The Secret of Pembrooke Park(111)
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.