The Secret of Pembrooke Park (44 page)

Abigail forced that nail, then a tin lid, then any other object she could find into that seam until her fingernails had broken to the quick and her hands bled. Desperate, she pounded the boards with her fists and let out a frustrated cry.

Leah grabbed one bloodied hand, staying her futile beating.
Abigail’s eyes snapped to hers and saw the calm, tear-filled eyes of her friend, the brave resignation as she slowly shook her head.

“It’s no good, Abigail.”

“We can’t give up.”

“We must be ready to meet our Maker. I am not afraid to die—if it is our time to go.”

“It’s not our time.” Abigail beat the boards with her free hand once more.

Leah grasped that hand as well. “I pray not. But if it is, we need to be ready.”

For a moment, Abigail paused in her frenetic efforts and held Leah’s clear, resolute gaze. Then she closed her eyes and prayed, “Lord, please save us. Please pluck us from the fire or protect us from the fiery furnace. I know you can do anything. But if you will otherwise, please let us wake up with you in heaven. I know I don’t deserve it. But in your Son’s name, I ask you to save us both. Here on earth, if at all possible. And if not, for eternity. We—”

A pounding interrupted her prayer, hammering the air and shaking the floor beneath them. Was the tower about to collapse? Would they be buried alive before smoke or fire did them in? Abigail braced herself and squeezed Leah’s hand. Any fate seemed better than that wicked scorching fire.

Over the roar of the encroaching flames, Abigail heard a muffled voice. Was she imagining it?

Leah said, “Shh. Listen.”

Abigail, already on her hands and knees, bent forward and laid her ear on the floor.

“Abigail! Leah!” she heard faintly.

“We’re here!” she shouted, mouth close to the wood. “We’re here!”

“Back away from the hatch!” came the shout—William’s voice. Tense and harsh and, oh, so welcome.

“All right. We’re clear!” Abigail called.

Bang,
came the first blow. Then another. A sledgehammer? An axe?

Crack!
A flash of silvery metal sliced through one of the planks. Then again. Two bent nails went pinging across the floor and landed near their feet.

Behind them, the door of the secret room wavered, then burst into flames, and a wave of heat rushed into the small room.

“William, hurry!” Leah cried. “The fire is getting closer!”

More grunts and blows, more splintered wood. The cadence changed, as did the pace. Two men wielding tools at once, Abigail guessed.

She dared another glance over her shoulder. The fire had entered the secret room like an evil intruder. It lapped at the shelves and seared the walls, moving toward Elizabeth Pembrooke’s portrait among Leah’s gathered things.

Leah stared at it, eyes filling with tears, but she made no protest.

Abigail’s back felt so hot she feared her frock would burst into flames. The portrait was too big to carry, but she swiped up the ruby necklace and tucked it into her apron pocket. Then she grasped Leah’s hand and pulled her to the far wall, on the other side of the hatch. As far as they could go.

With a final crack, the hatch whined from its hinges and fell downward. Below someone grunted and called a warning, followed by the clatter of falling planks. Through the ragged hole, Abigail saw the sweaty, sooty, anxious faces of William and Mac Chapman.

“Leah!” Mac called. “Are you all right?”

Leah glanced fearfully at the flames whipping toward them. “The fire is almost upon us!”

“Come down.” William braced the rickety ladder-steps from the level below. “Hurry.”

“But, Abigail . . .”

“I’m right behind you,” Abigail insisted. “Go!”

Leah sat on the floor and hung down her legs. William reached up and guided her feet to the top rungs while Mac steadied the ladder.

Abigail glanced behind her. The fire consumed a bandbox of family papers and began licking the frame of Mrs. Pembrooke’s portrait.

Suddenly a figure appeared through the flames—a figure in a hooded cloak. Was this the grim reaper come for her?
Dear Jesus, no!
The coat smoked, sputtered, and sparked as its wearer ran through the inferno and launched itself through the burning door as though through a circus ring of fire. The figure dove toward her, arms outstretched. Abigail shrieked in horror and jumped back. The figure landed face-first on the floor of the secret room with a shuddering thud. The cloak was dripping wet—doused against the flames.

The head lifted and the hood fell back, revealing a black-streaked face, awful, yet familiar.

“Miles?”

“Abigail!” he cried. “I never meant to . . . I didn’t know you were in here. Honest, I didn’t!”

“Miles, we have to get out now!”

He looked up, near his outstretched hands. His focus caught on the ruby necklace spilling from her pocket onto the floor like a red snake.

