The Secret of Pembrooke Park(103)

“The next day I came again . . . and so did she. She said I should call her Jane. I gather she assumed that I would have nothing to do with her if I knew she was indeed Harriet Pembrooke.”

Abigail said, “But you told me you didn’t know her—”

“No. I told you I’d never officially met Harriet Pembrooke, and I did not. But I spent many a fond hour with a girl named Jane. I never told her my real name either. For I did not want word to get back to Papa that I had spent time with Clive Pembrooke’s daughter when he had forbidden me to do so.”

“Do you think she knew who you really were?”

“Who I really was? No, I don’t believe she did.”

Abigail shook her head in secret wonder. She had found the village girl. Now, where was “Jane”?

Leah continued, “Later we began leaving secret notes to each other behind a loose brick in that wall there.” She pointed to the spot. A curious light came on in Leah’s eyes, and she walked toward the wall.

Abigail’s stomach clenched in alarm. Her pulse began to pound. How would Leah react to finding Abigail’s letter to “Jane” there? Would she be unhappy to learn Abigail already knew of her from another source, and feel betrayed?

Abigail blurted, “I don’t think you ought . . . Let me first tell you, that I—”

Leah bent and pulled the brick from its place, revealing the hiding place of Abigail’s letter.

But the letter was gone.

Leah replaced the brick. “It was silly to think . . . But still. For old times’ sake.”

Abigail released the breath she’d been holding. Her heart continued to beat fast, however, though now for a different reason.

Before they parted ways, Abigail said, “I am planning to watch the workmen break ground at Hunts Hall the day after tomorrow. Will you go with me?”

Leah gave her a shrewd look. “Trying to play matchmaker again, Abigail?”

“Guilty,” Abigail apologized, but she was unable to stop the smile from widening across her face to hear Leah Chapman call her by her given name.





Chapter 22


The next day, Abigail returned alone to the hidden spot in the garden. All seemed undisturbed as before. But then she sucked in a breath. That glass bottle, sitting on a plank, held a single black-eyed Susan. Her heart began to pound, and she stepped to the garden wall. Hands damp within her gloves, she removed the brick, hoping to find a letter of reply. Instead, the space remained empty. Her heart fell. Foolish girl.

She heard a footstep and whirled. There stood the veiled woman at the corner of the potting shed. Abigail’s pulse raced. Was this Harriet Pembrooke at last?

The woman reached up gloved hands and slowly lifted her veil, revealing not a stranger’s face but the face of Mrs. Webb, Andrew Morgan’s widowed aunt.

Abigail pressed a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”

One thin eyebrow arched. “Not who you were expecting?”

“No.”

The woman frowned. “Well, you are not who I was expecting either, so we’re even on that score. Though it did cross my mind that you might have written the note. After all, I had sent you several unsigned letters, and turnabout is fair play.”

Abigail sputtered, “You wrote the letters?”

“Yes. Who were you expecting . . . Jane?”

“I was expecting Harriet Pembrooke.”

“And here I am, in the flesh.” Mrs. Webb spread her hands, an ironic quirk to her thin lips. “I thought you, being the clever girl you are, would have figured that out long ago. And no doubt you can guess who I was expecting—or at least, hoping—to find here.”

Abigail nodded. “I am sorry to disappoint you. I haven’t told her about the letters you have written to me. Or this meeting. I wanted to meet you first myself.” Confusion pinched Abigail’s thoughts. “But I still don’t understand. Someone would have mentioned if your maiden name had been Pembrooke.”

Harriet glanced back toward the house and began, “When we left here, my mother thought it wisest not to use the Pembrooke name. She feared Father would pursue us to the ends of the earth. So she reverted to using her very common maiden name of Thomas, and I followed suit.”

She gestured toward the walled garden. “Come. Let’s take a turn.”

The two women strolled through the relative privacy of the secluded garden, Abigail not really seeing any of the flowers they passed, her mind whirling with thoughts and questions.

Harriet continued, “When I was twenty, I married Nicholas Webb and was quite happy to leave all ties to Pembrooke buried in the past.”

She regarded Abigail. “That is the unsung benefit of marriage, Miss Foster. It gives you a new name, a fresh start in life, a way to leave behind the person you once were.”

“I hope your marriage gave you more than that.”

Again that thin dark brow rose. “Do you mean love? No. But I didn’t expect love. I did receive a new identity, however. People no longer know me as Harriet Pembrooke. No longer judge me by what I did or what my father did. That Harriet is gone. Thank God and thank Mr. Webb. No one sees me and thinks of that desperate, clutching, awkward girl. The daughter of a murderer. Except for Miles.”

She shrugged. “And though Nicholas was much older than I, he was good to me. He gave me financial security, the means to leave Pembrooke Park behind forever. It was finished, or so I thought.” She exhaled a heavy sigh. “You would think I would be happy with that.”