The Secret of Pembrooke Park(113)

“I believe so, yes.”

“Will you excuse me?” He rose. “That is, if you don’t need my help with anything else?”

“Of course. You’re all through.”

He turned to his brother. “I promised Fred and Colin I’d join them for a match at four.” Jacob looked back at Abigail. “William was the best football player in the county before he went and became a parson.”

William demurred, “I don’t know about that.”

“You were,” Kitty insisted, then set down her fork as well. “May I go along?”

Jacob scowled. “Only if you promise not to go all moony over Colin. We all know you like him.”

Kitty shrugged. “So?”

William nodded. “Very well, but behave yourselves. Jacob, look out for your sister. And be home by five.”

Jacob grabbed his cap from the sideboard and let himself from the room. Kitty thanked Abigail politely and dashed after her brother. A moment later the large front door banged shut in the distance.

William set down his cup and saucer and looked at her expectantly.

Abigail sipped her tea and avoided his eyes.

“Well? You do trust me, I hope, Miss Foster?”

“I do, but . . . now I feel so foolish.” She glanced toward the door and, seeing no one about, said, “I studied the old plans, and had reason to think the secret room might lie behind that wardrobe.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” he said gently. “I am sorry, Miss Foster. Life is full of disappointments sometimes.” He looked as if he knew that fact from firsthand experience.

“Miss Foster, I—”

Suddenly Miles Pembrooke appeared in the open doorway, his eyes darting around the room. He looked expectantly from one to the other, his smile faltering somewhat on finding the two of them alone together. “Hello.”

“Hello, Miles.” Abigail smiled brightly, hoping to dispel the awkward moment. “You have just missed Kitty and Jacob Chapman. They left only moments ago. Do come in and join us for cake.”

Miles set aside his hat and gloves and approached the tea table. “And where is the rest of your good family?”

“Gone for a drive. Father wanted to show Mamma and Louisa the progress at Hunts Hall and its grounds, which I have already seen.”

“Ah. I see. What lucky timing then that Mr. Chapman should call when you were otherwise alone, and keep you company.”

“Yes. And what have you been up to today, if I may ask?”

His eyes glinted. “I shall tell if you do.”

Beside her William stiffened.

Choosing to ignore the implication of impropriety, Abigail prompted, “Have a good ride?”

“Yes, I went to pay another call on our former housekeeper.”

Ah! Is that whom Miles had visited instead of his sister? Abigail said, “That must have been pleasant.”

“Yes. It was very . . . interesting. Mrs. Hayes said it would be ‘poetic justice’ if I married my cousin.” Miles gave her a sly smile. “I wonder what she meant, cousin dear?”

Or whom, Abigail mused, thinking of Eliza. Glancing at William, she saw his jaw clench and quickly said, “You mustn’t take anything Mrs. Hayes says to heart, Mr. Pembrooke. I am afraid her mind isn’t what it once was.”

Miles nodded. “Ah. Well. Happens to the best of us.”

William rose. “Thank you for tea and the delicious cake, Miss Foster. Lovely icing. Perhaps we might talk about this further another time?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Talk about what, pray?” Miles asked. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Not at all, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “I was just leaving.”



At dinner that night, Abigail listened distractedly while her mother and sister told her everything they had seen and everyone they had met during their afternoon drive and tour of Hunts Hall. Afterward, Abigail took herself to bed early, while the rest of her family lingered over coffee in the drawing room. Polly helped her undress, and when she went to return Abigail’s pelisse to the closet, suddenly drew up short at the sight of the relocated wardrobe.

“When did you go and do that?” she asked, brow puckered.

“This afternoon. Just wanted to try a different arrangement. The Chapman brothers helped me while Kitty played with the dolls’ house. I’ll move it back before we leave.”

“Don’t fret. You can move the furniture where you like. It’s your house now—for the time being anyway. Come tomorrow, I shall give the floor and wall there a good cleaning. Likely hasn’t seen the light of day—or a mop—in years.”

“Thank you, Polly. But I can do it. I don’t want to cause you more work.”

“No bother. Now, anything else before I go?”

“No, thank you. That’s all.”

“You’re turning in early tonight. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes. Fine. A little tired is all.”

Polly closed the shutters and turned to go. “See you in the morning, then, miss.”

“Good night.” After Polly had gone, Abigail lay in bed, listening to her retreating footfalls and staring across the room at the newly exposed wall. The very ordinary-looking wall.