The Secret of Pembrooke Park

by Julie Klassen

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.

  In the threshold, Mrs. Walsh drew up short at the sight of her. “Oh. Hello, miss. Where’s Duncan?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  Abigail asked Polly and Molly as well, but no one had seen him all day.

  She went to find Miles instead, but he wasn’t in his room either, nor in the library or drawing room. Finally she wandered out to the stables, and there found Miles sitting in the straw of an empty stall—sleeves rolled up, forearms on his knees, hair rumpled and specked with straw. He looked twelve years old all over again.

  “Miles . . .” she said, relieved to find him but concerned at his state.

  He looked up at her with haunted eyes, reminding her of Harriet’s description of the little girl staring up at her window with haunted eyes. A girl whose father had also met a violent end.

  “What are you doing out here all alone?” she asked gently. “I was worried about you.”

  “Were you? Dear Cousin Abigail . . .” He patted the straw beside him.

  Pushing aside concerns for her skirt, she sat. “Harriet was just here.”

  “Did she tell you?” he asked softly, not meeting her eyes. “About . . . everything?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  He nodded, appearing relieved.

  He stared at the stall wall and said, “Harold was good. You wouldn’t know it to look at him—foul-tempered and sullen most of the time. But he stood up to Father, put himself between him and Mother, or me, time and time again. And ended up black and blue for his trouble. And I . . . killed him.” His chin trembled. “A good man. Barely more than a boy himself. And I killed him. Unforgivable.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Miles. You were trying to save him. You were only an innocent boy.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t make me out to be innocent, Miss Foster. I know myself too well. I am no innocent. I meant to kill my father.” His voice shook. “And I came here fully intending to take all I could . . . until I became acquainted with you and your kind father.” Again he shook his head. “No. Don’t try to make me an innocent.”

  Abigail’s heart burned within her. “I couldn’t, Miles. Only Christ can make an innocent out of a guilty man. That’s what He did when He died a criminal’s death on the cross.” She took his hand in hers. “God loves you, Miles. Ask Him to forgive you, and He will, once and for all.”

  Miles stared blindly ahead and nodded vaguely. They sat in silence for several minutes, his hand in hers.

  Then Miles pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and dabbed his nose. “Well, at least finding his remains should finally settle things with the courts.”

  Abigail hesitated. “Actually . . .”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  She bit her lip. It wasn’t her secret to tell. And who knew how distraught Miles might become at the news that neither he nor his sister was rightful heir to Pembrooke Park and its treasures?

  Instead she squeezed his hand once more. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  Abigail and Leah walked through the grove between the Chapmans’ cottage and Pembrooke Park. Abigail had told her what she learned from Harriet, and how both she and Miles had reacted to the news that their father’s remains had been found. Leah for her part, reacted calmly to the news—relieved but in no hurry to proclaim her identity to the world. In fact, she had decided to leave the ruby necklace and most of the mementoes in the secret room for the time being—and leave everything else the way it was too.

  “Let’s give Harriet and Miles time to come to terms with their father’s fate,” she said, “before springing this on them too.”

  Abigail spied someone in the distance, through the trees, and drew up short. Duncan sat just inside the doorway of the old gamekeeper’s lodge. “There’s Duncan. I want to ask him about his father.”

  Leah held back, and whispered, “I don’t want to face him right now. I know I’ve hurt him, but he refuses to stop trying to make me feel guilty for breaking things off.”

  Abigail looked at her in understanding. “You wait here, then.”

  Leah nodded, looking relieved.

  Abigail walked toward the open lodge door. Duncan sat on a wooden chair, tipped back on two legs, idly smoking a cigar and sipping from a bottle of brandy—her father’s brandy, she guessed.

  “I didn’t know anyone came here,” she began casually, hoping to put him off his guard. “It’s the old gamekeeper’s lodge, is it not?”

  He nodded. “I come here now and again to think.”

  “Ah.” She said, “Your father was gamekeeper to Clive Pembrooke, I understand.”

  “That’s right, and to his brother before him.” He glanced around the dusty room with its low, beamed ceiling. “My father lived in this hovel as a young man, before he married my mother and had me.”

  “You grew up in Ham Green?”

  “That’s right,” he said with pride. “In a far better house than this. My father made a good living as gamekeeper, and I was to have his place one day, but life, I’ve learnt, is not fair.”

  She said, “And I learnt recently of a great service your father performed for Mrs. Pembrooke and her children.”

  “Helping them get away from her husband, you mean? Not sure Mr. Pembrooke would have agreed with you.”

  “What did your father tell you about Clive Pembrooke?”

  Duncan set down the bottle and crossed his arms over his chest. “Not much.”

  “Did he tell you about his determination to find a treasure he believed hidden in the house?”

  He shrugged. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Is that why you’re here? A little lifting and polishing your small price to pay for access to Pembrooke Park?”

  “I’m the one getting paid.” He gave her a cheeky grin.

  “Getting paid to treasure hunt. Not bad work, if you can get it.”

