The Secret of Pembrooke Park (36 page)

Abigail narrowed her eyes, studying her sister’s averted face. Wondering what she wasn’t telling her. She must own a share in the wrong, if wrong it was, to be so reticent to repeat it.

Louisa added, “I will say Gilbert was more polite as well. I was quite shocked at how cold he was the first time I saw him here.”

Abigail asked gently, “What happened between the two of you?”

“Oh . . . well. I think he felt snubbed when he returned from Italy. But what was I to do? So many gentlemen wishing to dance with me and pay calls . . . I couldn’t spend all my time with Gilbert. Even if he is a family friend.”

“Family friend?” Abigail asked. “Are you sure he wasn’t more than that?” Her sister’s memory seemed to be shifting to suit her own purposes.

Louisa looked down, pulling at a loose thread of her frock. “I thought he might be before he left for Italy. That’s why I gave him a lock of my hair. But apparently I was wrong.”

“If you gave him a lock of your hair but then couldn’t be bothered to give him a dance or the time of day, is it any wonder if he is cool toward you now?”

“Oh, he’ll forgive me. Men always do. Just look at Andrew Morgan.”

Wariness pinched Abigail’s stomach. She said gently, “Louisa, I think you should know. Mr. Morgan admires someone else.”

“Does he? Who?”

Abigail thought it wiser not to mention Miss Chapman. She knew too well how much her sister liked a challenge. And she didn’t want to give Louisa any reason to dislike Mr. Chapman’s dear sister.

“Just . . . be careful, Louisa. Men aren’t playthings, you know.”

She smiled coyly. “No? Then why do I so enjoy playing with them?”

“Louisa! Do you know how wanton that sounds?”

Her sister nudged her. “Don’t be such a prude. I am only teasing my sister. Not talking to a man—or your clergyman.” Louisa’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Is he
your
clergyman?” she asked.

Had her little sister not noticed the clergyman’s reaction to
her
?

Abigail’s cheeks heated. “No. He is no such thing.” Did she even want him to be? After the way he had reacted to the sight of her sister? And especially now that Gilbert was in the neighborhood, and seeking her out, and declaring how blind he’d been?

They talked for a long time, and Abigail felt her heart begin to thaw toward her younger sister. When Louisa finally yawned and rose to go to her own bed, it was late, and Abigail was tired. She decided not to open the door again that night and risk someone hearing her rummaging about and becoming suspicious. She could imagine Miles at the door, or loitering in the passage, listening to her every move.

She blew out her candle and settled in, darkness and weariness
descending quickly. She would fall asleep any second, she was sure. But then she heard something.

The house made many sounds and groans, but this was one she had not heard before. A low moaning
creeeeak
 . . . Her gaze flew to the hidden door and her heart thumped painfully hard. The door was opening. . . .

She stared, unable to move, unable even to cry out. A ghostly white hand appeared, gripping the edge. The door inched open, creak by creak, and there in the cavernous black cave beyond stood a man in a long hooded cape, his face shadowed and invisible.

Her mouth fell open, in a silent scream.

Then he stepped forward and a shaft of moonlight revealed what lay beneath that hood. A skull with sightless eyes.

“Huhhhn . . . !” She awoke with a start, gasping and eyes flying wide. Scrambling, she sat up, retreating back against her headboard, staring wildly at the crypt-like door, only to see the feminine rosebud-papered wall. Quiet. Undisturbed. Modest in its newly exposed state.

With a heavy sigh of relief and disgust at herself, she slumped back against her pillows. But it was quite some time before sleep claimed her once again.

I
n the morning Abigail awoke, for a moment forgetting. Then her eyes fell on the newly bared wall, and her heart thumped in anticipation. She eagerly climbed from bed, opened her own shutters, and began washing for the day.

Polly came in to help her dress, her face oddly alight. “Thought you should know, miss. The parson is in the morning room, waiting to see you. He told me not to disturb you until you were quite ready to come down—didn’t want to rush you.” She shook her head. “Never known a gentleman to call so early.”

Abigail’s pulse rate accelerated. He was there already? Had he read her mind? “I’m glad you told me. Here, let’s do the rose day dress instead. Far fewer fastenings.”

“Very well, miss. Though he did say not to hurry.”

“That’s all right. I hate to keep the parson waiting.”

“And your hair, miss?”

She was tempted to leave it down, recalling his fingers touching her hair that first night in the sickroom, but she blinked away the memory. “Just a simple coil, if you please.”

As soon as she was ready, Abigail hurried downstairs, slowing her steps as she neared the morning room. When she entered, he looked up from a newspaper and stood, setting the paper aside.

