The Secret of Pembrooke Park(119)

“But Mac won’t tell me, will he?”

Again Leah shrugged. “Probably not.” She gazed toward the ceiling, apparently gathering her thoughts, then began, “My father was away in Town. With Mamma passed away, he’d decided to sell the London house, and took several servants along to help him pack up the place. He’d planned to close up the manor here for a few weeks and had given the other servants time off. I was supposed to go with him, but at the last moment, I came down with a cold.

“Father sent Mac for the physician, who proclaimed me in no danger but said a quiet time at home would be wise. I begged Father to let me go with him, but since he had recently lost Mamma and the baby to illness, he insisted he would take no chances with my health and I would remain at home. I had outgrown a nurse, and my governess had only recently left us, so I was left in the care of our steward and housekeeper.

“My illness was God’s merciful providence, Pa . . . Mac declared later, for had I been with my father, I might have met with the same fate. The official report was that he had been killed by thieves, but by the time the authorities brought the news of his death, we already knew the truth.”

She paused for breath, then continued, “Mrs. Hayes’s sister had fallen ill, so Mac and I were alone in the manor—me in my bed, and him downstairs somewhere—when Father’s valet came home unexpectedly in the wee hours of the morning. . . .”

As Leah described the scene, it came to life in Abigail’s mind, like a play in a theatre.

The front door banged open like a gunshot. Hearing it, young Eleanor left her bed and crept out of her room, standing at the stair rail to see what the matter was. Her father’s valet crossed the hall below, his face ill-white, nearly green. His cravat and waistcoat were stained, his usually pristine boots muddied. Had he galloped all the way from Town?

From between the spindles she saw their steward rush into the hall, frowning thunderously. “Good heavens, Walter. What is the matter? Where is the master?”

“He’s coming!” Walter cried. “He’s coming!”

“Who’s coming—the master?”

“No! His brother. The master’s dead!” Walter’s voice cracked. “Here . . . read this. He wrote this before he . . .” The valet’s words trailed away. He handed over a note, and the steward read it.

Grim-faced, Mac tucked it inside an inner pocket. “I’ll gather her things directly.”

“No, there isn’t time. We mustn’t be here when he arrives. None of us. But especially her.”

“I just need a few minutes. . . .” Mac started up the stairs.

Not wishing to be found eavesdropping, Eleanor retreated into her bedchamber.

“Do what you must, but hurry!” the valet called after him.

Mac entered her bedchamber and knelt before her. “Your father is dead, lass,” he said. “I’m sorry—and sorry to say it so bluntly, but there’s no time to waste.”

Pain lanced her chest and tears filled her eyes. “Not Papa too.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Breathing hard, the valet scurried into the room, arms spread like a hen’s wings to shepherd her chicks to safety. “Hurry. Gather a few things and let’s go.”

But no sooner had Mac risen to his feet than the front door downstairs banged open once more.

The valet’s face stretched into a mask of terror. “No. He’s here.” He slowly backed from the room. “You hide her. I shall do what I can to distract him.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple convulsing up and down his long thin neck.

The steward nodded gravely. “You’re a good man, Walter.” Then Mac turned to her. “We need to hide, lass.”

“From whom?” she asked, eyes wide.

He grimaced. “Your uncle, I’m afraid. You are the last person to stand between him and Pembrooke Park. If he finds us, he will not hesitate to kill us both.”

Her heart lurched. Her family . . . all dead. Would she be next? She feared she would be sick. But she composed herself and lifted her chin, determined to behave as her parents would wish her to. Like the little lady of the manor her father declared her, after her mother passed on.

A voice she didn’t recognize called from downstairs. “Hello! Anybody home?” Eleanor shuddered. Was it really the uncle she had never met—a man who would not hesitate to kill her?

She knew of only one place to hide. But did her uncle know about it as well? He might, she feared, having grown up at Pembrooke Park.

Taking the steward’s large damp hand in her smaller one, she stepped to the wall and, pressing the invisible latch, opened the hidden door. Beside her, the man sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. She led him inside and closed the door most of the way behind them. They stood there together, listening at the crack. She smelled dust, sweat, and fear and hoped she would not sneeze and give away their hiding place. For a moment, the only sound she heard was Mac’s breathing in the darkness.

Through the narrow crack, she could see across her bedchamber and out into the corridor beyond, lit with wall sconces. But she didn’t see anyone.

Her uncle’s voice sounded again from downstairs. “Ah . . . there you are.”

“I didn’t see . . . anything, sir,” Walter said, his voice strained, its pitch higher than usual. She guessed he stood at the top of the stairs.