“I came to rescue you . . .” he said, then his eyes landed on the sparkling rubies once more.

The flames lashed closer and closer, the heat nearly overwhelming her senses. But even before the flames reached her, the smoke did. Abigail coughed and placed her handkerchief over her nose and mouth.

“Abigail, hurry!” William called from below. “Cover your mouth. Stay low!”

Inside the secret room, Miles began digging through the boxes.

“Miles, come on! Let’s go—it’s not worth your life.” She stretched out her hand to him, beseeching him. “Come with me, Miles. Now.”

He looked briefly at her hand, but then he reached for the rubies instead.

The fire flared, catching his cloak on fire and scalding her ankle. Her petticoat hem burst into flames.

“William!” she cried, whirling back to the hatch.

He stood at the base of the ladder, face fierce and set.

“Jump, Abigail. Quick.”

She dropped to her haunches at the edge of the hatch, smacking her petticoat with her hand, hoping to smother the fire before her whole dress went up in flames and her with it.

She propped her hand on the floor to brace herself, only to snatch back her burning hand, and half-fell half-dropped onto the ladder. She flailed for a handhold as the rotted rungs collapsed and she fell onto William. The force of the collision drove him backward, to the edge of the open hatch below, but he caught himself before momentum sent them both tumbling down it.

She looked up through the hatch above in time to see Elizabeth Pembrooke begin to burn and curl and melt.

“I’ll go up for it,” Mac said, starting to shimmy back up the ladder brace.

Leah caught his arm. “Papa, don’t! I’d rather have you alive than an oil painting of someone I barely remember.”

Abigail sucked in a breath and cried, “Miles is up there!”

William gaped in shock. “No . . .”

Abigail grabbed the axe and raised it high—slamming it against the old water pipe. Seeing her intention, William took the axe from her and sliced into the pipe, knocking off the valve with one blow. Water burst forth like a high-pressure fountain, murky, smelly, and wonderful. The rank water flooded the floor and cascaded through the hatch below. It wouldn’t save the secret room, but it might buy them time to escape.

The floor above wavered and orange-red flames leeched through the wood.

Over the roar, Mac called, “We’ve got to get out of here before the whole place goes.”

Abigail frantically searched the hatch opening once more, willing Miles to appear there. “Miles!” she cried.

Nothing.

William grabbed the ladder brace. “I’ll go.”

The floor above them began to collapse, peeling away like bark.

Mac grabbed his arm tight. “No, son. It’s too late.”

William winced and breathed, “God have mercy on his soul. . . .”

They escaped through the next hatch, just as the burning floor above crashed down over it.

Rung by rung, they descended each angled ladder of the tower until they reached the bottom. In the dim cellar-like space stood a door and a low archway. From a distance came the faint sound of the church bell ringing.

Mac reached for the door. “Let’s go.”

“No,” William said sharply. “That leads into the old wine cellar. We want to get out of the house, not back into it. This way.” He pointed to the low half circle that looked like the arched entrance to a cave.

“What is it?” Leah asked.

“A drain tunnel. Watch your heads.”

Ducking low, and trying not to scrape their heads on spider webs, bat dung, and who knew what else, they plodded, bent over, through the murky tunnel. After what seemed like hundreds of yards, though probably far less, Abigail glanced up and saw a crescent of light ahead. William explained in choppy breaths that this was where the excess rainwater from the cistern once flowed out into the garden and fishpond.

They emerged from the tunnel in a tiled drainage area at the back of the garden behind the house.

Mac embraced Leah, stroking her hair and murmuring over and over again, “It’s all right, lass. You’re safe now.”

Leah panted, “I never even knew there was a hatch. I suppose Father covered it to keep me from falling when I was little.”

“No doubt you’re right,” Mac said. “He only wanted to protect you. And so did I. . . .”

Abigail glanced up at William. Saw that he was looking not at his sister but at her, with concern and something else glimmering in his eyes.

“Thank God you’re safe.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Abigail closed her eyes and leaned into his solid chest. He murmured against her hair, “I don’t know what I would have done had anything happened to you and Leah. I treasure you both.”

From the other side of the manor, the calls of neighbors and the clank of buckets and water cans reached them. The sounds of people nearing made Abigail aware that she stood in William Chapman’s embrace. He seemed to realize it at the same moment and pulled back.

His eyes searched her face. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“Yes. I am well, thanks to you.”

He managed a sad, weary smile. “Did I not tell you, back when you suspected me of being a treasure hunter, that had I really wanted to get inside Pembrooke Park, I could have done so at any time?”

