The Secret of Pembrooke Park (39 page)

“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.

O
n 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. Mor
ris, 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.

Or was she? Mrs. Peterman sidled up to Abigail, her disapproving gaze on the pair. “First you, then your sister, and now a recent widow.” She sniffed and shook her head. “I shall be glad when Mr. Morris’s nephew comes into possession of his uncle’s living. He’ll put an end to such ungodly flirtations.”

“Oh, and what makes you think that?”

“Look at him!” She gestured toward the gangly young man. “No girls will be fawning over him. And he, I daresay, will remain too busy writing good long sermons to have time for females for a year or two. And by then, the women of the parish will have found him a plain, practical wife.”

“Yes,” Abigail murmured in wry wistfulness. “The practical ones are usually plain.”

When the last of his parishioners had exited, William disappeared from the doorway. A few minutes later, he exited as well, having removed his vestments. He paused to help a fallen toddler who had scratched his knee, and reunited the scamp with his mother. Then, seeing her watching him, William raised a hand and walked her way.

Abigail steeled herself, unsure what to expect.

“Hello, Miss Foster.”

She nodded. “Mr. Chapman.”

“Mamma was just saying you haven’t been to our house in some time. I tried to tell her you’ve been busy, what with your family here now and . . . all. Even so, she has charged me with inviting you over again. Might you and your sister come over for tea this afternoon? Perhaps you might sing for Grandmamma and Miss Louisa might play. I understand she is very accomplished.”

It was Louisa he wished to see most of all, she guessed. “Yes, well. Louisa might, but I don’t know that I will have the time.”

He winced and asked tentatively, “Are you angry with me about something, Miss Foster?”

“No.”

“Have I done something to offend you or disappoint you?”

Abigail didn’t want to lie, but nor did she want to tell him the truth. Besides, the truth was he’d done nothing wrong. It was her problem, not his.

When she hesitated, he asked, “Is this about . . . your sister?”

Taken aback, she darted a glance at him, then looked away, feeling her neck heat. How had he divined the answer? Were her feelings, her petty jealousy, so transparent?

He added, “Or because of Mr. Scott?”

She blinked in confusion. She would have thought he’d be relieved that Gilbert was showing interest in her. That it might assuage his guilt and give him the freedom to pursue Louisa or Rebekah Garwood, as he probably wanted to.

Gilbert appeared at her elbow. “Hello, Abby.” He smiled at her and took her hand, tucking it under his arm. “I’ll walk you home.”

Belatedly, he acknowledged Mr. Chapman. “Good sermon, Parson. Nice and short.”

“Thank you. By the way, I saw the new wing at Hunts Hall. Well done. Nice and short.”

Gilbert’s face colored. “They only wanted the one level—there’s to be a conservatory. But we are also adding a two-story addition to the rear and—”

Abigail interrupted, “Mr. Chapman is only teasing you, Gilbert.”

“Oh,” Gilbert said dully.

She said in consolatory tones, “He isn’t used to your teasing yet, as I am.”

Mr. Chapman pulled a face. “Sorry. It’s one of my persistent weaknesses, I’m afraid.” He looked at her. “But not the only one.”

That night, Abigail sat on a large rock, a natural step down from the riverbank, and dangled her feet in the water, idly peeling the bark from a stick in her hands. The moon shone bright, glistening on the lazy current. The air was still, without a breath of wind. And only the chirring of frogs and the occasional flying insect kept her company. The summer night was warm. Too warm. She’d been unable to sleep in her stifling room, with her stifling thoughts and doubts about both Gilbert and William. Must every man she admired prefer her sister? Perhaps she should accept it, and be grateful any man would be interested in her at all, once Louisa made it clear she did not return his attentions. But the thought made her feel ill. Would she wonder at every family gathering for the rest of her life if her husband was eyeing Louisa wistfully, wishing he had married her instead?

She tossed the stick upriver, with a satisfying
plunk,
wishing she could toss away her doubts as easily. But sure enough, the current brought it back to her.

“Hello?”

She sucked in a breath at the unexpected call, then turned her head and saw William approaching. “Oh, Mr. Chapman, you startled me.”

“And who else would you expect to find in my spot?”

“Your spot? I didn’t know it was anyone’s spot. I shall leave you.” She scrambled to her feet and up the bank.

He forestalled her, saying, “Miss Foster. I was only teasing. I am glad to find you here.”

He was dressed in breeches and untucked shirt, she noticed. A towel in hand.

“I did not come here with the design of meeting you,” she said, feeling defensive. “I was simply warm and thought the water would cool me.”

“As did I.”