  “There is more than one way to pursue treasure,” he said philosophically, taking a puff on his cigar and watching the smoke rise. “If one door gets slammed in your face, you try another.”

  Ah, Abigail thought. He liked to talk in riddles like his gamekeeper father. She interpreted, “Like the door Mac Chapman slammed in your face?”

  Anger glinted in his eyes. “Perhaps.”

  She asked, “Did you ever even admire Leah Chapman? Or were you courting Eliza all along?”

  He lifted his chin. “Yes, I did admire her. But she wouldn’t have me. Laid me low for weeks, I don’t mind telling you. It’s why Pa finally told me . . . who she really was. Thought it might take the sting out. I hadn’t been rejected by Leah Chapman, humble steward’s daughter. I’d been rejected by Eleanor Pembrooke, heiress of Pembrooke Park.” He sneered. “But somehow, that did not make me feel better. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I admired her before I knew, but I don’t see any shame in admitting it added to her appeal. In fact, I want
ed her more than ever. And the life I could have had, had she not been blinded by prejudice. Mac influenced her, I know. She might have accepted me, if not for him. Always devilish proud of his Pembrooke connection, Mac was.” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips. “So he sent me on my way. And the young parson took his side against me.”

  “And so you thought you’d pursue another Pembrooke ‘connection’ in Eliza—is that it?”

  He pulled a face. “Eliza has nothing to do with it. Even if Robert Pembrooke was her father, an illegitimate chit gets nothing, unless he recognized her in his will. Which of course he didn’t.”

  “So you decided to work here instead.”

  He shrugged. “Why not? I had planned to work here since boyhood, though as independent gamekeeper with my own lodgings, not a house-bound drudge. Those plans were spoiled when Pembrooke Park closed, so I’ve had to make the best of it. It’s up to me to support my mother now my father’s gone. He worked close with Clive Pembrooke, see. Told me how sure the man was that there was a sizeable treasure hidden away. My father half believed him. And so did I.”

  “And what have you found so far in your late-night searches? Beyond that pin you gave Eliza?”

  “Now, don’t look daggers at me like that,” Duncan said. “It was only a trifle. And it’s not as though you weren’t conducting your own search, ey, miss? I’m not blind, ya know.”

  When she made no reply, he smirked and puffed again on his cigar.

  “So, yes. I felt ill used by the Chapmans,” he went on. “Robbed for the second time of what might have been my destiny. How it chafed—toting and carrying for your lot, when I might have been lord of the manor myself, with Eleanor as my bride. . . .”

  His eyes grew fondly distant for a moment, then hardened once more. “So I figured, if I found the treasure in the course of my work, well, I had it coming, hadn’t I? A little recompense for my heartache.”

  Leah appeared in the doorway beside her, and Duncan’s chair tipped forward onto all four legs with a bang.

  Leah said, “My father recommended you for this post as all the recompense he felt he ever owed you, even though he had concerns about your character and engaging you went against his better judgment. He felt bad for disappointing you where I’m concerned, but he also did so out of respect for your father, whom he greatly esteemed. He hoped in time, you would follow in his footsteps. Become the honorable, hardworking man Jim Duncan was.”

  Duncan’s nostrils flared, but Leah continued resolutely, “I didn’t reject you because you were beneath my station. I rejected you because you are lazy and meanspirited and greedy.”

  His lip curled. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Leah shook her head. “No. It’s the truth. It’s supposed to make you want to become a better man.”

  After that, Abigail walked Leah home, leaving Duncan stewing in the lodge. She returned to Pembrooke Park and went belowstairs again, wanting to have the cloak in hand when she next confronted Duncan. She considered giving it to Mac instead and allow him to ask the questions after he recovered from his injuries. . . .

  But when she reached the lamp room, the cloak was gone.

  The following week, Abigail sat with her family in the drawing room. She and Louisa played a halfhearted game of draughts while their mother embroidered a cushion and their father read his mail.

  Abruptly, Papa muttered an oath and tossed down the letter he had received from Uncle Vincent.

  “Not again.”

  “Now what, my dear?” Concern etched lines across Mamma’s pretty face.

  “Your brother asks that I come to London again, as soon as possible. Something about another investment. So help me, if he tries to—”

  “There, there, my dear. I am certain he’s learnt his lesson.”

  “Are you? That makes one of us. I pray this isn’t to do with more backlash from the last debacle. . . .”

  Abigail’s stomach knotted at the thought.

  He rubbed an agitated hand over his face. “I suppose I must go. He says it’s important.”

  “Why don’t we all go?” Mamma said. “It would only be for a few days, would it not?”

  “Yes, let’s do!” Louisa interjected. “I long for London and to see all my friends.”

  Abigail spoke up. “I’ll stay, if you don’t mind. There is a lot going on, and I want to be here.”

  “A lot going on?” Louisa echoed. “Here? You have been in the rustics too long, Abigail.”