She nodded and gestured toward the tunnel. “But . . . how did you know?”

“I grew up not one hundred yards from this spot. I know every acre of this estate and the woods between it and our cottage.”

“And I am very glad of it.” Her smile faltered. “Is that how you so quickly disappeared from the secret room when Miles interrupted us?” When he nodded she asked, “But who nailed the hatch shut?”

William pulled a regretful face. “I did. Last week. I didn’t want any man in a hooded cloak slipping into your room as easily as I slipped out of it. Forgive me. I never dreamed—”

“Of course you didn’t. It’s not your fault, William. You didn’t start the fire. . . .”

Abigail looked back at the house, cringing at the billowing black smoke and angry flames lashing out her bedchamber window. “Poor Miles . . .”

“Yes.” William grimaced and slowly shook his head.

As the shock began to fade, her hand began to throb. She held it up to look at it, murmuring, “I’ve burnt my hand.”

He took it gently in his, both of them studying the red puckered flesh, mottled white. Concern quickly filled his eyes. “We had better get you to Mr. Brown directly.”

As they walked toward the front of the house, a traveling chaise and horses rumbled through the gate, and William saw with mixed emotions that the vehicle conveyed his friend Andrew Morgan, his
sister Rebekah, as well as Mr. Scott. He didn’t recognize the chaise but had heard Mr. Scott had been given the use of his employer’s fine carriage for his regular trips from London to Hunts Hall.

“Word reached us about the fire,” Andrew called. “We’ve come to help.”

“And to make sure you were all right,” Rebekah added, eyes wide in concern as she laid a hand on William’s sleeve.

Mr. Scott hurried to Abigail’s side, embraced her tightly, and inspected her hand.

William stepped forward. “I was just about to take her to the local surgeon.”

Mr. Scott shook his head, an angry twist to his mouth. “No, I will. And then I’ll take her to our family physician in London.”

He led her to the carriage. There she paused in its doorway, looking over her shoulder at William, her expression weary and regretful and resigned. He didn’t blame her. After all, nothing had changed. He was in no position to protest her departure. No position to make her an offer, to ask for her hand, her poor burnt hand. . . .

She was far better off with Mr. Scott, he told himself, even as the thought lanced his soul. From the corner of his eye, he felt his father’s and sister’s concerned looks but dared not meet them.

Through the gate came a gig and wagons overflowing with servants and tenants from Hunts Hall, arriving to help.

William thanked Andrew and joined the line. But a part of his heart left in a fine carriage, as it carried away the woman he loved.

Thunder rumbled and rain began to fall, and around him friends and neighbors thanked God. The rain would help their efforts to fight the fire. The rain would cool the hot, weary workers of the fire brigade and wash away sweat and even tears as it did so.

A
month later, Abigail stood in the window of Aunt Bess’s townhouse, looking out at the damp cobblestones below, busy with passing carriages, carts, and well-dressed pedestrians. How strange to be back in London, she reflected, when she had planned to remain in Pembrooke Park for a twelvemonth at least. At one time Abigail had privately hoped to renew the lease indefinitely, assuming Mr. Arbeau and Harriet Pembrooke were in agreement, for she had grown fond of the house and countryside, the village and her neighbors. Especially a certain neighbor and his family. Of course, that was before she’d learned Leah’s true identity, and before the fire.

The searchers had found Miles Pembrooke’s body among the rubble of the ruined tower, rubies still clutched in his hand—reminiscent of the way his father had been found, a pistol clutched in his. Harriet had Miles buried in the Bristol churchyard, next to their beloved mother and brother. For though damaged by the experiences of his childhood, he was her brother, and she had loved him. Abigail had as well.

The fire destroyed most of the west wing, rendering Pembrooke Park even less habitable than when she and her father had first ar
rived. So Abigail had little choice but to remain in London with her family, sharing the cramped quarters and uneasy hospitality of Aunt Bess’s townhouse.

But her family’s unexpected change in situation had not ended there. To the surprise of everyone, Uncle Vincent’s last remaining investment had actually been a great success, paying out a good deal of money. And with it, he repaid his brother-in-law a large portion of what he had lost in the failed banking venture. Their former home was not for sale, which wasn’t surprising, having only recently been purchased. And Abigail, her practical nature reasserting itself, managed to convince her father not to buy or let a house in one of the most elite and expensive squares as before, but a fashionable, though more modest home in Cavendish Square. They would move in next week.

