The Secret of Pembrooke Park (41 page)

Hours later, after Mr. Brown had treated and bound Mac’s injuries and reassured the family, William sat alone at his father’s bedside.

“You did it, lad. You found Clive Pembrooke, when no one else could. Can you imagine?” Mac slowly shook his head. “All these years, right there in Snake Ravine. While we worried he’d return any day.”

William bit back the urge to say
“Didn’t I tell you so?”
That after all this time, it was foolish to live in fear, to keep Leah living in its shadow. But he asked God to help him control his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to gloat over being right.

“Ask your sister to join us. No, wait.” His father chewed his lip, eyes troubled. “She may resent me. Forcing her to keep her identity secret all this time, while her house, her inheritance, her future prospects deteriorated more and more each day. But I did it for her good. Her safety.”

William sighed. “I know you did, Papa. And Leah knows it too.”

“To think—there all along. All the wasted years . . .”

“Will you tell Miles Pembrooke?”

Mac looked up, eyes pensive. “Perhaps it would be better coming from a clergyman. You might offer comfort, though I doubt the lad has any reason to mourn the news of his father’s death.”

“He was still his father, whatever else he might have been. Or done.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Mr. Brown would tell him, I am sure. Or the constable . . .”

“I shall do it, Papa.” William rose. “And Leah?”

Mac sat up straighter in bed, wincing at the pain of his wrapped ribs. “I shan’t shirk my duty. Ask her to come in.”

A thought struck William. “Papa . . .”

“Yes?”

William hesitated to even mention it, not when his father was finally ready to give up his choke hold on Leah’s life, to let her live at last, to be who she was meant to be. But still the thought niggled at him. He winced, then said, “If Clive Pembrooke has been dead all these years, then who did I see in the hooded green cloak?”

After sending Leah in to speak with their father, William walked over to Pembrooke Park, knowing Miss Foster would be awake, worried and wondering. And he was determined to fulfill his duty to Miles Pembrooke as kindly as he could.

Duncan sullenly showed him into the drawing room, where Miles and Miss Foster sat.

“I come bearing news,” William began, hat in hand.

She said, “My family has gone up to bed. But Miles kindly waited up with me.”

Miles rose. “But now I shall leave you—”

“No, stay, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “The news affects you even more than it does Miss Foster.”

Miles paused and waited where he was, but did not reclaim his seat.

“Your father—is he all right?” Miss Foster asked, face strained.

“Yes. He will be. He took a bad fall while walking along a ravine and sprained his ankle and bruised a few ribs. Painful, but it could have been far worse.”

She expelled a ragged breath. “Thank God. I’ve been so worried.”

William explained to Miles, “Thankfully Miss Foster remembered my father mention Snake Ravine, so I knew where to look and found him before he had suffered overlong from exposure.

“Mr. Brown assures us of a complete recovery, provided we keep him from taking a chill. Mother has him under a mountain of bedclothes and in woolens, as you can imagine. He was grumbling about all the fuss before I left, so I know he’ll be well.”

William looked at Abigail again, hoping his expression communicated the deep gratitude he felt but could not adequately express with Miles Pembrooke standing there.

Then he solemnly faced Miles. “In looking for my father, Mr. Pembrooke, I’m afraid I also found yours. . . . That is, his remains.”

“What?” Miles roared.

William winced. Why could he not have thought of a more graceful way to say it? “At the bottom of the ravine. I hate to be
indelicate, but it is clear he has been there for many years. Mr. Brown and the constable have removed the . . . uh, bones with the utmost care, I assure you.”

“Then how did you identify him?” Miles asked, face contorted. “You must be mistaken. You cannot know it was him.”

William held his challenging gaze. “He was wearing the Pembrooke signet ring.”

Miles flopped down on the chair, face pale. He swallowed, then sputtered, “Can you tell how . . . how he . . . died?”

“The constable assumes he fell from his horse, much as I did today when looking for my father along that steep ravine.”