“Good morning, Mr. Chapman. I hope you have not been waiting long.”

“Not at all. Please forgive the early hour of my call. I have a full day of appointments and commitments ahead of me, so this was the only time I could stop by. I am afraid my curiosity has been nipping at me all night. I keep thinking we may have missed something. I slept very poorly, I don’t mind telling you.”

“As did I.” She lowered her voice. “I dreamt the door opened and someone came out. A . . . skeleton.” She shivered.

“Door?” His eyebrows rose.

She looked behind her, then stepped nearer. “Yes. I found a seam along the trim and a spring latch before I went to bed.”

His eyes widened. “Have you been inside?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t even
looked
inside yet. I kept getting interrupted, and then I lost my courage. And I . . . didn’t really want to go in alone.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze, and for a moment neither said anything. Then she looked over her shoulder into the empty hall. “None of my family are up and about yet.”

He added helpfully, “I saw Mr. Pembrooke from the parsonage window, leaving on his morning ride.”

She pulled a face. “Too bad we don’t have Kitty here as an excuse.”

He nodded. “Or as chaperone.”

“So . . . it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to come upstairs with me now.”

Again he nodded. “You are quite right.”

He looked so solemn, so parson-like, that she felt a grin quiver on her lips. Seeing it, his eyes sparkled, and an answering grin lifted his mouth.

Two minutes later, Abigail led the way upstairs and across the gallery on tiptoe. William Chapman followed behind, all stealth. A bubble of mirth tickled her stomach. They were like two naughty children, sneaking around on some mischievous errand. She thought briefly of Gilbert and their childhood together and felt a pang of guilt.

She quickly shook it off, picked up the candle lamp still burning in the dim corridor, and let him into her room, quietly shutting the door behind them.

She trusted William Chapman fully. And so, she believed, did her father. But that didn’t mean he would approve of finding the two of them alone in her bedchamber. And to lock her door when a man was with her? She could not bring herself to do it. Instead she lugged her dressing stool in front of her door. It would at least give them a little warning if someone entered.

Crossing the room, Abigail’s heart beat a little too fast, but she didn’t feel nearly as anxious as she had the night before, about to open the hidden door for the first time by herself. William’s presence was comforting. Even if he had disappointed her with his reaction to Louisa, she was glad he was with her at this moment.

She handed him the candle lamp and placed her hand on the seam. Glancing at William for reassurance, she took a deep breath and pushed the same spot along the trim, triggering the spring latch.

Again that waft of stale, musty air met Abigail’s nose. The door creaked open, reminding her of her dream. Seeing no skeleton, she released the breath she’d been holding.

“Good heavens . . .” Mr. Chapman murmured beside her.

She’d expected a completely dark room but was surprised to find a shaft of sunlight filtering in through a small window. She had thought the windows on the tower had been covered over, but here was one that had been left intact. Through the murky glass she could see why—the window looked out onto another exterior wall a few feet away and was therefore not visible from the ground—nothing to be noted by the window-tax man, or by someone searching for a secret room.

Stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind them, Abigail surveyed the square chamber. Thick pipes ran along one wall, draped in cobwebs. The other two walls held floor-to-waist-high shelves stacked with dusty boxes and crates and bundled papers. An old square of carpet covered the floor. No stairway, as in the
sketch, but she hadn’t really expected one, as she’d never found formal plans for stairs in the former water tower.

In one corner, several framed portraits leaned against the wall. Turning, she saw another large portrait had been hung on the back of the door. Sunlight illuminated the image, and Abigail gasped.

Beside her William turned to see what had caught her attention and sucked in a breath as well.

The formal portrait was of a woman in attire from decades past, a ruby necklace at her throat. Her hair was golden brown, her eyes large and gentle, her face serene, lovely, and startlingly familiar.

It was the face of Leah Chapman.

“What in the world . . . ?” Abigail breathed.

“Merciful God . . .” William murmured beside her. “It’s Leah.”

She gaped at him. “How can that be? The painting has clearly been here for years. But yes”—she returned her gaze to the portrait—“the woman looks just like her.”

“It’s understandable,” he whispered. “It’s her mother.”

Again she turned to gape at him. “What?”

He nodded, his eyes full of awe and riveted to the portrait. “That’s Elizabeth Pembrooke—Leah’s real mother.”

Abigail stared at him. Her mind was too busy to form a reply, whirling with impressions and snippets of things Mac and William and even Leah herself had told her in passing about Robert Pembrooke and his family, supposedly all now deceased.

