The Secret of Pembrooke Park (34 page)

Harriet nodded. “I don’t think Miles wants to live there. But I do think he’d like to find whatever
treasure
he can, and take it with him if he could.”

“But you know where the secret room is,” Abigail said. “You found it—is that not right?”

“You know where it is?” Leah asked the woman in surprise.

Harriet nodded. “Yes.”

“And Miles?”

Harriet shook her head. “I never told anyone. It was my own secret.” She lifted one shoulder. “Though I was not the only person who knew about it. It seemed clear to me at the time I found it that someone else had been inside recently.”

“What do you mean?” Leah asked.

“You have to remember that I found the room nearly twenty years ago, so I don’t recall every detail. But when I first entered, I remember I didn’t find thick dust and heavy cobwebs. The room was neat—a little storeroom or hiding place.”

“What’s inside?” Abigail asked.

Harriet flicked her a wry glance. “Don’t tell me you share my brother’s fascination?”

“Naturally I am curious.”

“I remember shelves and a jumble of boxes. A small chair, and several portraits. One of a beautiful woman, I recall, though I cannot see her face in my mind’s eye any longer. I do remember wondering if she was my Aunt Pembrooke who died.”

The missing portrait . . .
Abigail thought, then asked, “But no treasure?”

Harriet gave her a sardonic look. “I don’t know that it would be wise to further fuel your interest, Miss Foster. I don’t need two Mileses on my hands. Mostly papers, if I recall correctly. Boxes of old baby clothes and things. But I will say there were a few pieces of jewelry. Family heirlooms, I believe.”

“Still there?” Leah breathed. “Like what?”

“I recall a necklace and earrings . . .” She squinted in memory. “Some other jewelry, though I forget what. In any event, I was careful to only enter the secret room when no one was about, so I would not give away its location. I didn’t want my father, or even Mac Chapman, to—”

“You didn’t want Mac Chapman to what?” That very man appeared in the doorway, scowling down at Harriet. His gaze flicked to Abigail, then to sheepish Leah, before returning to the former Miss Pembrooke.

“Harriet Pembrooke . . .” he breathed, his dark red eyebrows like lobster claws, drawn low.

For a moment, no one said a word, and the tension in the room thickened.

“You might have knocked, sir,” Harriet rebuked.

“Why? What have you got to hide? Besides, ’tis my mother-in-law’s house you’re making yourself at home in. But your lot excels at that.”

“Papa, stop,” Leah said, rising. “I invited Mrs. Webb here.”

“Mrs. Webb, is it?” His eyes shifted to Leah. “And why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted to ask her about her father.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“She assumes he’s dead but doesn’t know. But she does know where the secret room is.”

“Does she indeed?” Now his eyebrows rose like a redbird’s wings. “Did you take anything from there?”

Harriet met his suspicious green glare with a cool blue gaze.
“Anything like, say, personal letters, or jewels, or the Pembrooke family Bible? No, I did not.”

Abigail asked eagerly, “Won’t you tell us where it is? Or show us?”

Harriet shook her head. “I already told you. You can find it on your own, Miss Foster—I know you can—and collect that reward for yourself.”

Harriet sent Mac a knowing glance and wagged a finger. In a singsong voice, she urged, “No helping her, now.”

M
otivated by Harriet’s smug challenge, and her mention of the outstanding reward, Abigail went to the library to retrieve the old building plans again. As she flipped through them, something on the back of one drawing caught her eye. Someone had traced the tower section from the reverse side and sketched in something . . . a ladder? It looked like steep narrow stairs had been penciled in. Perhaps someone had proposed adding a staircase in the unused tower—a set of servants’ stairs to reach the bedchambers directly. From the look of the quick sketch, it had only been an idea, likely never implemented.

She carried the plans up to her room and spread them on the floor, orienting the drawing with the room. Gilbert had concluded the water tower had been converted into a closet above and kitchen hoist below. She shook her head. The water tower would have been
near
her closet. But exactly? She wasn’t convinced.

Once again she knelt before the dolls’ house. Kitty had found a doll inside the small wardrobe. Might something else be hidden inside as well—something they had both missed? She opened one of the wardrobe’s small doors. But with the fading daylight casting shadows it was difficult to see inside. She tried pulling the wardrobe out of the dolls’ house, but it was anchored to the wall.
That gave her pause. She tried the bed and then the dressing chest, but those pieces moved easily. Had the wardrobe been purposely glued to the wall, or had it been placed there while the paint was still wet, creating a seal?

