The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

  Leah must have some awful secrets, Abigail thought, or a tendency to be overly dramatic.

  She said, “I want you to know you can trust me, Leah. So I will go first.” Abigail sighed. “Yes, I have long hoped Gilbert and I would marry someday. I admired him and saw his potential long before he won awards at school or obtained a good position with a noted architect. And I thought he saw something of worth in me. I know I’m not especially beautiful, but in Gilbert’s eyes I saw genuine admiration and affection. My own London seasons were not successful, partly because I’m no great beauty, but I suppose the truth was I didn’t try very hard because I preferred Gilbert to any man I met.”

  She took a deep breath, and continued, “I don’t think I was alone in my feelings. We never spoke of marriage directly, but we spoke of the future and of each other in it. We even . . . You will think me very foolish, but over the years Gilbert and I sketched many houses, sparring over which design, which style was best. We even designed what we called our ideal home.” Abigail felt her neck heat, but continued, “We debated the size and layout of rooms, and how to make the guest chamber commodious and yet not so comfortable that our families would be tempted to stay too long.”

  Leah chuckled.

  “We discussed how many bedchambers we would need for our children,” Abigail went on, her face heating again. “You see, even when Gilbert was an awkward adolescent, even when I thought he was proud and hardheaded because he failed to see the superiority of my ideas, even then I admired him. Long before he turned anybody else’s head he had turned mine, and I thought the feeling mutual.”

  Again she sighed. “But before he left for Italy last year, he told me he didn’t think we ought to shackle ourselves with promises. Shackle. That’s the word he used.”

  Leah winced, then said, “Perhaps he thought it wouldn’t be fair to you to enter into an official engagement before he left the country. In case he should become ill or . . . something.”

  Abigail nodded. “He said something along those lines to me, and I wanted to believe him. But later that same evening, I came upon him and my sister in a private tête-à-tête. She gave him something—a lock of her hair I found out later—and he accepted it.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Leah said as they turned and headed back through the wood. “You don’t know that he asked her for the lock of hair or wore it in a ring.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then perhaps he was simply too polite to refuse it.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell myself. But if you had seen how he looked at her . . .” Abigail shook her head. “Before then, I thought he still saw her as a pesky little sister. That he was blind to the fact that she had grown more and more beautiful with each passing year. But finally even Gilbert couldn’t keep his eyes off of her.”

  Leah pressed her hand. “Miss Foster, I am very sorry.”

  Abigail continued, “But that isn’t the worst of it. When Gilbert returned to London, suddenly fashionable and invited to some of the same routs and balls Louisa attended, he apparently sought her out. Mamma mentioned it to me in her letters, that he had turned Louisa’s head. Even called on her several times.”

  “Ohhh . . .” Leah had no rebuttal for that one, Abigail noticed.

  Abigail shook her head again. “But now I don’t know what to think. Today he told me he was here to see me, specifically. That he had decided not to call on Louisa again. He certainly seems interested in me. But I wonder if he is only angry with her.”

  “Why would he be angry?”

  “Louisa met several gentlemen during the season—men of wealth and connection. My mother has certainly encouraged her to consider her options and not to settle too quickly on any one man. Gilbert has felt the sting of this. I gather Louisa views him as her if-all-else-fails plan, if a better match does not materialize.”

  “Surely you don’t think he’s only interested in you because your sister snubbed him—not with your long history.”

  “I hope not. But I know Louisa is far more beautiful and charming. Men always think so. Even—” She bit back the words “Even your brother is not immune.” It was too painful to say it aloud, especially to his sister. Instead she said, “Even so, I had always been content in the knowledge that Gilbert Scott admired me.”

  “Poor William,” Leah murmured.

  Abigail sent her a quick glance. Leah did not know that William was following in Gilbert’s footsteps, already dazzled by the beautiful Louisa.

  “And now”—Abigail drew herself up—“enough about me. Your turn.”