She thought of the portrait of Robert Pembrooke in the mistress’s bedchamber. This was definitely its mate, painted at the same general time period, in the same style, and likely by the same artist. Had it been hidden away by Robert Pembrooke as a painful reminder of his losses, or by someone after his death?

She thought of the graves in the churchyard, recalled seeing flowers on the one marked
Eleanor Pembrooke, Beloved Daughter
. And in one of the old journal pages she’d sent, Harriet had mentioned putting flowers on Eleanor’s grave. “But . . . you all told me Robert Pembrooke’s daughter was dead.”

“I believed she was. I was too young to be fully aware of all that
happened in those days following Robert Pembrooke’s death. I only recently found out the truth about Leah myself.”

“But . . . Why? How?”

“Before I say anything more, I must ask you to keep this to yourself for now. As much as I loathe the deception, it is not my right to reveal the truth to the world. Especially not until we can be perfectly certain all danger to her is past.”

Suddenly from somewhere nearby came the sound of a slamming door. Abigail jumped and grabbed William’s arm. William quickly lay a calming hand on her shoulder. “Shh . . .”

Then came the even nearer sound of someone knocking on her bedchamber door. Her gaze flew to William’s. What should they do? Should they remain hidden inside? Abigail was tempted to do just that, but what if Miles or Duncan or whoever it was came inside and searched the room? She hated the thought of the two of them being caught like cornered rats. But neither did she want to open her bedchamber door while William Chapman was there in plain sight.

“You stay here,” she whispered. “I’ll see who it is.”

He nodded, and she slipped from the secret room, carefully closing the door behind her.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room, pressing damp palms to her skirt. She moved aside the stool, put on a smile, and opened the door.

Miles Pembrooke stood there in his riding clothes. Gloves and stick in hand.

“I thought you left for your ride,” she said. “You’re back early.”

“I spied dark clouds on the horizon and suspected a storm brewing. So I hurried home.”

Abigail glanced out her window at the clear day, a gentle breeze swaying the tree branches and sunshine shimmering through the leaves. “Looks very pleasant to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Miss Foster. In fact, I thought I saw Mr. Chapman walking over as I rode out . . .” His gaze swept the room over her shoulder. “He is not with you?”

She glanced around her bedchamber. “Just me, as you see. Though he was here earlier.”

“Ah. I am sorry to have missed him.”

“Are you? I am sure he will be happy to receive you if you stop by the parsonage later. Though he did mention he’d be away on appointments most of the day.”
Appointments!
For which he was likely already late. . . . She had to get rid of Miles Pembrooke and sneak Mr. Chapman out of the house without anyone noticing.

Louisa appeared in the corridor at that moment, looking pretty and fresh in one of her new day dresses. “Good morning.”

Miles turned, bowed, and then beamed at her. “Miss Louisa, how lovely you look this morning.”

“Thank you.” She looked from one to the other, her smile thin. “Back at my sister’s door already, Mr. Pembrooke? I can’t say I like that.”

“Yes, well . . . Abigail’s room is very . . . popular.”

Louisa’s brow puckered at that, but she said pleasantly, “I was just on my way down to breakfast. Have you two already eaten, or will you join me?”

Miles smiled. “I would love to join you, Miss Louisa. May I call you Louisa . . . ?”

Thank goodness for her sister and her ability to manage men, Abigail thought, sending Louisa a secret smile over Miles’s shoulder. Shutting her door behind her, Abigail followed them down the passage and out into the gallery. When they began descending the stairs, Abigail remained at the railing. “You two go ahead,” Abigail called down to them. “I remembered something I need to . . . finish first.”

When the two had disappeared down the stairs, Abigail returned to her room. Nerves jangling, her mind whirled through possible ways to sneak Mr. Chapman out of her bedchamber now that her family was beginning to rise. Especially when she’d deceived Mr. Pembrooke, carefully wording her reply to suggest Mr. Chapman had already left.

She quietly opened the door to the secret room, eager to ask what he might suggest.

But the room was empty.

Befuddled and feeling foolish, Abigail looked inside her wardrobe and under her bed just to be sure, but no. He was definitely gone.

Thank heavens,
Abigail sighed in relief. The parson was faster than she would have given him credit for. He must have slipped from her room as soon as she left with Miles and Louisa and gone down the back stairs without her noticing. She hoped he knew his way belowstairs and out the servants’ entrance. She also hoped he didn’t give Polly a fright or earn himself a tongue lashing from Mrs. Walsh for daring to enter her domain. But no, the housekeeper doted on him and no doubt happily aided—or at least overlooked—his escape.