of the will is figured out . . . who knows?”

“Miles Pembrooke knows, I would imagine. Or his sister perhaps.”

He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I could see myself here. Doing . . . this. Forever.”

She touched his arm. “We shall enjoy it while we can, Papa. But try not to become too attached to the place, all right? I would hate to see you disappointed again.”

He patted her hand. “That’s my Abigail. Always the practical one.”

Her brave smile faltered. “Yes. That’s me.” She added, “I don’t mean to steal your joy, Papa, and I quite agree with you—you
would make an excellent
lord of the manor
, as you say. In fact, I was quite proud of you just now when you offered Mr. Chapman a place to stay.”

He sent her a sidelong glance. “Yes, I thought you might like that.”

She looked up at him in surprise, relieved to see no censure in his expression but rather an understanding light in his eyes. She tried to act nonchalant, as if she had no idea what he meant, but she could not quite stifle a small grin.

The grin faded, however, when she thought of Miles Pembrooke. He would not be happy to learn he was no longer their only houseguest.

A
nd so, feeling eager and self-conscious, Abigail oversaw the arrangements to settle William Chapman in Pembrooke Park’s morning room—an informal parlor with large windows where a family might spend time together reading, playing games, or doing needlework.

Mac returned to the parsonage and brought back a valise of William’s least smoky clothes. His mother and sisters took the rest home to be cleaned. While they were gone, Abigail and the servants fitted up the sofa with proper bedding, and brought down a small bedstead from the attic for Mac, who was determined to stay with his son for at least that first night to make sure he fared well, had everything he needed, and didn’t trouble the Fosters inordinately.

This answered the question in Abigail’s mind of who would help William dress and bathe, since his burned arm was wrapped and not terribly useful. With Mac there, she would not yet have to ask much more of Duncan, who would not be eager to serve Mr. Chapman.

Mrs. Walsh, however, was only too eager to have a Chapman under the same roof to cook for and immediately went about preparing a selection of healthful soups and jellies, as though William
were ill and not simply injured. She refused Kate Chapman’s offer to send over food, saying, “I would enjoy nothing better than cooking for our curate. You’ll not rob me of that pleasure, I trust?”

Mrs. Walsh brought the tray up herself that evening, making a fuss over William. He thanked her warmly, but said, “Only for tonight, mind. I shan’t let you spoil me for long. I’m not really an invalid, Mrs. Walsh, though I do appreciate all the trouble you are taking over me.”

“Aye, and what else would I do?” She winked and told him she wouldn’t be satisfied until he had eaten every bowl clean.

She offered to bring a tray for Mac as well. He politely but firmly refused. “I shall go home to Kate’s table. Don’t want her getting jealous,” he teased lightly, “or our cook, for that matter.” But a wary glint in his eye made Abigail wonder if he had other reasons for not wanting to dine in Pembrooke Park.

Abigail ate in the dining room as usual that evening, with her father and Mr. Pembrooke. When her father mentioned William Chapman was in residence, Miles surprised her by reacting with apparent approbation.

“You are all goodness, Mr. Foster,” he said. “I declare. I am quite proud to be related to you. First you invite me to stay and then our poor injured curate. Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Mr. Foster said with a wry twist to his lips, but his eyes shone at his guest’s praise.

Miles looked at her with a knowing grin. “And wise to put him on the ground level, sir, away from the family bedchambers. A clergyman cannot be too careful—one’s reputation is not to be trifled with.”

Was that a barb directed at her? Abigail wondered. Her father had shown no such scruple about keeping Miles Pembrooke away from the family bedchambers. But then again, he considered him family and therefore harmless.

Abigail hoped he was right.

After dinner, Abigail gathered her courage, reminding herself it was perfectly acceptable for a hostess to check on her injured
houseguest. The morning room door stood ajar, which made her feel more comfortable in approaching and knocking softly on the jamb.

“Come,” Mr. Chapman called in reply.

She pushed wide the door but remained in the threshold. William lay on the sofa, cocooned in bedclothes, his wrapped arm propped on a cushion. Hands, face, and hair scrubbed clean.

“Just checking to see if you have everything you need.”

“I do. Thank you.”

She glanced about the room. “Where is your father? I thought he was staying with you tonight?”

“He is. But he insisted on going to Mr. Brown’s for laudanum. He should be back shortly.”

She winced in empathy. “Is the pain very bad?”

“I’ve felt better,” he allowed.

“I . . . should leave you. If there is nothing I can do.”

“Stay and talk to me until he returns. Won’t be long. I could use a pleasant distraction.”

“Of course—if you like.” Leaving the door open behind her, she crossed the room and sat in an armchair facing the sofa.

Closer now, she noticed the tension in his jaw and mouth, as if gritting his teeth against the pain.

He asked, “How is Mr. Pembrooke taking the news?”

“Actually, he congratulated my father on his largesse.”

He chuckled. “I am sorry if I accused him unjustly. And I do hope you are . . . comfortable with my being here.”

“I don’t know if that is the word I would use, but I definitely approve of my father’s decision to ask you to stay.”

“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully, watching her with a measuring look.

For a few moments they sat in companionable silence.

Knowing he wished her to distract him, she said, “It was kind of Miles to go for the surgeon today.”

“I agree. Though perhaps shortsighted.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Mr. Brown told me something interesting about Mr. Pembrooke while he was tending my wounds. Granted, I was distracted by the pain, but I am fairly certain I heard correctly. Did not Miles say his limp was the result of an old war wound?”