  “Very well,” Leah said. “There isn’t much to tell about Duncan, but I will tell you about someone far more important from my past.” She gathered her thoughts and began. “When I returned from a year away at school, I found a place I liked to go on the very edge of the Pembrooke property. A place in the garden, behind the potting shed. Hidden by trees on one side, and the garden wall on the other.” She gestured into the clearing ahead. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  Ah . . . Abigail thought, realization dawning.

  Together they walked past the old gamekeeper’s lodge and onto the nearby grounds. They paused behind the potting shed and surveyed the jumble of pallets and planks.

  “In those days, there were also a few sticks of cast-off furniture, even an old mirror,” Leah said. “A mother cat had a litter of kittens beneath a lean-to I built of old boards, and throughout that summer I tamed them one by one. I came here every afternoon when the weather was fine and Mamma didn’t need me at home. I played here for hours. One day this was a house, the next a ship sailing the high seas with me at the helm and the kittens as my crew. I played church and school and house and pirate. It was diverting for a lonely, imaginative girl.

  “But one day,” Leah went on, “when I came to what I considered my play area, I was surprised to find that someone had left fresh flowers in my favorite green jar. I knew little William had not done so, and feared one of the Pembrooke boys had found my hiding place. But the flowers were neatly cut and arranged. I looked around and noticed a few other changes as well. Someone had fashioned a table out of a plank and two large blocks. And set the flowers upon them. It had to be another girl. I was irritated and yet secretly hopeful. I had become accustomed to the company of girls when I’d been away at school, and I longed for a friend.

  “Then I found a letter left for me, signed by Your secret friend, asking to play with me here. Suddenly I felt self-conscious to play where I had played without second thought only the day before.

  “The next day I came again . . . and so did she. She said I should call her Jane. I gather she assumed that I would have nothing to do with her if I knew she was indeed Harriet Pembrooke.”

  Abigail said, “But you told me you didn’t know her—”

  “No. I told you I’d never officially met Harriet Pembrooke, and I did not. But I spent many a fond hour with a girl named Jane. I never told her my real name either. For I did not want word to get back to Papa that I had spent time with Clive Pembrooke’s daughter when he had forbidden me to do so.”

  “Do you think she knew who you really were?”

  “Who I really was? No, I don’t believe she did.”

  Abigail shook her head in secret wonder. She had found the village girl. Now, where was “Jane”?

  Leah continued, “Later we began leaving secret notes to each other behind a loose brick in that wall there.” She pointed to the spot. A curious light came on in Leah’s eyes, and she walked toward the wall.

  Abigail’s stomach clenched in alarm. Her pulse began to pound. How would Leah react to finding Abigail’s letter to “Jane” there? Would she be unhappy to learn Abigail already knew of her from another source, and feel betrayed?

  Abigail blurted, “I don’t think you ought . . . Let me first tell you, that I—”

  Leah bent and pulled the brick from its place, revealing the hiding place of Abigail’s letter.

  But the le
tter was gone.

  Leah replaced the brick. “It was silly to think . . . But still. For old times’ sake.”

  Abigail released the breath she’d been holding. Her heart continued to beat fast, however, though now for a different reason.

  Before they parted ways, Abigail said, “I am planning to watch the workmen break ground at Hunts Hall the day after tomorrow. Will you go with me?”

  Leah gave her a shrewd look. “Trying to play matchmaker again, Abigail?”

  “Guilty,” Abigail apologized, but she was unable to stop the smile from widening across her face to hear Leah Chapman call her by her given name.

  Chapter 22

  The next day, Abigail returned alone to the hidden spot in the garden. All seemed undisturbed as before. But then she sucked in a breath. That glass bottle, sitting on a plank, held a single black-eyed Susan. Her heart began to pound, and she stepped to the garden wall. Hands damp within her gloves, she removed the brick, hoping to find a letter of reply. Instead, the space remained empty. Her heart fell. Foolish girl.

  She heard a footstep and whirled. There stood the veiled woman at the corner of the potting shed. Abigail’s pulse raced. Was this Harriet Pembrooke at last?

