The Secret of Pembrooke Park(116)
She blew out her candle and settled in, darkness and weariness descending quickly. She would fall asleep any second, she was sure. But then she heard something.
The house made many sounds and groans, but this was one she had not heard before. A low moaning creeeeak . . . Her gaze flew to the hidden door and her heart thumped painfully hard. The door was opening. . . .
She stared, unable to move, unable even to cry out. A ghostly white hand appeared, gripping the edge. The door inched open, creak by creak, and there in the cavernous black cave beyond stood a man in a long hooded cape, his face shadowed and invisible.
Her mouth fell open, in a silent scream.
Then he stepped forward and a shaft of moonlight revealed what lay beneath that hood. A skull with sightless eyes.
“Huhhhn . . . !” She awoke with a start, gasping and eyes flying wide. Scrambling, she sat up, retreating back against her headboard, staring wildly at the crypt-like door, only to see the feminine rosebud-papered wall. Quiet. Undisturbed. Modest in its newly exposed state.
With a heavy sigh of relief and disgust at herself, she slumped back against her pillows. But it was quite some time before sleep claimed her once again.
Chapter 25
In the morning Abigail awoke, for a moment forgetting. Then her eyes fell on the newly bared wall, and her heart thumped in anticipation. She eagerly climbed from bed, opened her own shutters, and began washing for the day.
Polly came in to help her dress, her face oddly alight. “Thought you should know, miss. The parson is in the morning room, waiting to see you. He told me not to disturb you until you were quite ready to come down—didn’t want to rush you.” She shook her head. “Never known a gentleman to call so early.”
Abigail’s pulse rate accelerated. He was there already? Had he read her mind? “I’m glad you told me. Here, let’s do the rose day dress instead. Far fewer fastenings.”
“Very well, miss. Though he did say not to hurry.”
“That’s all right. I hate to keep the parson waiting.”
“And your hair, miss?”
She was tempted to leave it down, recalling his fingers touching her hair that first night in the sickroom, but she blinked away the memory. “Just a simple coil, if you please.”
As soon as she was ready, Abigail hurried downstairs, slowing her steps as she neared the morning room. When she entered, he looked up from a newspaper and stood, setting the paper aside.
“Good morning, Mr. Chapman. I hope you have not been waiting long.”
“Not at all. Please forgive the early hour of my call. I have a full day of appointments and commitments ahead of me, so this was the only time I could stop by. I am afraid my curiosity has been nipping at me all night. I keep thinking we may have missed something. I slept very poorly, I don’t mind telling you.”
“As did I.” She lowered her voice. “I dreamt the door opened and someone came out. A . . . skeleton.” She shivered.
“Door?” His eyebrows rose.
She looked behind her, then stepped nearer. “Yes. I found a seam along the trim and a spring latch before I went to bed.”
His eyes widened. “Have you been inside?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t even looked inside yet. I kept getting interrupted, and then I lost my courage. And I . . . didn’t really want to go in alone.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, and for a moment neither said anything. Then she looked over her shoulder into the empty hall. “None of my family are up and about yet.”
He added helpfully, “I saw Mr. Pembrooke from the parsonage window, leaving on his morning ride.”
She pulled a face. “Too bad we don’t have Kitty here as an excuse.”
He nodded. “Or as chaperone.”
“So . . . it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to come upstairs with me now.”
Again he nodded. “You are quite right.”
He looked so solemn, so parson-like, that she felt a grin quiver on her lips. Seeing it, his eyes sparkled, and an answering grin lifted his mouth.
Two minutes later, Abigail led the way upstairs and across the gallery on tiptoe. William Chapman followed behind, all stealth. A bubble of mirth tickled her stomach. They were like two naughty children, sneaking around on some mischievous errand. She thought briefly of Gilbert and their childhood together and felt a pang of guilt.
She quickly shook it off, picked up the candle lamp still burning in the dim corridor, and let him into her room, quietly shutting the door behind them.
She trusted William Chapman fully. And so, she believed, did her father. But that didn’t mean he would approve of finding the two of them alone in her bedchamber. And to lock her door when a man was with her? She could not bring herself to do it. Instead she lugged her dressing stool in front of her door. It would at least give them a little warning if someone entered.
Crossing the room, Abigail’s heart beat a little too fast, but she didn’t feel nearly as anxious as she had the night before, about to open the hidden door for the first time by herself. William’s presence was comforting. Even if he had disappointed her with his reaction to Louisa, she was glad he was with her at this moment.
She handed him the candle lamp and placed her hand on the seam. Glancing at William for reassurance, she took a deep breath and pushed the same spot along the trim, triggering the spring latch.