His voice low and regretful, Mac said, “You were meant to be a lady, my dear, not a lady’s maid.”
“Papa . . . I offered to help. And how many times have I told you I don’t mind a little work.”
Abigail rose, ran a self-conscious hand over her hair, and forced herself to meet Mac’s gaze. She was relieved not to see anger there, only caution and concern.
“How many of Mrs. Walsh’s sausages did you eat?” Leah asked him wryly.
“Only two.”
“Ah. Cutting back, I see.”
“I told her Miss Foster mentioned having trouble with her door and I’d said I’d take a look at it. I ran into Duncan on the way up and told him the same.”
Abigail nodded. “Good thinking.”
She hoped Duncan wouldn’t become suspicious with all these visitors to her room, as Miles had.
This time, Abigail locked her bedchamber door and then gestured for the two of them to enter the secret room whenever they were ready. They left the door partway open for her, but she hung back, not wanting to intrude on their private moment, yet undeniably curious.
For several moments a heavy silence hung in the air of the secret room. Then she heard Mac’s voice, throaty and rough, “You look so much like her. Much more so now than when I hung this here. Turns out I was right to do so.”
Abigail stood just to the side of the door, watching the scene through the opening, knowing she probably shouldn’t but unable to look away.
Leah asked, “You took it down from Father’s room and hung it here?”
Mac nodded. “I feared the resemblance would eventually give you away.”
“It’s good to see her again.”
He glanced at Leah. “I’m sorry the painting’s been kept from you. Sorry so many things rightfully yours have been kept from you. I hope you know everything I did, I did to protect you.”
“I do know, Papa.” She pressed his hand.
Reassured, Mac looked again at the painting. “I didn’t know if Clive had been acquainted with Elizabeth Pembrooke. The brothers had been estranged for years, but I feared if he’d met her, he would remember, being as beautiful as she was. It was the main reason we sent you to school for that year. To give time for his memory to fade. His and our neighbors’ as well.”
The words were out of Abigail’s mouth before she could stop them. “It was a courageous thing to do—to hide Robert Pembrooke’s daughter right under his brother’s nose.”
Mac opened the door wider. “Courageous? To hide?” He shook his head, lip curled. “I don’t think so. And I can’t take credit for the idea. I never would have presumed to remove her from the house, to send her away, and then to raise her as my own in our wee cottage, had Robert Pembrooke not asked it of me.”
Abigail felt her brow furrow and joined them inside. “What do you mean?”
Mac turned to one of the shelves. “I left it hidden here. The note he sent with his valet. God rest their souls. . . .”
He picked up a cigar tin from the lowest shelf, blew the dust off the cover, and carried it to the window ledge. There he opened the lid and from the bottom of a stack of invoices and receipts pulled forth a small notebook entitled Household Accounts. “I folded it within this, knowing it would not appeal to a man like Clive Pembrooke, even if he ever found this room.”
From within the account book, he extracted a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Leah. “Written by your father, right before he died.”
Hands trembling, Leah read the letter, her eyes filling with tears as she did so. Then she handed it to Abigail to read.
Abigail hesitated. “Are you certain?”
Leah nodded, and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve.
Abigail read the note written in a hurried, erratic hand. And guessed the dark brown stain on one corner might be Robert Pembrooke’s own blood.
Mac,
Protect Eleanor or he will kill her.
Let him have the house, anything he wants,
but hide my treasure.
—R. Pembrooke
Ellie,
I love you more than life. Never forget.
—Papa
“How I wished that Mr. Pembrooke had identified his attacker,” Mac said. “Given me something I could take to the magistrates to use against Clive. Solid evidence. But considering he was near death, it’s a miracle he was able to write this much. And a testament of his love for you, my dear, that you were foremost in his mind. His last, most precious, thought.”
Mac looked at Abigail. “Leah told you about that night . . . ?”
Abigail nodded solemnly.
Leah explained, “Only up until the part where Uncle Pembrooke left and you took me to Grandmamma’s cottage.”
