The Secret of Pembrooke Park(104)

“But you’re not,” Abigail said gently. It was not a question. The answer was clear on the woman’s long pale face.

She shook her head. “Nicholas died and I felt lost, untethered. My identity shaken all over again. I began having nightmares of the old days. Of my years here. Guilt over what my father did . . .”

Again, she looked at the old house over her shoulder and shuddered. “I cannot find peace. I thought, if only I could somehow make restitution for my father’s wrongdoing. Pay the price somehow—as he never did, at least as far as I know. Otherwise, I fear I shall be held accountable, pay for ‘the sins of the father’ because I’ve never confessed what I knew, because I kept his secret all these years. Oh, there were rumors. Suspicions. But they never amounted to more than that. We were all too afraid to say a word.”

“So, he did . . . kill . . . Robert Pembrooke?” Abigail hesitated to say the words to his distraught daughter.

“Of course he did.” Her eyes flashed. “Don’t tell me you are surprised or I shall think I misplaced my trust in you. And my journal as well.”

“I didn’t wish to believe the rumors. To . . . presume.”

“Why not? Everyone else did, and rightly so. And no matter what Miles might have told you, neither he nor I have any right to the estate. Not after that. I always thought—or at least wished—there might be a more deserving relative to give the place to.

“Once I found the family Bible, I thought perhaps that rumor had been true as well. But I failed to find any close relations of Robert Pembrooke, so I sought out more distant relatives—and found your father. I also wanted to see the house occupied for another reason. I thought it would lessen the temptation for Miles. I know he told you he only wanted to see the old place again. He told me the same. I hoped rather than believed him sincere. Tell me honestly, has he been searching the house?”

“Yes.”

Harriet winced. “It is as I feared. And the parsonage?”

Abigail stared. “The parsonage? What has he to do with that?” The air left her. “Oh . . .”

“I hope I am wrong,” Harriet said grimly. She pulled a sealed letter from her reticule. “I was going to post this when I returned to Bristol, but I suppose there is no more need for anonymous letters. Still, you might as well read this one.”

She held forth the letter, and Abigail reached for it. For a moment, both women held the sealed paper.

Abigail said, “May I ask . . . why did you begin writing to me in the first place?”

Harriet shrugged and said coolly, “Why does anyone write anything? To make known and to be known. It was time to open the door, to let all the dark secrets escape into the light at last.” She turned and walked away.

Abigail called after her. “But what about the secret room? Won’t you tell me where it is?”

Harriet turned back. “Now, what would be the joy of that? You’re a clever girl. You’ll find it so much more satisfying, dare I say rewarding, when you find it on your own.”

Abigail thought about following after her to argue the matter, but curiosity about this latest—and perhaps last—letter kept her where she was. She unsealed it, unfolded it, and read.

Have you noticed the black stain up the kitchen wall in the dolls’ house? Perhaps you thought it intentional, painted that way purposely by the builder, an effect for realism’s sake. But no.

I came into my bedchamber one afternoon to find smoke hanging heavy in the air over the dolls’ house. I shrieked, as you can imagine, and ran to it, stunned to find a very real fire burning in the miniature kitchen hearth. I knew right away who’d done it and confronted him as soon as I’d put it out with water from my washing stand. He said he only did it to see if the chimney actually worked. But I knew better. He did it to be cruel. To be like Father.

Mother took him to task over it, but in her presence he denied it, blaming his brother. And she believed the favored boy’s weeping protestations of innocence. So Harold took the blame, as usual, earning a wallop and an early bedtime without supper. I shudder to think what would have befallen him had Father been home. He was away in London at the time. At some gentlemen’s club that had accepted him as a member based on the Pembrooke name. I don’t know if he would have laughed it off, or beat Harold. We could never be sure how he would react.

Considering the light penalty, I abandoned the argument when I realized Mother had made up her mind. But perhaps I shouldn’t have. Miles has learnt to get away with things, to manipulate his way out of consequences for most of his life. Only once did he experience our father’s full wrath. And I admit, I never did. He never once struck me. And I feel guilty for that as well. To have suffered so little, when everyone else in my family suffered so much.

Shaking off a chill at the words, Abigail folded the letter and left the garden. Did a boyish act of mischief—dangerous though it was—mean Miles had anything to do with the parsonage fire? Unlikely. Even so, Abigail thought she might stop by the parsonage and talk to Mr. Chapman.

But as she rounded the corner of the manor house, she saw that very man standing near Louisa in the churchyard, talking earnestly. Heart sinking, Abigail halted on the drive, but her foot scuffed a stone and sent it skittering across the gravel.

He looked up at the sound and stopped speaking midsentence, his fair face reddening. Abigail’s stomach clenched, and she turned toward the house in retreat.