The Secret of Pembrooke Park(117)

Again that waft of stale, musty air met Abigail’s nose. The door creaked open, reminding her of her dream. Seeing no skeleton, she released the breath she’d been holding.

“Good heavens . . .” Mr. Chapman murmured beside her.

She’d expected a completely dark room but was surprised to find a shaft of sunlight filtering in through a small window. She had thought the windows on the tower had been covered over, but here was one that had been left intact. Through the murky glass she could see why—the window looked out onto another exterior wall a few feet away and was therefore not visible from the ground—nothing to be noted by the window-tax man, or by someone searching for a secret room.

Stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind them, Abigail surveyed the square chamber. Thick pipes ran along one wall, draped in cobwebs. The other two walls held floor-to-waist-high shelves stacked with dusty boxes and crates and bundled papers. An old square of carpet covered the floor. No stairway, as in the sketch, but she hadn’t really expected one, as she’d never found formal plans for stairs in the former water tower.

In one corner, several framed portraits leaned against the wall. Turning, she saw another large portrait had been hung on the back of the door. Sunlight illuminated the image, and Abigail gasped.

Beside her William turned to see what had caught her attention and sucked in a breath as well.

The formal portrait was of a woman in attire from decades past, a ruby necklace at her throat. Her hair was golden brown, her eyes large and gentle, her face serene, lovely, and startlingly familiar.

It was the face of Leah Chapman.

“What in the world . . . ?” Abigail breathed.

“Merciful God . . .” William murmured beside her. “It’s Leah.”

She gaped at him. “How can that be? The painting has clearly been here for years. But yes”—she returned her gaze to the portrait—“the woman looks just like her.”

“It’s understandable,” he whispered. “It’s her mother.”

Again she turned to gape at him. “What?”

He nodded, his eyes full of awe and riveted to the portrait. “That’s Elizabeth Pembrooke—Leah’s real mother.”

Abigail stared at him. Her mind was too busy to form a reply, whirling with impressions and snippets of things Mac and William and even Leah herself had told her in passing about Robert Pembrooke and his family, supposedly all now deceased.

She thought of the portrait of Robert Pembrooke in the mistress’s bedchamber. This was definitely its mate, painted at the same general time period, in the same style, and likely by the same artist. Had it been hidden away by Robert Pembrooke as a painful reminder of his losses, or by someone after his death?

She thought of the graves in the churchyard, recalled seeing flowers on the one marked Eleanor Pembrooke, Beloved Daughter. And in one of the old journal pages she’d sent, Harriet had mentioned putting flowers on Eleanor’s grave. “But . . . you all told me Robert Pembrooke’s daughter was dead.”

“I believed she was. I was too young to be fully aware of all that happened in those days following Robert Pembrooke’s death. I only recently found out the truth about Leah myself.”

“But . . . Why? How?”

“Before I say anything more, I must ask you to keep this to yourself for now. As much as I loathe the deception, it is not my right to reveal the truth to the world. Especially not until we can be perfectly certain all danger to her is past.”

Suddenly from somewhere nearby came the sound of a slamming door. Abigail jumped and grabbed William’s arm. William quickly lay a calming hand on her shoulder. “Shh . . .”

Then came the even nearer sound of someone knocking on her bedchamber door. Her gaze flew to William’s. What should they do? Should they remain hidden inside? Abigail was tempted to do just that, but what if Miles or Duncan or whoever it was came inside and searched the room? She hated the thought of the two of them being caught like cornered rats. But neither did she want to open her bedchamber door while William Chapman was there in plain sight.

“You stay here,” she whispered. “I’ll see who it is.”

He nodded, and she slipped from the secret room, carefully closing the door behind her.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room, pressing damp palms to her skirt. She moved aside the stool, put on a smile, and opened the door.

Miles Pembrooke stood there in his riding clothes. Gloves and stick in hand.

“I thought you left for your ride,” she said. “You’re back early.”

“I spied dark clouds on the horizon and suspected a storm brewing. So I hurried home.”

Abigail glanced out her window at the clear day, a gentle breeze swaying the tree branches and sunshine shimmering through the leaves. “Looks very pleasant to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Miss Foster. In fact, I thought I saw Mr. Chapman walking over as I rode out . . .” His gaze swept the room over her shoulder. “He is not with you?”

She glanced around her bedchamber. “Just me, as you see. Though he was here earlier.”

“Ah. I am sorry to have missed him.”

“Are you? I am sure he will be happy to receive you if you stop by the parsonage later. Though he did mention he’d be away on appointments most of the day.” Appointments! For which he was likely already late. . . . She had to get rid of Miles Pembrooke and sneak Mr. Chapman out of the house without anyone noticing.