They had seen little of Gilbert since their return, as he’d been assigned to a new project in Greenwich. His sister, Susan Lloyd, however, invited Abigail over for tea, wanting to hear all about her experiences in Easton and about the fire. Her old friend’s astute, well-informed questions demonstrated a surprising familiarity with the area and the players involved. Abigail grew suspicious. She asked Susan how she knew so much about it, and Susan confessed the writer from Caldwell, E. P. Brooks, had sent a story based on what she claimed were true events. Could Abigail corroborate the account before they printed it? Unfortunately, Abigail could.

Abigail’s mother and sister had decided Miles was too distant a relation to publicly mourn. But Abigail and her father dressed in mourning for several weeks. She was glad she was wearing black when Harriet paid a call soon after she returned to London, dressed in full mourning for her brother. She delivered the long-promised reward in person, pressing Abigail to accept it, when she would have refused. Then Harriet asked Abigail to tell her everything that had happened the day of the fire—insisting she not spare her feelings.

Abigail swallowed and told Harriet about Miles reading the
letters, seeing him carry the letter he’d burnt toward the hearth, and being convinced the fire had been accidental, emphasizing his heroic return when William told him she and Leah were likely trapped in the house, his quick thinking in wearing the soaked hooded cloak to reach them. His words,
“I didn’t know you were in here.
Honest I didn’t! I came to rescue you. . . .”

“He tried to rescue us, Harriet,” Abigail repeated earnestly. “He risked his own life to reach us. He made mistakes, but I honestly believe he intended us no harm. He tried to save us, but in the end he could not. I am so sorry we were not able to get him out of there with us.”

Harriet slowly nodded, her mouth trembling. “You have no doubt portrayed my brother in a more heroic light than he deserved.” Tears shone in her eyes at last. “But I thank you for it, just the same.”

Once the Fosters moved into their new house, their old neighbors, the Scotts, decided to host a party to celebrate their return to London and their return to fortune. Thrilled at the prospect, Louisa pored over fashion prints in search of a new gown and hairstyle and went out with Mamma to visit their favorite
modiste
. Everyone hoped Gilbert would return from Greenwich in time for the party.

Abigail soon found herself relegated to the task of organizing their new home—interviewing and hiring staff, and meeting with the new housekeeper and cook to review menus and approve orders for the larder, linens, etc. Abigail had offered Mrs. Walsh, Polly, and Molly positions with them in London, but all decided to remain in Easton, with its family ties and the hope of future employment if and when Pembrooke Park was repaired. She had no idea of Duncan’s plans, nor did she care.

Mamma and Louisa happened to meet Gilbert’s mother and sister while they were out, and came home with the news that Andrew Morgan was in town and would join their party. Mamma
said, “An invitation has also been extended to the rector—I gather Mr. Morgan is acquainted with him from Caldwell. We met him one Sunday, did we not?”

“Yes, briefly.” Abigail wondered if Mr. Morris had come to Town with his nephew or on his own. She was relieved to hear his health had improved enough to allow him to travel. Or perhaps he came to Town seeking a second opinion from a London physician.

The day of the party arrived, and Louisa spent nearly the entire afternoon bathing and getting ready. Abigail had a new dress for the occasion as well. To her credit, Mamma had insisted
both
girls should have new gowns.

But late that afternoon Abigail was called into the housekeeper’s parlor to witness a disciplinary lecture between the older woman and a young maid caught flirting with a footman from next door.

“Shall I give her the sack, miss?” the housekeeper asked.

After everything Abigail had experienced in Pembrooke Park, with Miles and even disrespectful Duncan, this seemed to her a petty offense, but she hesitated to undermine their new housekeeper—especially in front of one of the woman’s subordinates. She said with gentle respect, “I . . . don’t think that’s necessary, Mrs. Wilkins. Not on her first infraction. We all make mistakes, don’t we? Especially when we are in a new situation.”

“That’s it, miss,” the girl said eagerly, reminding her of Molly. “I didn’t know what I was doin’ was so wrong. Honest I didn’t.”

Which led the housekeeper to coolly request that Miss Foster write all the house rules and post them in the servants’ hall as soon as may be, to avoid future excuses of ignorance.

Abigail forced a smile and said she would get to it straightaway.

By the time she was able to extricate herself from the goings-on belowstairs, it was well past six. Her mother and father were already dressed, talking companionably in the vestibule while they awaited their daughters and the hired carriage.