“Oh, Mr. Chapman,” Miss Foster exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

“I am. A little sore of body and pride, but otherwise perfectly well.”

Miles protested, “How is it you escaped unhurt, but my father supposedly died from such a fall?”

William said gently, “Brown guesses he either broke his neck or hit his head on a rock when he fell from his horse.”

“But my father was an excellent rider.”

“Perhaps he was pursuing someone at breakneck speed and wasn’t heedful of the danger,” William said. “Especially if he rode after dark, or during a rainstorm, as I did today.”

“How can you know that? It’s only supposition. Perhaps someone stole that ring from my father and fell to his death while fleeing the crime.”

“I suppose it’s possible. But we found something else besides the ring.”

“Oh?” Miles seemed to hold his breath.

William nodded. “A double-barrel flintlock pistol. My father recalls Clive Pembrooke having such a gun. He liked that he could take two shots before reloading, though yes, such guns are common enough.”

Miles shook his head. “I want to see him with my own eyes. Or I shall never believe it.”

“You and my father, sir, had that in common.”

Miles rose. “Where have they taken him?”

“The undertaker’s in Caldwell.”

“I will go there directly.”

William offered, “Shall I go with you, Mr. Pembrooke?”

Miles turned, hesitated, and then surprised them all by saying, “Yes. Please. If you would, Parson.”

“I will stay here,” Miss Foster said awkwardly. “And inform my family.”

“No, of course you must not go,” Miles said. “A lady like yourself. To see such a gruesome thing.” He shuddered.

“Will you tell your sister yourself?” she asked. “Will she wish to see him as well?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. But then, I doubt she’ll believe it either, otherwise.”

“She is staying at Hunts Hall this week,” Miss Foster said. “If you like, I shall—”

“Is she?” Miles interrupted, eyes narrowing. “I did not realize you two had become acquainted.” He turned to William. “Might we stop there on the way? I’d like her to hear it from me.”

“Of course,” William agreed.

Miles said, “If you will give me a few minutes, I shall go and fetch my hat and gloves.”

William nodded.

Miles bowed to Miss Foster, turned, and left the room.

When they were alone, William said to Abigail, “I am sorry to bring such a report to your door.”

“You were right to do so. It was kind of you to tell Miles yourself and offer to accompany him on such an unpleasant errand.”

He lowered his eyes a moment. “I cannot claim purely selfless motives in coming to tell him. I admit I wanted to see his reaction firsthand. To know whether he was grieved or relieved. And whether the news came as a surprise.”

She cocked her head to one side. “He certainly seemed surprised. How could he have known?”

William shrugged. “If he killed his father or saw it done. Or
if he was among those Clive Pembrooke was pursuing with those double barrels.”

Miss Foster shook her head. “He couldn’t have killed him. He was only a boy at the time. Besides, I thought you said the constable and Mr. Brown guess the death was caused by the fall.”

“A guess is all it is. But something tells me Miles knows more about it than he lets on.”

T
he next day Molly found Abigail in the library and told her a Mrs. Webb was waiting for her in the hall but refused to be shown into the drawing room.

“Thank you, Molly.”

Abigail returned the quill to its holder and hurried out. In the hall, she found Harriet Webb standing, hands clasped, looking around and slowly shaking her head. “I told myself I would never set foot in this place again.” She spread her arms, disbelief and self-deprecation in her expression. “Yet here I am. . . .”

“Come into the drawing room and sit down,” Abigail said warmly.

“The morning room is far enough, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Abigail led the way and opened the door for her. “How are you? Did Miles come to see you?”

“Yes. I still haven’t slept.”

“Did you go with him to . . . Caldwell?”

“I did. I didn’t want to but knew I must . . . to finish the story. I thought of writing to you again. But instead, I decided I would come and see you in person.”

“I’m glad you did. Here. Sit down. Shall I ring for tea?”

