The Secret of Pembrooke Park(112)

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.”

They returned to the drawing room, where tea and a somewhat streaky-looking iced cake were waiting. Fortunately, it tasted much better than it looked.

Jacob forked down large bites, as if sending pitchforks full of hay into a barn. Then he looked up at the long-case clock. “Is that the right time?”