She glanced up at the full-size wardrobe against her bedchamber wall, then rose and peered behind it. It was difficult to see behind the tall cabinet, but in the crack of space she saw no obvious straps or anchoring bolts.

She stood back and considered the wall the wardrobe stood against. A four-foot section of wall between a tall window and the closet door, trimmed in oak like the wardrobe itself and covered in rosebud wallpaper. If the drawing was accurate, the water tower would have been on the other side of this very wall.

Stepping to the window, she opened it and stuck her head out—a wall of about eight feet jutted out at a ninety-degree angle. If it was a shaft used to collect rainwater in former days, it was unlikely there would be an access point from her room.

Was there something behind that wardrobe worth hiding? A young girl like Harriet could not have moved the wardrobe herself. Had she asked Mac for help? Or some servant long gone? Then left this clue, if clue it was, in the dolls’ house? There was one way to find out.

Who could Abigail get to help
her
move the wardrobe?

Duncan? When she believed he may have been searching the house at night before Miles even arrived? No.

What about Miles, who had suggested they join forces? No. Harriet would never forgive her if she did anything to inflame his interest.

Gilbert was still in the area, overseeing the construction at Hunts Hall. He would be willing, though he would likely tease her for her overactive imagination, or perhaps even be offended to learn she questioned his opinion of the placement of the old water tower. Besides, she wasn’t ready to give him her answer.

Her own father was not exactly a strapping man, but Mac Chapman was. What had Mrs. Webb meant when she’d told
him,
“No helping her, now.”
Even if the former steward knew where the secret room was, it didn’t mean he would be eager to assist her.

Or . . . Jacob Chapman was only fifteen. But he was already nearly as tall as his brother and strong from helping William chop wood for the family. He and William together would certainly be able to move it. But would she need to confide in them the reason she wished it moved? And then be embarrassed if she was wrong?

Would she need to share the reward with whomever helped her find the “treasure”? She wouldn’t mind sharing the reward with William Chapman, if it came to that. He could certainly use the money, and a more deserving man she could not imagine.

She sought him out the next day and found him in the church, checking the water level in the baptismal font. “Mr. Chapman, might I ask you and Jacob to help me with something?”

He turned, auburn eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Of course.” In his wary uncertainty, she thought she saw the question
“Why not ask Mr. Scott?”
flicker there. But she was likely flattering herself.

“I’m afraid it’s not a very glamorous favor,” she said. “I need two strong men to move something for me.”

Another question flickered, and she answered his unspoken thought before he could voice it. “I hope you aren’t offended. But I don’t want to ask Duncan. I don’t trust him—not fully.”

“Very well. What is it?”

“Could you and your brother come by the manor this afternoon—whenever it’s convenient for you? I’ll tell you then.”

He thought. “I have a christening shortly, but I could come this afternoon. I’ll bring Jacob with me.”

“Thank you. And I shall ask Mrs. Walsh to prepare a cake for your efforts.”

He lifted one corner of his mouth in a grin. “Or
you
could make us a cake.”

She shook her head, mirroring his grin. “Oh no, you wouldn’t want that, I promise you.”

The door opened, and Mrs. Garwood, Andrew Morgan’s widowed sister, entered, child in arms. She hesitated at seeing Abigail there but greeted her politely. She shifted the child, apparently trying to open her reticule for the christening fee, and William quickly offered to hold the infant for her.

Seeing William comfortably and naturally hold that child in his arms caused Abigail physical pain. Here was the woman he once loved and her fatherless child . . . Would he offer to fulfill that role in the child’s life? Would he marry Rebekah as he’d once wished to, and maybe still did?

Suddenly that seemed more probable than a union between him and Louisa. Despite her flirtation and his stammering admiration, her sister was unlikely to marry a poor curate. But Rebekah Garwood, a wealthy widow? The thought hurt to contemplate.

But
why should it?
she berated herself.
Gilbert wants to court
me, as I’ve long hoped. What is wrong with
me? Lord, tell me this is not a case of
only wanting what I cannot have. I am not such
a fool, surely.

Before the men arrived that afternoon, Abigail moved the dressing table herself, lifting first two legs, then the other two atop a thin rag rug. This allowed her to slide the dressing table over the wooden floor with relative ease—and quiet. She placed it on the other side of the fireplace, freeing up a space for the Chapmans to move the wardrobe into. Did she need to reveal why she wanted it moved? She hated to lie, especially to a clergyman, but could she trust his adolescent brother with her secret—whether successful or mortified?

She wasn’t sure.

