Miles said, “I think our friend Mr. Chapman has missed his calling. He ought to have been one of Wesley’s itinerant preachers. You don’t suppose that sermon was directed at anyone in particular—do you, Miss Foster?”
She noticed the twinkle in his eye, and said, “Perhaps. But I think it had something to say to all of us.”
“Not you, Miss Foster. Surely you have not been tempted after treasure?”
She sent a guarded glance toward her father, and seeing him still engrossed in conversation, quietly admitted, “It has crossed my mind.”
His brows rose. “Delightful! Nothing like a little healthy competition.”
She shrugged. “No point for me to search, really. The treasure wouldn’t be mine to claim. I would no doubt have to surrender anything I found to the estate.”
“Ah. Then you don’t know about the reward?”
She looked at him, not believing they were having this conversation right after Mr. Chapman’s sermon.
Miles explained, “My father was so convinced there was a significant treasure, possibly an entire room full of treasure, that he put up a portion of his own prize money and offered it as a reward, hoping some reluctant servant would suddenly recall the location of the supposed treasure. The reward has never been retracted; it is still held in trust by the solicitor, ready to be claimed.”
Abigail took it in. If true, it put a different perspective on things. There might be hope for the Foster finances—and her dowry—yet.
He leaned near and whispered a sum. The reward was sizeable. It would not replace all the money her father had lost, but it would allow her to make some recompense. And yes, she could replace her dowry. Not enough to draw fortune hunters, but if a man already held her in high regard, might a tidy sum sweeten her charms and win over any reluctant parents?
Leaning on his stick and staring at the house across the drive, Miles Pembrooke murmured on a sigh, “Sometimes I can’t believe I am really back here. . . .”
Realizing the man had grown weary standing there, Abigail said, “Come, Mr. Pembrooke. You and I can head back. Father will catch up when he’s ready.”
Miles drew himself up. “Whatever you like, dear cousin.” He offered his arm, and thinking he might need the support more than she did, she linked her arm with his.
As they slowly made their way to the house, Miles began, “The treasure and the reward would be enough for me. If I find it, you are welcome to keep the house, as far as I am concerned. Truth be told, I would probably only sell it if it were mine. But if I came into a fortune, it would be within my largesse to allow you to remain in the house at such ridiculously generous terms.”
He squeezed her arm and sent her a sidelong glance. “Don’t misunderstand me. Harriet explained why she chose to funnel the income from the estate back into its coffers—paying for the servants and repairs and upkeep—so you wouldn’t have to. She assures me it was a sound investment, that otherwise the house would have continued to disintegrate past the point of redemption, becoming worthless to either inherit or to sell.”
They let themselves in and retired to the drawing room to wait for her father and their dinner. Settling into a cushioned armchair, Miles smiled at her as she straightened her skirts on the chair next to his.
“So you see, I am quite happy to let you remain here, Miss Foster. Perhaps I might visit now and again. Or perhaps you would like to come with me when I leave . . . ?” He watched her with an expectant lift of his brow.
“Mr. Pembrooke!”
“I realize I am older than you are, but I am young at heart. You cannot deny it.”
“No, I certainly cannot.”
“And you are old for your age.”
Abigail huffed in offense.
He laid a cool hand on her shoulder. “Now, now. I don’t mean you look old. Of course not. You look charming, as you well know. But I do think you are an old soul. At the very least, mature for your age.”
“I cannot deny it has always been said of me.”
“There, you see? We are perfect for each other.”
He was teasing her, surely. Or was he? Abigail slowly shook her head, regarding the man with amusement, begrudging fondness, and . . . distrust.
William returned to Pembrooke Park after a long day of sermon-making, too much tea, and too much talking, followed by a Sunday school full of children who’d eaten too many sweets. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. For all his belief in the Scriptures and God’s command to rest on the Sabbath, for William, Sunday was the most tiring day of the week.