“No. Nothing for me.” She pulled a grim smile. “Other than a listening ear.”

Abigail sat across from her. “Gladly.”

Harriet swallowed and lifted her eyes as though searching her memory. “About a week before we left here, Mother told us to quietly begin gathering our possessions—just a few special things that meant a great deal to us, and only three or four changes of clothing. Nothing obvious, that our father would notice until after we were gone. After Father and the gamekeeper left for a hunting trip, Mother met with the housekeeper. I don’t know exactly what she said to her, but I gather she told her to let all the servants go. She was probably afraid what my father might do to anyone foolish enough to be in arm’s reach when he returned and discovered us gone.”

“She also told Mrs. Hayes to lock up the place after we left. To lock it up exactly as she found it—not to linger and risk being here when Father returned.”

So, Abigail realized, that’s why she had found the rooms left as though they had been abruptly abandoned.

Pain glittered in Harriet’s eyes as she continued. “We were planning to leave the next day. Mac and the servants had left already. Only Mrs. Hayes remained to lock up after us. Father wasn’t expected home for two days. We thought we had plenty of time. But we were wrong. He came home earlier than expected. . . .”

Harriet shivered and slowly shook her head. “The boys and I were already in our beds, though I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink. Mamma was still downstairs, packing a few last-minute things and drinking tea to calm her nerves. What happened next is something of a blur . . . a nightmare. The door slamming. My father shouting. My mother crying . . .”

Harriet bit her lip. “I heard a blow, heard Mamma shriek and fall, and knew he had struck her. My brother Harold shoved Miles into my room and told me to lock the door. I thought about hiding in the secret room but instead remained glued to the door, listening. Harold ran downstairs to try to protect Mamma, I knew. What
a coward I felt standing there, doing nothing to help. I remember thinking Father would kill Mamma
and
Harold, and then come upstairs for Miles and me. I tried to pray but felt so hopeless, I couldn’t. Finally, I tiptoed out of my room, telling Miles to wait inside. I had to see what was happening, even as I dreaded it. From the stair rail, I looked down and saw Harold and Father struggling in the hall below. Father had a stranglehold on Harold’s neck, and Harold was turning red, suffocating . . . Mother lay sprawled on the floor nearby, pleading and sobbing. Harold began to turn blue. I wanted to do something—to at least shout at Father, tell him to stop—but I was frozen in terror. Useless.

“Suddenly a gunshot rent the air, and Father and Harold fell as one. I turned in stupefied shock and stared, unable to believe what I was seeing. There stood my little brother, a pistol in his outstretched hands—a weapon Father kept under his bed in case of intruders. The gun was not large, but it looked huge in Miles’s hands. He was only twelve years old at the time. He stood there, pistol still leveled, smoking, until his arms began to shake, and then his whole body.

“Mother crawled over and rolled Father’s body away to get to her son. Only then did we see the awful truth. Miles had meant to shoot our father. But the bullet had gone through him and into Harold.”

“Oh no!” Abigail exclaimed. “Poor Miles!”

“Poor Miles, yes. He’d meant to save his brother. But poor Harold. The bullet lodged in his abdomen after passing through Father’s side. Both were alive but were losing blood fast. Harold looked very bad indeed. Father was stunned out of his senses for a time, and Mamma sprang into action. She ran out to the stable to find the gamekeeper, who’d gone hunting with Father. She found him unsaddling the horses and asked him to ready the traveling coach. She returned to the house and commanded Miles and me to bring down our things, Harold’s valise as well. We did so, terrified though we were.

“The gamekeeper came into the house. He took one look at
Harold, then at my mother’s bruised face, and offered to help us get away. I wasn’t sure if we should trust him. He was in Father’s employ, after all. But Mother must have felt we had little choice and gratefully accepted. The man helped her carry Harold out to the coach and even offered to drive. We had planned to hire horses and a postilion, but there was no time to make such arrangements. We left Father there, on the floor, not knowing if he would live or die. But Mother was determined to take Harold to a surgeon as soon as we were safely away.”