At least she didn’t have to tell her family. Papa had taken Louisa and Mamma out for a drive to see the progress of the new wing at
Hunts Hall as well as its grounds, but Abigail had begged off. And Miles had ridden away that morning and had yet to return. She wondered again where he’d gone the night he said he was going to visit his sister. But whatever his destination, with him absent, the timing seemed perfect.

Polly knocked and popped her head in. “Mr. Chapman and his brother and sister are here to see you.”

“Oh? Which sister?” she asked.

“The younger girl—Kitty. I’ve showed them into the drawing room, miss.”

“Thank you, Polly.” Kitty coming along was a blessing in disguise. Otherwise, would the maid not have wondered why Abigail had invited two young men into her bedchamber? “And, Polly . . . ?” she called and waited until the maid turned back. “Don’t be surprised if we all come up here for a while. No doubt Kitty will want to amuse herself with the dolls’ house again, and Mr. Chapman and I can as easily discuss our business here and keep her company.”

“Oh . . .” A furrow appeared between the girl’s brow. “I see. As you like, miss. Shall I . . . ?”

“You go on and have a rest, Polly. Perhaps take some tea. I shall go down and greet the Chapmans myself.”

“Very good, miss. Thank you.”

When she had gone, Abigail checked her reflection in the mirror, then hurried downstairs to the drawing room.

William, standing at the window, turned when she entered. “Kitty heard where we were going and begged to come along,” he explained. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I imagine Kitty is eager to see the dolls’ house again. In fact, why do we not all go upstairs together.”

“We needn’t . . .” he began, then stopped. After studying her face for a moment, he said, “If you wish.”

“I hope you didn’t ask me here to play with a dolls’ house, Miss Foster,” red-haired Jacob said. “If the other chaps found out, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Don’t worry, Jacob. I have something else in mind for you. But
when you see what it is, you might wish for something as easy as rearranging dolls’ furniture.”

She led the way upstairs, feeling unaccountably nervous. Would they tell their father? Mac might be angry to learn she had disrupted rooms he saw as a sort of shrine to Robert Pembrooke and his family. Would they all laugh at her gullibility in believing tales of a secret room and treasure?
But it isn’t just a story,
she reminded herself.
Harriet Pembrooke has been inside the secret room
. And perhaps Mac has as well.

She opened her bedchamber door for them, and Kitty eagerly entered first, pulling Jacob along by the sleeve behind her. “Come and see, Jacob. You’ll be impressed. Even if you are a boy.”

William hesitated just inside the doorway, his eyebrows arched question marks.

Abigail glanced back into the corridor to make sure they were alone, then said, “Please don’t scoff. But I would like you and Jacob to move the wardrobe to that wall there.”

He lifted a shrug, his lower lip puckering. “No problem. Doing a little . . . redecorating?” His eyes glinted with interest.

“Something like that,” she replied vaguely.

He regarded the large piece of furniture, then looked back at her. “That is a two-man job. I see why you asked me to bring Jacob along.”

Relieved he did not press her for reasons, she added quietly, “Do you think you can manage it?”

He looked at her in mock offense. “You injure my male pride, Miss Foster. We Chapmans are a strong lot.”

“I know you are. That is why I asked you.”

“Is it?”

She looked down, then up at him again. “Not the only reason. But may I tell you the rest later”—she leaned closer and lowered her voice—“when we are alone?”

Something sparked in his eyes at her intimate tone. He lowered his own voice and replied, “I shall look forward to it.”

Perhaps he wasn’t enamored with Louisa—or Rebekah Garwood—after all.

He crossed the room and gestured to his brother. “Jacob, Miss Foster would like us to move this wardrobe to that wall there. Doing a little rearranging. It’s what females do. Come on, show off your muscles. . . .”

Abigail quietly closed the bedchamber door behind her.

But after they had moved the wardrobe, nothing about the exposed wall looked either suspicious or promising. A coating of grey dust clung to it where the wardrobe had stood, out of reach of the housemaid’s duster. But otherwise, it looked like any other wall in the room. No inset door panel, no cutout opening, no “X marks the spot.”

Disappointment sank deep. But she pasted on a false smile and thanked the Chapmans warmly. “I knew you two strong men were the very ones to ask. Now if you wouldn’t mind not mentioning it? I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I am making myself too much at home here or . . . anything else either.”

William’s eyes searched hers, but he didn’t pry.

Jacob shrugged and said, “Where’s this cake I was promised?”

“Jacob . . .” William gently reprimanded.

“No, no,” Abigail soothed. “Jacob is quite right. I promised cake, and cake you shall have. Mrs. Walsh didn’t allow me to help her bake it, but she did allow me to ice it. My first time, so be kind.”