Miss Foster and her father had not come to his parents’ house after church, but neither had Miles Pembrooke, so he wouldn’t complain. Instead, he had enjoyed a long talk with his friend Andrew Morgan, who insisted he looked worn out and needed a holiday—as if he’d ever have the time to indulge that whim. Still, it had been pleasant to contemplate.
He pulled off his cravat and slumped onto the sofa in the morning room. He’d barely closed his eyes when Kitty stopped by, ostensibly to visit him, but he guessed she hoped to visit Miss Foster and the dolls’ house as well. After looking around his temporary bedchamber, she said, “Dick Peabody and Tommy Matthews got into fisticuffs after Sunday school today.”
“Did they?” he asked in concern. “Why?”
“Dick said you were picking on Mr. Pembrooke in your sermon. That you two are sworn enemies. But Tommy scoffed at him and said he didn’t know anything. He said you and Mr. Pembrooke are friends.”
“Did he?” That was more surprising than the fight. “Based on what, pray?”
“Said you and he play chess together. Things like that.”
“Chess? Mr. Pembrooke and I have never played chess.”
Kitty’s face puckered. “That’s odd. Tommy said he saw Mr. Pembrooke knocking on your door, carrying a box. And when he asked Mr. Pembrooke what was in the box, he said it was a chess set, that he’d come to see if you were ready for a rematch. Something like that at any rate.”
William frowned in thought. “I must not have been at home, for Mr. Pembrooke has never been inside the parsonage.” Or has he? There it was—the suspicion was back.
He asked, “When was this? Do you know?”
Kitty shrugged. “Tommy didn’t say. He’s about the place quite a lot with that fishing pole of his. Could have been any day.”
But William guessed he knew very well which day it had been. Then he remembered that Miles and Mr. Foster had played chess that day, so Miles might have been in earnest. God forgive me, he thought, ashamed of his uncharitable thoughts. Perhaps Miles had come to the parsonage seeking him out as an opponent in a friendly game. But somehow he didn’t believe chess was the rematch the man had in mind. Although if Miles had been occupied with Mr. Foster for quite some time, how could he have set the fire? William hoped his dislike and distrust of the man wasn’t coloring his judgment.
What had really been in that box?
William rubbed his hand over his eyes. He needed a break from Pembrooke Park and its inhabitants—both those he disliked and the one he liked too much for his own good. He decided then that he would take Andrew up on his offer to be his guest in London for a few days.
On Monday, Abigail went down to the lamp room herself, irritated that Duncan had yet to replace the faulty lamp in the first-floor passage as she had repeatedly asked him to do. Striding down the dim corridor belowstairs, she saw the lamp room door slightly ajar and heard scraping and the ting of brass on brass within. Good, Duncan was getting to the trimming at last.
She pushed open the door, the manservant’s name already on her lips. “Duncan . . . ?”
Miles turned from the rear counter, his expression quickly transforming from sheepish to wide-eyed innocence.
“Oh . . . Mr. Pembrooke!” Abigail exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
He smiled. “I imagine not. Sorry to startle you. I am not Duncan, but I am your servant, madam, to command.” He gave her a pert litt
le bow, then wiped his sooty hands on a cloth. “At the moment I even look the part. If there is something you need help with, you need only ask.”
“Oh, I . . . Thank you. I was only looking for a lamp.”
“As was I. I was thinking of going up into the attic and wanted a nice stout lamp to light my way.”
Her expression must have communicated surprise as well as disapproval.
He pressed a hand to his heart. “My dear Miss Foster, I was under the impression from several things you and your excellent father have said, that I was free to look about as I pleased while here. To ‘make myself at home,’ as it were—temporarily, of course. But if I have erred, you need only tell me and I shall keep to my room from now on.”
“No, of course you need not keep to your room, Mr. Pembrooke.”
He said, “Perhaps you would come up to the attic with me, Miss Foster. Unless . . . Are you afraid of ghosts? Perhaps you might tremble in fear and I shall be there to offer a steadying arm?” He grinned.