He nodded thoughtfully and filled in some of the details. “Eventually, we heard the front door slam closed, and for a time, all was quiet. Assuming Clive had fled the scene of the crime, I tiptoed back through Ellie’s room and went down to check on poor Walter, but as I feared, he was dead. I took advantage of the empty house, gathered a few things for Ellie, and then left the manor, taking her to my mother-in-law’s cottage. Thinking she would be safer there than in my own, in case Clive came looking.
“Then I waited and watched the manor from a distance, just in case. Soon a gig approached with Mr. Brown at the reins and Clive Pembrooke riding that big black of his alongside. I admit I was surprised.
“A few minutes later, I entered the house, claiming to have heard a carriage and that I was coming to check on the place. I found Mr. Brown and Clive Pembrooke standing over Walter Kelly’s body. Clive Pembrooke was all cool civility, all concern and grief over Walter’s fate, theorizing the young man had fallen down the stairs in his hurry to answer the door. Of course there was nothing Mr. Brown could do for him. He was already dead—had died honorably, protecting his young mistress.
“The surgeon left to summon the undertaker. While Clive and I waited for him to come and remove the poor man’s body, Clive told me he had come to Pembrooke Park with the news he’d heard in London, that Robert Pembrooke was dead—killed by thieves who broke into the London house.”
Here, Mac looked at Abigail and interjected, “Lies, all of it.”
Then he continued, “Clive said he’d seen the valet’s horse out front, lathered and exhausted, and assumed he’d come on the same mission. He asked me why the man would ride so far in such a hurry. Whom had he meant to tell if the house was empty?
“I told him, ‘The housekeeper and me, I suppose. He wouldn’t know that she had gone to sit at her sister’s sickbed. And of course the rector and all the parish would want to know the news—the most significant news to grieve our parish since the death of Mrs. Pembrooke.’”
“Clive said, ‘His wife and daughter died, I believe I heard.’”
“‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Taken in the typhus epidemic that claimed so many.’”
“Then Clive said, all casual-like, ‘The poor man muttered something before I went for the surgeon. Perhaps it will make more sense to you than it did to me. He said his master had sent him home to hide his treasure.’”
Mac gave Abigail another sidelong glance. “That part of his story was true. Clive looked at me then with his snakelike eyes. Genial and venomous all at once. He asked me, ‘What did he mean by that? Had my brother some treasure I don’t know about?’”
“I shrugged and answered as casually as I could, ‘I suppose there must be some family jewels or something of that sort, though I don’t know the particulars. But I hardly think this is the time to worry about such things. Not when two men are dead.’
“I suppose it was a risk, speaking to him like that. But it was how I would have spoken to him under other circumstances. And I feared he would guess that I knew what he’d done if I acted servile or timid.”
“It seemed to convince him, for he continued on with his act of innocence in full confidence that the only witness against him—or so he thought—was dead.”
> Mac turned to Leah. “Had it not been for you, my dear, or your father’s plea that I act quickly to hide and protect you, I shudder to think what I might have done, likely confronting him then and there—accusing him of killing both men, and likely ending up a third victim.” He shook his head. “Even so, how guilty I’ve felt. Perhaps I should have confronted him, called in the law, and tried to avenge Robert Pembrooke, to obtain justice, weak evidence or not.”
“No, Papa.” Leah laid a hand on his arm. “As Mamma and I have always tried to tell you—you did what Robert Pembrooke asked of you. You protected me. And likely saved your own life and perhaps even the lives of your wife and son in the bargain.”
He nodded. “I know. But I can’t help think I could have done things differently. Handled it more wisely. Found some way to guarantee your future and not merely your safety.”
“Do you think I care about the house? About the money?” She shook her head. “No, I would not have chosen to go through all I have, but you did not steal my life. You gave me a new one. You gave me the best mother, the best father, the best brothers and sister I could hope for. A loving, loyal family far better than I deserve.”
“But you are Robert Pembrooke’s daughter. You deserve better.” Mac paused, glanced at Abigail as if just then remembering she was there, and continued his story.