  Her parents soon agreed, however, realizing it would be rude to abandon their houseguest, and perhaps unwise to abandon the house.

  That night, Louisa took her aside. “Are you certain you should stay here alone? With Miles, I mean?”

  “Thank you for worrying about me, but I shall be fine,” Abigail said. She hoped she would be, at any rate. After all, she had nothing he wanted—no treasure.

  Two days later, Abigail again bid farewell to her parents and Louisa.

  Not long after they had left, she saw Mac riding his horse across the bridge, Brutus bounding alongside. He was on his way home from Hunts Hall, she guessed, surprised he had returned to his duties so quickly after his recent injuries. She waved and hurried across the drive to him. “May I talk with you a moment,” she asked.

  He halted and, ignoring her protests, dismounted. “Aye. Do you mind if we walk while we do? I need to stretch my stiff legs.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” she said. “But are you sure you should be walking on that ankle?”

  “Only a sprain,” he insisted. “It’s bound tight.” He pulled down the stout branch tied to his saddle and used it for support as he walked toward his cottage, leading the horse by its reins.

  She walked alongside. She wanted to talk to him about Duncan, but first she apprised him of her family’s departure and her decision to remain behind while they visited London for a few days.

  He sent her a glinting glance. “Perhaps it’s time you learnt to shoot a gun, Miss Foster. I could teach you, if you like.”

  She was surprised by the offer, and what it implied.

  They reached the clearing, and Abigail glanced up at the cottage. Beside her, Mac sucked in a sharp breath and tensed. Miles sat on the bench in the little front garden, rubbing a cloth over a gun. One of Mac’s guns, she supposed, as she had seen Mac oiling his collection in the nearby woodshed on previous occasions.

  Mac called, “I am not in the habit of finding strangers at my door, helping themselves to my guns.”

  Miles replied casually, “Then you ought not leave them lying about for strangers to find.”

  Was his manner as friendly as it outwardly appeared, Abigail wondered. Or subtly threatening? It was difficult to tell.

  Releasing his horse, Mac pushed through the gate. “I was called away whilst cleaning it,” he said defensively, “and left it in harmless pieces.”

  “So I guessed. But it was the work of a moment to put it back together. Not for a novice, perhaps. But the navy did teach me something useful, in the end.” Miles tilted his head, observing Mac’s crude cane with interest. “Apparently I’ve started a fashion here.” He smirked. “Fine stick.”

  Mac squared his shoulders. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit to my humble cottage, Mr. Pembrooke?”

  “That’s right.” Miles looked around. “This is my first visit. I have been remiss . . . Oh no, that’s right—I’ve never been invited.”

  “Is this a social call, then?”

  “If you like.”

  Irritation flashed over Mac’s face. “What do you want, Miles?”

  Miles looked at him closely and said, “Mac, I know Robert Pembrooke confided in you.”

  “That’s right,” Mac said, eyeing him warily. “He did. And proud I am of that fact. He was the best of men, Robert Pembrooke was.”

  “I shall have to take your word for it.” Miles smiled thinly. “Though my father did best him in the end.”

  Mac frowned.
“What are you getting at? If you dare make light of what your father did to him, to us all, I’ll—”

  Miles held up his palm in consolation. “Now, now. No need to get riled. Are you sure you’re Scottish and not Irish, Red?”

  Miles grinned as though he’d made a great joke, but Abigail saw Mac fist his hands.

  “So if Robert Pembrooke confided so much in you, his trusted steward,” Miles continued, “then you must know where it is.” He added cheerfully, “You can tell me, now that we know my father is dead. He can’t take anything else from your revered Robert Pembrooke. Can no longer get his bony hands on his house or his riches.”

  Mac looked at Miles as he might size up an unfamiliar dog. Friendly . . . or dangerous? “True,” he allowed.

  “So, where is it?” Miles urged. “Where is Robert Pembrooke’s treasure?”

  “Here I am,” Leah said, stepping outside.

  Miles turned to her in surprise. “Miss Chapman . . . ?”

  “No.”

  His brows rose. “No?”

  She shook her head. “My name is Eleanor Pembrooke, daughter of Robert and Elizabeth Pembrooke. Your first cousin.”

  Miles scowled. “I don’t believe you. You’re dead. That is . . . she’s dead.”

  “No. I am very much alive. Mac hid me from your father. Protected me all these years.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”

  “Very well.”

  “Leah . . .” Mac warned. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s all right, Papa. I want to. It’s time.” She looked at Miles. “Give me one moment.” She retreated into the house and came back out a minute later.

  She said, “Here’s the letter my father sent home with his valet after your father stabbed him. He wrote it with his last breath, his last bit of strength.”

  Miles snatched it from her.

  As he read it, his eyes widened. “Yes! You see . . . It’s right here! Give him the house, anything he wants, but hide my treasure. This proves it! My father was right all along—there is a treasure. Show me where it is.”

  When no one moved, Miles glared at Mac. “I know how you idealized the man, so I am certain you obeyed this command, as you did in everything.”