Harriet slowly shook her head, eyes distant in memory. “The first few miles were sheer torture, poor Harold crying out at every jarring bump and turn.” Her voice cracked. “But then he grew quiet, and that was even worse.”

Tears filled Abigail’s eyes to hear the pain in Harriet’s voice, though the woman’s eyes remained stoically dry.

“Suddenly the gamekeeper yelled down to us from the coachman’s bench. ‘A rider! Galloping fast!’”

Mother cried and braced Harold as the driver urged the horses to speed, cracking his whip and shouting. I reminded myself that Father’s horse would be tired having just returned from a distant hunt. At least I hoped so. I remember praying then, as I’d failed to do before. “Please let us get away. Don’t let him catch us.”

“But the gamekeeper shouted that he was gaining on us. So much for prayer, I thought. I strained my ears and heard the beating of hooves. But then a minute later, I heard them no more. Perhaps in my fear, I only imagined him that close. Perhaps it had only been the rumble of thunder.”

Abigail suggested, “Or perhaps God answered your prayer after all.”

Harriet shrugged. “If so, then why didn’t he answer my prayer to spare Harold?”

“I don’t know. He . . . died in the carriage?”

Harriet nodded. “He breathed his last as we were crossing the bridge into Bristol. We stopped to bury him there. I was afraid it would give Father time to change horses and catch up with us. To kill us all.
But the gamekeeper escorted Mother into a disreputable-looking public house, and she came out a quarter of an hour later—her hand no longer bearing a wedding ring but instead a gun.

“‘Let him come,’ she said grimly. And I knew she would not hesitate to use that gun if need be.”

Harriet paused to gather her thoughts. “Miles sat silent and stone-faced throughout the entire journey. Mamma, in her grief, all but ignored him. Perhaps by her silence, her neglect in absolving Miles from guilt, he felt she held him responsible for his brother’s death. I tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but I don’t think he really heard me. Later, when Miles’s odd demeanor continued, Mamma did try to talk to him, but by then the impression was set, and it didn’t seem to do any good.” Harriet’s brow furrowed, then she visibly shook off her troubled thoughts.

“The gamekeeper had a wife and child in Ham Green, not far from Caldwell—therefore he couldn’t be gone for long. So we left him at a coaching inn with enough money to see him home. We hoped my father would not learn of his absence before he could safely rejoin his family. But if asked, he could honestly say we’d gone on without him and he didn’t know where we were headed. Of course, I don’t think Mamma knew either. Before he left, he taught Miles how to handle the reins, and Miles himself drove until we reached the next village and found a postilion to hire.

“We kept moving for days. Staying only one night in any one place, until the money Mamma had been squirreling away began to run low. Every day she read all the newspapers she could find, in coffee houses or from refuse bins, or buying them if she couldn’t procure them another way. But we never saw a word in print about my father. We knew that if he died, the news would be reported. So we assumed he still lived, probably at Pembrooke Park.

“After some time had passed, Mamma finally wrote a letter to the gamekeeper using the name Thomas, asking for news of ‘his employer’ and directing him to write back in care of a Welsh inn.

“I still have his reply,” Harriet said, tugging open her cinched reticule. “I thought about sending it to you earlier, but doubted
it would make any sense to you.” She extracted a letter from the bag. “Here.”

The yellowed paper was addressed cryptically to H. J. Thomas, in care of the Bell, Newport, Wales.

To whom it may concern,

I am in receipt of your inquiry. My employment is, at present, of an uncertain nature.

The estate where I have been serving is currently closed and shuttered. Abandoned, by all appearances. I’ve had no word from my employer. Nor has anyone of my acquaintance seen or heard from any of the family. It is assumed that they have gone off together for some reason. The carriage is gone, as was my master’s horse. However, the horse returned riderless a few days later, and I have taken the liberty of selling it in payment of wages owing. I trust the mistress would approve.