“He mentioned that, yes. Though he might have been jesting to brush it off lightly.”

“Or to avoid uncomfortable questions, perhaps.”

She frowned, remembering Duncan’s doubts on the subject. “Why? What did Mr. Brown tell you?”

“He said he recalled Miles as a lad, when he lived here with his family. He was called in to set his leg—broken, apparently, during a fall down the stairs.”

“No . . .” Abigail breathed, her heart twisting at the thought of a young boy falling down those many stairs.

William nodded. “He also intimated that the family did not immediately call him. And by the time they did, he was unable to set the leg as well as he would have liked. Mr. Brown said he suggested they take the boy to the hospital in Bath, but as far as he knows, they never went. He said it disappointed him, seeing Miles limp after all these years, and wished he’d been able to do more for him.”

Abigail bit her lip as she considered, then asked, “Don’t tell anyone else, all right? I’d like to talk to him myself.”

“I won’t.” He reached across the distance and pressed her hand. “You have a compassionate heart, Abigail Foster.”

Or a foolish heart,
she thought but did not say so.

Abigail left Mr. Chapman and joined Miles in the drawing room for coffee. She found him staring out the window at the twilight sky, idly rolling the handle of a spoon between his fingers. As usual her father had remained in the dining room to smoke after dinner.

She sat across from him and began, “I understand Mr. Brown was called in to treat you here when you were a boy.”

Miles lowered his eyes, his long lashes fanning over his cheek. “Ah . . .” he murmured. He smiled a sad little smile and continued to roll the spoon in his hand. “And I suppose he told you I broke my leg in an accident?”

“Yes. A fall down the stairs. Though perhaps you reinjured it in battle . . . ?”

She waited, watching the curtain of thoughts and emotions shifting across his golden-brown eyes.

He looked at her, then away again. “I did fall, yes. Clumsy Miles. But with so many injured in the war, I find it easier to call it an old war wound. Better to be one of the honorable veterans, injured in a noble cause, than a cripple since boyhood, an object of pity or scorn.”

Abigail’s heart ached for him, and she wished she had kept her mouth shut.

He shrugged. “It was not a complete fabrication. I did serve in the navy. An attempt to follow in my father’s footsteps. To make up for all the other ways I had disappointed him. I bound my leg and hid my limp as best I could. It worked, for a time. I wasn’t the strongest sailor, but I was clever, and worked my way up. But in the end, I hadn’t the stomach for fighting. My father always told me I was too soft. And he was right.” His mouth twisted. “So far.”

“I understand, Miles,” Abigail said. “And I don’t blame you.”

He met her gaze. “And will you forgive me for not being completely honest with you?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and tapped a finger beneath her chin. “What a dear creature you are, fair cousin. If only everyone were half as understanding as you.”

Later that evening, laudanum administered and pain beginning to ease, William and his father sat companionably in the Pembrooke morning room.

Mac looked around him at the fine furnishings and old portraits on the paneled walls. “How strange to be here,” he murmured, “to have one of my children sleeping in Pembrooke Park. Never would I have believed it.”

William looked at his father’s pensive profile and said, “But I am not the first of your children to sleep here, am I?”

Mac looked away without answering.

William asked gently, “Were you ever going to tell me . . . if Miles Pembrooke hadn’t returned and forced your hand?”

His father shrugged. “You were so young when it happened. One doesn’t entrust important secrets like that to a four-year-old. Later, when the thing seemed to have been largely forgotten, it seemed risky to bring it out again, to open old wounds. Leah seemed to want to forget, to pretend it never happened. I suppose it made it easier to live day to day. And I certainly thought it the wisest, safest course, not to talk about it.”

William regarded the older man. Wondering what else he didn’t know about his family. About the past. “So many things I want to ask you . . .” he began, then winced his eyes shut, trying in vain to focus his laudanum-dulled thoughts. “Were you here that night?”

“Aye. That I was.” Mac slowly shook his head, his gaze straying to the door and the hall beyond.

“Show me where it happened,” William urged, pushing aside the bedclothes.

“No,” his father protested. “Not after the day you’ve had. Stay in bed.”

“I don’t feel too bad, not with the laudanum taking effect.” William swung his legs over the side of the sofa and made to stand.

His father stepped quickly to his side and took his arm to steady him. “Oh, very well. But just for a moment.”

They went out into the hall. Mac’s gaze swung around the soaring room and trailed its way up the grand staircase. “There.” With his free hand, he pointed to the front door, then up the stairs. “The valet, Walter Kelly, rushed in with the news that Robert Pembrooke
was dead. Murdered. And not long after, Walter himself died right there.” He pointed to the bottom of the stairs.

“An accident—a fall—as we’ve always been told?” William asked. “Or was he pushed?”

Mac grimaced. “He and Clive Pembrooke argued at the top of the stairs. I believe Clive struck him a mortal blow, perhaps with the butt of his gun or some other object, then pushed him down the stairs to make it appear an accident.”

“You didn’t actually see it happen?” William asked.

Mac shook his head. “No. But I heard it.”

William watched him, unsettled by the eerie glint in his father’s eyes. Then he looked around the open two-story hall for possible places of concealment. Seeing only a hall cupboard, he asked, “Where were you?”

For a moment, Mac didn’t answer, his expression distant in memory. Then he whispered, “In the secret room.”