The Secret of Pembrooke Park(110)

Abigail frowned. “Did he say as much when he came to see you last night?”

Harriet’s thin eyebrows rose again. “Me? I have not seen Miles in a week or more.”

Abigail felt her brow furrow. “Well, apparently his plans changed. In any case, he’s told me quite emphatically that neither of you had any wish to claim Pembrooke Park or to live in it again.”

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.”





Chapter 24


Motivated 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?