“I am not afraid of ghosts, Mr. Pembrooke.”
“Pity. So inconvenient when ladies are brave and practical. Robs us poor gents of our chance to rescue you from billowing draperies and figures shrouded in bedsheets.” He repositioned his stick. “Then perhaps you might lend me your courage, Miss Foster. I shall have to act brave with you there to see me.”
“Why the attic?” she asked.
“When we were children, my siblings and I often played up there. Especially on rainy days, when we were trapped indoors. We acted out little pantomimes and played hide-and-seek. In my memory, it is a huge looming space with piles of valises, bandboxes, and trunks of every size and description. But my memory is no doubt colored by being young and small at the time. Perhaps I shall be disappointed.”
“You don’t need me to chaperone you, Mr. Pembrooke.”
“I would enjoy your company, truly. And it’s Miles, remember?”
She cocked her head to one side. “Tell me, Miles. Have you some reason to think the mythical treasure might be hidden in the attic?”
“Not especially, no.”
“I am curious. If you didn’t find it when you lived here for two years, why do you think you will find it now?”
“But I was only a boy then and lacked the proper motivation. Besides, I might ask the same of you, Miss Foster. If you have looked these several weeks before my arrival without success, why do you hesitate to admit that I might be of assistance? Surely my history with the house offers some advantages? You are clever—I can see that—but I have history on my side. What say you, why do we not work together? Join forces as it were? Would we not make excellent partners?”
“I don’t know about that. . . .”
“I’ll tell you what. If we are successful, I will keep the treasure and you may have the reward. Is that not fair? For Pembrooke Park and its treasures will never come to you or your father. Surely you know that?”
Abigail wondered if Miles had the right to any valuables found in the house either. Might he take what he found unlawfully if she “condoned” his search?
She said, “It is my understanding that the courts are still debating the rightful heir, due to your father’s disappearance. What if you find the treasure but they rule in someone else’s favor? Will you promise not to abscond with whatever valuables we might find?”
“Yes. I agree,” he said, a little too quickly to reassure Abigail.
He added, “Though one might ask, then, what is in it for me?” He looked toward the ceiling in thought and then snapped his fingers. “Tell you what. If we find a treasure and it belongs to someone else, then I will share the reward with you.”
She considered this. “Equally?”
“Of course. Then . . . have we a bargain?” He held out his hand, like a businessman might, but Abigail hesitated. What would it hurt? Fifty percent of nothing was still nothing and was likely all they’d ever see for their efforts. But if they were successful . . . ?
She was tempted to agree, but a catch in her spirit stopped her. For all the logic of his proposal, why did she feel to agree would be making a bargain with the devil?
“You know what, Mr. Pembrooke. Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all.”
He raised a brow, eyes glinting in challenge. “Feeling greedy, Miss Foster?”
“Not at all. Feeling foolish for even considering entering into an agreement with a man I barely know over a treasure that most likely doesn’t even exist.”
He dropped his hand. “Practical Miss Foster. You do steal a man’s fun.” He sighed dramatically. “And here I thought we were going to be good friends.”
On Tuesday another letter arrived, but this one bore no postal markings and had been delivered by hand. Kitty Chapman brought it to her, saying a woman in the churchyard had asked her to give it to Miss Foster.
“Did this woman wear a veil?” Abigail asked.
“Yes! How did you know?”
She is near, then, Abigail thought. Did this confirm that the veiled woman in the churchyard was Harriet Pembrooke? She unfolded the old journal page and read it there in the hall.
I finally found it. The secret room. It was there all along, so close. And just in time. His rages are growing worse. And during the worst of them, I slip inside to hide and wait for the storm to pass. But now I’m wracked with guilt. I should have let my brothers in on the secret. But I did not, selfish creature that I am. And now he’s hurt. And it’s my fault, at least in part. I should have protected him. I can still hear my father’s growl and my brother’s sickening cry. The clunk and tumble down the stairs. My mother’s scream.