  The woman reached up gloved hands and slowly lifted her veil, revealing not a stranger’s face but the face of Mrs. Webb, Andrew Morgan’s widowed aunt.

  Abigail pressed a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”

  One thin eyebrow arched. “Not who you were expecting?”

  “No.”

  The woman frowned. “Well, you are not who I was expecting either, so we’re even on that score. Though it did cross my mind that you might have written the note. After all, I had sent you several unsigned letters, and turnabout is fair play.”

  Abigail sputtered, “You wrote the letters?”

  “Yes. Who were you expecting . . . Jane?”

  “I was expecting Harriet Pembrooke.”

  “And here I am, in the flesh.” Mrs. Webb spread her hands, an ironic quirk to her thin lips. “I thought you, being the clever girl you are, would have figured that out long ago. And no doubt you can guess who I was expecting—or at least, hoping—to find here.”

  Abigail nodded. “I am sorry to disappoint you. I haven’t told her about the letters you have written to me. Or this meeting. I wanted to meet you first myself.” Confusion pinched Abigail’s thoughts. “But I still don’t understand. Someone would have mentioned if your maiden name had been Pembrooke.”

  Harriet glanced back toward the house and began, “When we left here, my mother thought it wisest not to use the Pembrooke name. She feared Father would pursue us to the ends of the earth. So she reverted to using her very common maiden name of Thomas, and I followed suit.”

  She gestured toward the walled garden. “Come. Let’s take a turn.”

  The two women strolled through the relative privacy of the secluded garden, Abigail not really seeing any of the flowers they passed, her mind whirling with thoughts and questions.

  Harriet continued, “When I was twenty, I married Nicholas Webb and was quite happy to leave all ties to Pembrooke buried in the past.”

  She regarded Abigail. “That is the unsung benefit of marriage, Miss Foster. It gives you a new name, a fresh start in life, a way to leave behind the person you once were.”

  “I hope your marriage gave you more than that.”

  Again that thin dark brow rose. “Do you mean love? No. But I didn’t expect love. I did receive a new identity, however. People no longer know me as Harriet Pembrooke. No longer judge me by what I did or what my father did. That Harriet is gone. Thank God and thank Mr. Webb. No one sees me and thinks of that desperate, clutching, awkward girl. The daughter of a murderer. Except for Miles.”

  She shrugged. “And though Nicholas was much older than I, he was good to me. He gave me financial security, the means to leave Pembrooke Park behind forever. It was finished, or so I thought.” She exhaled a heavy sigh. “You would think I would be happy with that.”

  “But you’re not,” Abigail said gently. It was not a question. The answer was clear on the woman’s long pale face.

  She shook her head. “Nicholas died and I felt lost, untethered. My identity shaken all over again. I began having nightmares of the old days. Of my years here. Guilt over what my father did . . .”

  Again, she looked at the old house over her shoulder and shuddered. “I cannot find peace. I thought, if only I could somehow make restitution for my father’s wrongdoing. Pay the price somehow—as he never did, at least as far as I know. Otherwise, I fear I shall be held accountable, pay for ‘the sins of the father’ because I’ve never confessed what I knew, because I kept his secret all these years. Oh, there were rumors. Suspicions. But they never amounted to more than that. We were all too afraid to say a word.”

  “So, he did . . . kill . . . Robert Pembrooke?” Abigail hesitated to say the words to his distraught daughter.

  “Of course he did.” Her eyes flashed. “Don’t tell me you are surprised or I shall think I misplaced my trust in you. And my journal as well.”

  “I didn’t wish to believe the rumors. To . . . presume.”

  “Why not? Everyone else did, and rightly so. And no matter what Miles might have told you, neither he nor I have any right to the estate. Not after that. I always thought—or at least wished—there might be a more deserving relative to give the place to.