Even so, I judge it premature to consider a return to a previous situation at present. It might be wise for all parties to remain where they are for now.

I hope this satisfies your inquiry.

Sincerely,
JD, Ham Green, Caldwell

Abigail looked up. “It’s written in a bit of a code, isn’t it? In case the letter was intercepted?”

“Yes. The gamekeeper was more clever than I would have given him credit for. He knew what my father was capable of, after all, and had his wife and child to think of. And as my father’s fate was uncertain, he wrote to tell us basically, to stay where we were.”

Harriet sighed. “I confess I thought, even hoped, my father was dead. But Mamma . . .” She shook her head. “She was unwilling to risk it. Afraid he was biding his time somewhere, plotting his revenge. So we stayed in Wales, using the name Thomas, hoping to avoid being found. Only Miles kept the Pembrooke surname.
But he left us to join the navy when he was still very young. We didn’t see him for years.”

“And what do you think now?” Abigail asked gently. “Do you believe it is your father Mr. Chapman found at the bottom of the ravine?”

Harriet nodded. “I do think it’s him. The ring. The pistol. Where they found him . . . But remember, I have wanted to believe him dead for a long, long time.”

“And Miles?”

Harriet hesitated. “He didn’t react with the relief I expected. He was . . . strange about it. He had tears in his eyes, even as he muttered something quite disrespectful to the dead. . . . Not that I blame him, but still I found his reaction unsettling, I admit.”

“Is it such a surprise that he should feel torn?” Abigail asked. “He was a boy who shot his father, and probably still wishes his father would forgive him, and love him, and value him. . . .” Abigail swallowed, realizing she was prattling on. “After all, he cannot know whether his shot ended his life, or the exhausted horse, or the ravine itself, or all of the above. . . .”

“I told Miles again and again he has no need to feel guilty.”

“Saying the words and believing oneself forgiven are very different things.” Abigail knew this from firsthand experience.

“Yes, you’re right. That’s why I’ve felt I needed to do something, to make restitution.”

“And you have, but remember that God is merciful. You are not responsible for your father’s wrongdoing.”

She managed a humorless smile. “The Old Testament contradicts you, Miss Foster. Perhaps you ought to read the Book of Numbers. . . .”

“Numbers 14, perhaps?” Abigail said, naming one of the verses referenced in the miniature book.

“Ah! You found one of my clues! You cannot know how satisfying that is. Did you find the one about Cain and Abel as well?”

Abigail nodded.

“I wrote them down while we were packing to leave. My small attempt to hint at the truth—and how I felt about it.” Harriet
smiled, then sobered. “I have thought about what you told me, Miss Foster. And I will continue to consider your words.”

Abigail thought for a moment. Hadn’t Duncan mentioned something about the gamekeeper—that he had died? She asked, “Did you ever hear from the gamekeeper again?”

Harriet shook her head. “No. But I recently asked Mr. Morgan’s man if he knew anything about the old Pembrooke gamekeeper. He told me the man died only last year but is survived by his wife and son.”

A sense of foreboding prickling her skin, Abigail asked, “What was his name?”

For a moment, Harriet met her gaze, then said evenly, “James Duncan.”

After Harriet left, Abigail went to find Duncan, looking in his usual haunts. He wasn’t in his room or in the servants’ hall. Entering the lamp room, she found it empty as well.

From the corner of her eye, she saw something and turned back. A hefty wad of faded green material lay bunched on a stool in the corner. Frowning, she stepped closer and picked up one edge of the moth-eaten, musty wool with two pincher fingers. She stilled, nerves prickling. Was this the hooded cloak she had seen someone lurking around in? She felt something hard through the material. Laying down the cloak, she patted until she found an inner pocket. Inside was an old copper lamp base.

Footsteps echoed in the passage and Abigail dropped her find and whirled, feeling illogically guilty.