Abigail entered the hall in time to see Louisa descend the stairs, looking stunning as usual in a gown of peach satin. Mamma stopped
talking, watching with maternal pride as her beautiful daughter came down the stairs.

“I’m sorry the jeweler wasn’t able to repair the necklace in time, my dear.”

Louisa lifted her chin. “So am I.”

“But the coral looks very well on you, all the same,” Mamma soothed.

Abigail had originally thought the emerald necklace would look well with her own new gown but had given way when Louisa begged to wear it, trying on the gems with her new gown and enthusing over how elegant she looked, and somehow breaking the clasp in the bargain.

“The emeralds would have looked well on Abigail too,” her father put in. And Abigail was touched by his loyalty.

Her mother noticed her then.

“Abigail! You’re not even dressed.”

“Sorry. Mrs. Wilkins needed me. Some crisis belowstairs.”

“I do hope everything is all right,” her father said.

“Oh yes. Nothing to worry about. But I am sorry to hold you up.”

“We shall go and then send the carriage back for you,” he suggested. “You can come over when you’re ready, all right?”

“It won’t take Abigail long to slip into a dress and repin her hair,” Louisa said. “But . . . I suppose it would be rude if we were
all
late. You don’t mind, Abigail, do you?”

Abigail hesitated, feeling herself snapping back into the old pattern like a missing mosaic tile from the floor. “No, of course not. You three go ahead.”

“Thank you, Abigail.” Her mother’s smile shone with genuine gratitude.

You see,
Abigail told herself,
you are appreciated. Useful . . . in
your way.
That was something.

As her family left, Abigail took herself upstairs, passing Mary, the upper housemaid who usually helped her dress and pinned her hair.

“I was just going down to my supper, miss,” she said. “But if you want me to do your hair, I can wait.”

Abigail hesitated, torn. She forced a smile and said, “That’s all right. You go on. Don’t miss your supper on my account, I can repin my own hair. No need for anything special.”

“Thank you, miss.” The girl smiled, bobbed a little curtsy, and hurried down the stairs.

Abigail could arrange her own hair, but she could not get into her new gown on her own. Not with all the fastenings and seed-pearl buttons at the back of the bodice. She sighed. Perhaps she would just make do with her old ivory dress. She might even return the new gown, as she’d never worn it. Madame LeClair would have no trouble selling the beautiful thing, and they could put the credit toward Louisa’s large balance.

Abigail went to her closet and regarded the ivory dress. Nothing special. Nothing wrong with it either.

Leaving the gown where it was, Abigail walked to her dressing stool and sat down heavily upon it. Maybe she would simply claim fatigue and stay home. She was tired from all the tasks and supervision of the last few weeks. No one would blame her, and her family would make her excuses. . . .

Then words William Chapman had said whispered on the edges of her mind.
“You are every bit as beautiful
as your sister. More so, to me. I treasure you. . . .”

Oh, William . . .
she thought fondly. How she missed him. Even if he exaggerated her charms. She had thought he might write to her, but he had apparently seen her move to London as an opportunity for a clean break. Leah
had
written a few times—at least their friendship would continue, even if her relationship with William would not. After all, nothing had changed between them.

Marcel, her mother’s lady’s maid, scratched at the door and entered, her often stern face bright and a parcel in her hands. “Mademoiselle! Zee jeweler has returned your necklace just in time! You must wear eet tonight!”

Abigail shook her head. “Louisa wanted to wear it, but . . . In any case, I’m thinking of staying home.”

“No, mademoiselle. You should go.”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

Abigail opened the hinged case and looked at the sparkling emeralds within, winking at her.

“
I treasure you. . . .”

Suddenly, Abigail stood. “You know what, Marcel. I will go. But I must ask you to help me. I know I have refused in the past, but Mary has gone to her dinner, and I shall make it worth your while.”

“No, no, mademoiselle. No need. It will be my pleasure, I promise you. How long I have wished to get my hands on zat beautiful hair of yours! Sit, sit!”

Dressed in uncomfortable evening clothes of his least favorite color, black, William Chapman surveyed the people mingling in the drawing room with sinking disappointment. Miss Foster was not among them. Perhaps he ought not to have come with Andrew. Maybe he could still bow out.

Charles Foster saw him from across the room, and a sincere smile lit the older man’s handsome face as he made his way over. “Mr. Chapman! What a pleasure to see you again. I didn’t realize you were in Town.”

“Yes. Staying with Mr. Morgan for a few days. The Scotts were kind enough to extend their invitation to me as well.”