“When the other servants came back from London or from holiday, what news awaited them. Their master and his daughter were both believed dead. The new master had gone to collect his family and would be returning at some point to take over Pembrooke Park. That’s when I moved the portrait and hid the letter and family Bible and some of the jewels. Fortunately, his absence also gave Mrs. Hayes and me time to warn and coach the servants we thought we could trust, and to replace those we weren’t sure of.
“The old rector was reticent to lie, until I showed him the note in Robert Pembrooke’s own hand. He suggested we go to the law, but I knew, without the testimony of Walter, we had insufficient evidence. I would obey my master. I would let Clive have Pembrooke Park but not let on that Eleanor was still alive. Eventually, the rector agreed and noted her earlier ‘death’ in the parish record, in case Mr. Pembrooke came to check. And he did, eventually. Clive waited a ‘respectable’ fortnight before returning with his family to claim his brother’s house as his own, Robert barely in his grave.
“By then, we had sent Ellie to school for a year in the north near my sister—far away and safe, in case he came searching or threatened someone until they gave up the information. Later, when he asked me, I told Clive that my wife and I had two children, one who was away at school at the time.
“Of course, many of the servants and our neighbors knew that the girl was not really ours. But they were ready to keep our secret in unspoken bond against the usurper, Robert Pembrooke’s killer. When the need arose, we said she was the daughter of relatives in the north, recently orphaned.” He shrugged. “We are a small community. Far from city laws and legalities. There were few to question except the one we were most determined not to tell. Her own uncle.
“So yes, while younger people or those new to the parish don’t know, some of the older folks knew or at least suspected who Leah really was. The servants may have whispered among themselves about Miss Eleanor’s fate but never said anything to Mr. Pembrooke, as far as I know. Though he did check the parish records, as I said, so perhaps he’d heard some rumor she still lived.”
He shook his head. “The rumor may even have fostered Eliza Smith’s mistaken belief that she was that daughter.”
Abigail wondered if the same rumor had fueled Harriet’s hope that a closer heir of Robert Pembrooke’s still lived.
“You may wonder why I continued to work for the man,” Mac went on. “I feared to leave would be to risk Clive’s wrath and his suspicions. But I detested him—detested working for him. How relieved I was when he and his family abandoned the house two years later.”
Mac glanced around the room once more. “I don’t think Clive had ever heard of a secret room—just went all over the house and grounds searching for a hiding place. He helped himself to some gold and silver in the family safe, having found the key in his brother’s desk. He dressed his wife in Elizabeth Pembrooke’s jewelry, and took to wearing Robert Pembrooke’s signet ring, once it had been returned to the estate after his funeral. I made no effort to stop him. But even that didn’t quench his desire for more, his certainty that there must be a treasure worth far more—a pearl of great price—hidden elsewhere. And in a sense, he was right.” He looked at Leah fondly. “Thank God he never found you. And he never shall, as long as it is in my power to prevent it.”
Abigail said, “But surely after all this time . . . If he meant to come back for Pembrooke Park, or for Eleanor, he would have done so by now.”
Mac’s eyes glinted cold and hard, like glass. “He might have been transported or imprisoned and unable to return as yet. Or sent his son Miles to continue his quest.” He shook his head. “Until I find solid evidence that Clive Pembrooke is well and truly dead, I shall never feel our Leah is safe to resume her rightful name and place.”
Mac went to the jeweler’s box on another shelf. “I also hid away a few of your mother’s things for you, Leah.” He ducked his head. “Sorry—it’s how I think of you now.”
“Never be sorry, Papa. It is how I think of myself as well. I like the name, truly.”
“I hoped it would only be temporary—that I could give these to you long before now. I wanted you to have a few family heirlooms once you were able to reclaim your home.” He opened the box, swirling a work-worn finger through dainty gold chains and pearls before handing it to her. “There are also several pieces of jewelry still in your mother’s room. And a fine gold snuffbox and ruby cravat pin left in the master bedroom after Clive Pembrooke and his family left. Never understood why they didn’t take more with them. But I had secreted away these few things for you, for when you grew to womanhood.”
