The Secret of Pembrooke Park(120)

“I think you did,” the other man said, his voice low and menacing.

She heard a heavy tread mount the wooden stairs.

“Who have you told?” the man asked.

The valet’s voice rose in protest. “There is no one here, sir. No one to tell. What with the mistress and daughter passed on and the house all but closed up.”

“They’re all dead?”

“Yes. Died in the typhus epidemic last year.”

“How convenient. But then . . . upon what errand did you race, hell-bent, back here?” It sounded as if the man now stood with Walter at the top of the stairs.

“I . . .”

“What did my brother tell you to do—what was his last request? Tell me. If you value your life.”

Silence, followed by the echoing snap of a gun being cocked.

“Last chance . . .”

Panicked, Walter said, “He . . . he wanted us to . . . to hide his treasure.”

“Ah! And where is it?”

“Upon my life, sir, I do not know. He wasn’t able to tell me.”

“Unfortunately, I believe you.”

“No!” Walter screamed. An awful scream. Then came a sickening fwank of metal on bone. Then a thud, followed by a series of thuds, like a branch caught in the spokes of a wagon wheel: thum-thump-thum-thump. Walter falling down the stairs, she guessed. She wanted to run out and help—at the same time she wanted to hide forever. Mac grasped her hand, hard, likely feeling the same.

The heavy footsteps didn’t descend the stairs; instead they proceeded up the corridor. One door was thrown open across the gallery, then another, then the door to the room next to hers. She jumped at the sounds, louder and louder, nearer and nearer. With trembling fingers, she pulled the hidden door closed all the way, praying, God, please don’t let him know about this room. . . .

Would he really kill her? Kill them both? The man beside her obviously believed it. Fear, anger, disbelief gripped her—there was only one thing to do. Our Father in heaven, help us, she prayed. Deliver us from evil!

She had never been afraid of the dark, but she was afraid of being alone. And if she survived that night, that was exactly what she would be.

Leah sighed and sat down on the cushions on the floor.

The lights went out on the stage in Abigail’s mind, but she knew she would imagine the horrific scene for a long time to come.

Leah continued more lightly, “At all events, my uncle didn’t find us. After he left, we slipped back into my room. Mac gathered a few things and took me to Grandmamma’s cottage and hid me there until he could decide what to do. He met with the housekeeper. Apparently she and the other servants agreed to say I had died with my mother, to keep my identity secret from my uncle. To save me.”

She expelled a breath. “All my life, my adoptive parents have warned me over and over again to stay away from Pembrooke Park. Not to reveal my true name or identity to anyone. Not even to William. Even after Pembrooke Park was abandoned, I could not feel safe. After all, Papa would remind me, we never knew when my uncle or his offspring might return. . . .”

Leah shook her head. “William tells me that I must trust God will protect me eternally, even if not on this earth. But I have to say, it’s this earth I most worry about.” She managed a weak chuckle.

Abigail’s mind whirled with questions. She snatched one from the air and asked, “Where did ‘Leah’ come from?”

“Oh, who can say how family pet names evolve. . . .” Leah considered, then explained, “My father, my first father, called me Ellie—short for Eleanor. When I came to live with the Chapmans, little William took to calling me by the second syllable of Ellie: Lee, which became Leah.” She shrugged. “Papa thought it best for me to go by another name to help keep me hidden until the danger had passed. Papa . . . that is how I think of Mac now.”

“Understandable, after so many years.”

“Yes. Mac Chapman has filled the role of father far longer, and in many ways better, than Robert Pembrooke ever did, no matter how high a pedestal Papa insists on placing him on. Don’t misunderstand me, I loved my father and mother, and was devastated by their deaths. But my father, like many men, was often absent—gone to Town for business or pleasure, or off riding or hunting. I simply didn’t spend much time with him.

“Mac is the best of men, and has been an excellent father to me, if a bit overprotective. And in all truth, I don’t remember my first father very well.” She glanced again at the portrait. “And less so my mother. Though she and I were very close, she died about a year before my father. This is the first time I’ve seen her likeness in twenty years.”

“William mentioned he only recently found out, and I haven’t told a soul—don’t worry.”

She nodded. “William was so young when it all happened. Too young to be trusted with such an important secret. Mac and Kate made arrangements to send me away to school just before my uncle and his family took up residence in the house, to foster the ruse that Eleanor had died in the same epidemic that killed my mother.”

Abigail said, “But the grave in the churchyard has your name on it. . . .”

She nodded. “My infant sister died a few days before my mother. But headstones take a long time to quarry and carve. Especially that year, with so many dead in the epidemic and such a long list of headstones to prepare. . . .