I thought my heart would burst when I saw him, a tangle of limbs on the marble floor. One leg bent at such an unnatural angle.
Papa refused to send for the surgeon until we all agreed to say it was only an accident. My brother moaned all night until I thought I would go mad hearing it. The following day, in desperation, Mamma agreed and asked us all to lie, which she hated to do. Hated him, for asking it of her. Finally he sent for the surgeon, and the man came, astounded at the damage. He asked when and how it had happened.
Papa looked at Mamma and challenged, “Yes, how did it happen, my dear?”
“He fell down the stairs,” she gritted out, pale and sullen. “A terrible accident.”
Mr. Brown asked, “Why did you not send for me immediately?”
This time Mamma refused to answer and stared defiantly at her husband.
“Oh,” he said casually, “we weren’t sure the injury was serious enough to require a surgeon’s attention.”
Mr. Brown looked from the twisted leg to my father as though he were a madman. And perhaps he is.
The surgeon set the leg as best he could, but suggested my father take his son to a hospital. Papa wouldn’t hear of it. I think he’s afraid of what we might do in his absence. Or that none of us would be here when he returned.
Abigail’s stomach lurched. She thought of what the surgeon had recently told Mr. Chapman, his own similar account of the “accident.” Poor Miles. Had his father really pushed him?
Miles came hobbling across the hall, dressed in riding clothes and leaning heavily on his stick. Her heart twisted anew to think how it had become injured in the first place.
“Miles, may I ask about your . . . ?” She hesitated. Dare she ask about his father?
“About what, Miss Foster? You may ask me anything.”
Her courage failed her. “About your sister, Harriet?”
He pursed his lip. “There isn’t much more I can tell you. As I said, I have only seen her twice in the last dozen years. I left the country when quite young, remember, and she moved elsewhere, both of us eager to leave the past behind.”
“Did she ever marry?”
Miles hesitated. “She wouldn’t want me talking about her private affairs, Miss Foster. You must forgive me. Even though she and I are not close, I am duty bound to be loyal to her as her brother.”
“Of cours
e.”
“But I will say she has been unlucky in love . . . and leave it at that.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“I have not been lucky in love either, in the past. But I hope my fortunes are changing in that regard?”
Was that a statement or a question? Abigail wondered uncomfortably. “I hope so, for your sake.”
Abigail thought again of the veiled woman. “Does your sister ever visit this area?”
Again he hesitated. “I . . . think so, yes. But not often. Again, I don’t keep track of her comings and goings.”
“I suppose she has had to inspect the place over the years—as executor, I mean?”
He shrugged. “I think she has left most of that to her solicitor.”
Abigail nodded vaguely, and Miles continued across the hall. She wondered again what drew the woman to the churchyard—and to write her letters, if indeed they were one and the same person.
“Miles,” she called after him, then waited until he had turned before asking, “You didn’t fall down the stairs, did you?”
He smiled easily. “Oh, but I did. I told you.”
“I mean . . . it wasn’t an accident, was it. You were pushed.”
His smile fell. He looked at her, nostrils flared, fist clenched on the handle of his stick. But his voice when he spoke was incongruously gentle. “Who . . . told you that?”
Abigail swallowed, not wanting to reveal her source. She said quietly, “You were not the only person your father pushed.”
“Ha.” A cracked little laugh escaped him. “Only the youngest.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. “I am sorry, Miles. Truly.”
His mouth, his entire face, twisted in displeasure. “I don’t want your pity, Miss Foster. That is the last thing I wanted you to feel for me.”
The next day, Abigail sat in the window seat in her bedchamber, looking idly out over the back lawn and gardens beyond. She was bored and lonely. William Chapman had gone off to London for a few days with Andrew Morgan, and the house, the neighborhood, seemed empty without him.
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 28