“I only met you at the river once after all, and that was weeks ago. And not here but there under that tree . . .” She nodded vaguely a few yards ahead, then searched the ground. “Now, where did I put my shoes?”

He laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. “Miss Foster . . . are you still angry with me?”

“I am not angry.”

He tucked his chin, and raised his eyebrows, giving her a doubtful look.

“I am not angry,” she repeated. “But . . .”

“But what? I realize that with Mr. Scott back in your life, you may wish to spend less time with me, but I don’t think there’s call for animosity.”

“No, of course not.”

“Here,” he said, spreading his towel on the bank, fortunately larger than the last one he’d brought. “Sit, and let’s talk.”

“But your swim . . .”

“Can wait.”

They sat on the bank, sharing the towel but not quite touching.

He began, “You can’t deny you have changed toward me. I don’t
know if it has something to do with your sister being here now. Or more likely, I suppose, Mr. Scott . . .”

Abigail again recalled William Chapman’s dumbfounded expression when he’d first seen Louisa. And then seeing them together that day in the churchyard . . .

“No,” she whispered. “Not Gilbert.” She shook her head, not able to meet his eyes. The moonlight would reveal too much. Her insecurity. Her jealousy.

“Then . . . ?”

She swallowed and quietly admitted, “I saw how you looked at Louisa when Mamma introduced her.”

She felt his gaze on her profile. Then he sighed. “I am sorry. Truly. I tried to be as polite as possible to her then and since. Not to show anything else in my expression or in my words, to reveal what I knew, and how I felt.”

How he felt
? Lord, have mercy. Help me through this!
He had
fallen
for Louisa. It was more than passing desire or admiration. He had
feelings
for her.

“It was obvious,” Abigail said. “To me, at least.”

“Hopefully not to her. I haven’t wanted to say anything. Even though I wondered if I should. For her sake. And yours. But I was afraid to offend you. You are her sister, after all.”

“As I am very much aware.”

“You must wonder how it began, how I even discovered who she was. . . .”

No, not really,
she thought. It likely began the way it always did. Men making complete cakes of themselves over Louisa.

He went on, “You might remember Louisa asking if we had met before. Saying I looked familiar to her . . . ?”

Abigail nodded, vaguely recalling the exchange.

William continued, “I said we had not met, and that was true—we had not been introduced. But I had seen her before.”

This was news to Abigail. “Oh? When?”

“You remember that I spent several days with Andrew Morgan in London?”

Yes, Abigail did remember. And what long, lonely, tiresome days they had been.

She nodded, and he continued.

“Andrew insisted I needed a rest after the fire, so I went with him to Town, as I had done once or twice while we were at school together. Mr. Morris agreed to take my services for me while I was away, eager to show his nephew his future living, I imagine.

“In London, Andrew dragged me to the most crowded, noisiest rout I had ever attended, held at some wealthy acquaintance’s home. While we were there, one of his highborn friends said something very cutting about a certain young woman in attendance. I did not hear her name over all the noise and music, but I did see her quite clearly, laughing loudly and flirting with an officer and a dandy at once. This man pointed her out and said, ‘Careful, gents, the minx may look an angel, but she is the biggest flirt in London, so determined to net a titled man that she is willing to do
anything
to trap him.’ The insinuation was perfectly clear.”

Was he talking about Louisa? Surely not! Even so, Abigail’s stomach sickened as he spoke and her cheeks heated. Oh, the mortification! What a crude and cruel thing to say, if unsubstantiated. If true, well, heaven help them all.

“I left soon after, much to Andrew’s disappointment. I confess I thought very little about it, or about the girl, not praying for her or her family as I should have done. But when I saw her here, I recognized her instantly. And to learn she is your sister . . . Well, I was stunned speechless.

“I still don’t know what I said at the time, hopefully something polite and coherent. And I hope you will forgive me for repeating the scurrilous accusations now, to you. But if Louisa has acted in a manner to expose herself to such talk, it could very well damage her reputation and yours, so perhaps it is better that you know.

“She did seek me out in the churchyard once, and I tried to offer a word of counsel, but I don’t think I got through to her. I suppose I should have gone right to your father with the report and offered a
gentle warning. But I would hate to rouse his wrath against Louisa or the men in question if it might be addressed another way, with less damage to . . . everyone.”

For several moments, Abigail said nothing, her mind struggling to reconfigure what she thought she had seen, with this new information. She was relieved and upset all at once. Her heart felt sick and exalted in turns.
Oh, Louisa! Foolish, foolish girl.
Abigail could very well believe her sister capable of such flirtatious behavior, thinking her beauty and charm made her immune to the normal rules of propriety.