  “Once I found the family Bible, I thought perhaps that rumor had been true as well. But I failed to find any close relations of Robert Pembrooke, so I sought out more distant relatives—and found your father. I also wanted to see the house occupied for another reason. I thought it would lessen the temptation for Miles. I know he told you he only wanted to see the old place again. He told me the same. I hoped rather than believed him sincere. Tell me honestly, has he been searching the house?”

  “Yes.”

  Harriet winced. “It is as I feared. And the parsonage?”

  Abigail stared. “The parsonage? What has he to do with that?” The air left her. “Oh . . .”

  “I hope I am wrong,” Harriet said grimly. She pulled a sealed letter from her reticule. “I was going to post this when I returned to Bristol, but I suppose there is no more need for anonymous letters. Still, you might as well read this one.”

  She held forth the letter, and Abigail reached for it. For a moment, both women held the sealed paper.

  Abigail said, “May I ask . . . why did you begin writing to me in the first place?”

  Harriet shrugged and said coolly, “Why does anyone write anything? To make known and to be known. It was time to open the door, to let all the dark secrets escape into the light at last.” She turned and walked away.

  Abigail called after her. “But what about the secret room? Won’t you tell me where it is?”

  Harriet turned back. “Now, what would be the joy of that? You’re a clever girl. You’ll find it so much more satisfying, dare I say rewarding, when you find it on your own.”

  Abigail thought about following after her to argue the matter, but curiosity about this latest—and perhaps last—letter kept her where she was. She unsealed it, unfolded it, and read.

  Have you noticed the black stain up the kitchen wall in the dolls’ house? Perhaps you thought it intentional, painted that way purposely by the builder, an effect for realism’s sake. But no.

  I came into my bedchamber one afternoon to find smoke hanging heavy in the air over the dolls’ house. I shrieked, as you can imagine, and ran to it, stunned to find a very real fire burning in the miniature kitchen hearth. I knew right away who’d done it and confronted him as soon as I’d put it out with water from my washing stand. He said he only did it to see if the chimney actually worked. But I knew better. He did it to be cruel. To be like Father.

  Mother took him to task over it, but in her presence he denied it, blaming his brother. And she believed the favored boy’s weeping protestations of innocence. So Harold took
the blame, as usual, earning a wallop and an early bedtime without supper. I shudder to think what would have befallen him had Father been home. He was away in London at the time. At some gentlemen’s club that had accepted him as a member based on the Pembrooke name. I don’t know if he would have laughed it off, or beat Harold. We could never be sure how he would react.

  Considering the light penalty, I abandoned the argument when I realized Mother had made up her mind. But perhaps I shouldn’t have. Miles has learnt to get away with things, to manipulate his way out of consequences for most of his life. Only once did he experience our father’s full wrath. And I admit, I never did. He never once struck me. And I feel guilty for that as well. To have suffered so little, when everyone else in my family suffered so much.

  Shaking off a chill at the words, Abigail folded the letter and left the garden. Did a boyish act of mischief—dangerous though it was—mean Miles had anything to do with the parsonage fire? Unlikely. Even so, Abigail thought she might stop by the parsonage and talk to Mr. Chapman.

  But as she rounded the corner of the manor house, she saw that very man standing near Louisa in the churchyard, talking earnestly. Heart sinking, Abigail halted on the drive, but her foot scuffed a stone and sent it skittering across the gravel.

  He looked up at the sound and stopped speaking midsentence, his fair face reddening. Abigail’s stomach clenched, and she turned toward the house in retreat.

  Suddenly, the thought of seeing Gilbert again seemed more appealing than ever.

  William Chapman jogged after her. “Miss Foster? Did you need something?”

  She paused at the door, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious. “I . . . no.”

  “Oh. I thought you might be coming over to speak to me.”

  “I . . .” She hesitated, her thoughts a muddled blur. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

  He touched her arm. “Tell me.”

  She decided not to betray Harriet’s confidence about Miles. Instead she said, “I . . . only wished to ask what you would say to someone who said she wanted to redeem the wrongdoings of her family. To pay for the sins of her father?”