“I am nearly nine and twenty, Papa,” she said, amber eyes sparkling. “I think that moment has come and gone.”
“But there’s something else I really wanted you to have.” Lifting the lid from a bandbox, he pulled forth a hat ornamented with flaccid, dusty feathers, a tiny stuffed bird that had lost its beak, and a spray of silk hydrangeas. In truth, Abigail thought it the ugliest hat she had ever seen. She glanced awkwardly at Leah, to gauge her reaction.
Leah pasted on a smile. “It is quite . . . something.”
“Don’t be polite, lass. Even I can see it’s hideous. It was awful twenty years ago, and time and dust have not improved it.”
He turned the hat over and reached inside. “That’s why I chose it.” He pulled from it a small hinged box, set the hat aside, and opened the lid, exposing a velvet-lined jewel case. Inside glistened a ruby necklace and matching earrings. The jewels Elizabeth Pembrooke wore in the portrait.
“I wanted you to have these, especially. Another reason to hide the portrait.”
“They’re beautiful,” Leah breathed, lightly fingering the deep-red gems. She looked up at Mac, eyes shimmering with tears. “Thank you, Papa.”
He ducked his head again and sent a self-conscious glance at Abigail before saying almost shyly to Leah, “I like hearing you call me by that name, though I suppose I should give you leave to call me Mac now, as everyone else does.”
Leah shook her head, the motion causing one fat tear to escape her eye and roll down her cheek. “I am not everyone else. I am your daughter. One of your four children. And I always shall be.”
Abigail’s heart twisted to see answering tears brighten Mac Chapman’s eyes, and his stern chin tremble.
Chapter 27
On Sunday, Abigail, Louisa, and their parents attended church together. On the way over, Abigail noticed Mamma wrap both hands around Papa’s arm as they walked side by side. He bent his head near hers, and she chuckled at something he said. Abigail’s heart lightened. Maybe her family’s change
of circumstance and the move to Pembrooke Park was having some benefit after all.
Ahead she saw Leah entering the church, the greengrocer’s little girl hanging on one hand, the blacksmith’s youngest tugging on the other. Abigail thought of Leah’s gift baskets and her teaching, and her quiet, humble service, and felt tears prick her eyes. She wondered what Leah—Eleanor—would be like now had she grown up at Pembrooke Park in privilege her whole life. Would she have done so much, served so many regardless of her upbringing? Maybe, but somehow Abigail doubted it. Another benefit—another good thing from a bad situation. “Good from bad,” William had once said. “God excels at that.”
Yes, Abigail silently agreed. He does.
As usual, Louisa enjoyed all the attention that came her way, especially sitting in the front box. Gilbert sat with the Morgans across the aisle, as did Rebekah Garwood. The rector, Mr. Morris, was in church that morning as well, and assisted in officiating the service. He was accompanied by his nephew, who had just matriculated from Christ Church College. The rector introduced the young man with obvious fondness and pride.
After church Louisa made a beeline for Mr. Chapman, thanking him for his sermon. He smiled in reply, and Abigail’s stomach soured. He was perfectly polite to Abigail and her parents as they thanked him and passed through the door, but Abigail noticed he did not quite meet her gaze. She wondered why. Was he distancing himself because of Gilbert, or because he now preferred another woman? Did he fear he had given her the wrong impression during their foray into the secret room—worry she might think he was romantically interested in her again, assuming he ever had been?
In the churchyard, Abigail waited while Louisa spoke sweetly with two adolescent girls who gaped in awe at her beauty and fashionable attire. Behind them the Morgans exited, Andrew and his father talking earnestly to William, while Mrs. Morgan gave him a brittle smile and remained aloof. Beside her, Rebekah Garwood looked striking in her fitted morning gown and smart black hat, her figure already remarkably good for having recently borne a child. She smiled up into Mr. Chapman’s face, asking him about some verse he had quoted. He answered, and she thanked him, briefly laying her gloved hand on his sleeve. Abigail was probably the only person who noticed.
The Secret of Pembrooke Park Page 37