The Secret of Pembrooke Park(121)
“Mac allowed people to believe the infant had been buried in the same casket with my mother, as was often done in the case of newborns. Mamma—Kate—argued against it, I recall, but Papa insisted on having the headstone carved with my name. We could always replace it, he said. Rectify the mistake if and when the danger was passed and I could reclaim my rightful name and rightful place as Robert Pembrooke’s daughter and heir.”
Abigail shook her head. “How you must have detested our coming and moving in to your home. . . .”
“Not at all! You mistake me, Abigail. It has saddened me to see my family home sitting empty and slowly decaying all these years, despite Papa’s efforts to keep the roof sound and vandals away. I am glad you are here. And I am glad you’ve lifted the lid on this long stewing pot. It was only a matter of time before it all boiled over, or scorched and burned. . . .”
She shook her head as though to dispel the notion. “I have been content with my lot, Abigail. Truly. There are times I wish I might lighten Mamma’s load or see the Chapmans living here in Pembrooke Park in style and ease, compared to that crowded old cottage. But they would never want to live here. And I’m not certain I would either, even if it were mine free and clear and safe. Don’t feel sorry for me, I beg of you. I don’t.” She smiled bravely, charming dimples framing her gentle mouth. “Well, not often, at any rate.”
“But surely some people knew, or guessed, who you really were?”
“Of course. After all, Mac and Kate Chapman had announced the birth of their firstborn son four years before. But when I returned from school after a year away, they told anyone who asked that I was an orphan of relatives in the north that they were raising as their own. William grew up believing that story, more or less. I don’t think he was ever lied to directly—though many lies of omission, yes. Papa felt no remorse about lying to outsiders, though. He would have done anything to protect me. Some of our neighbors knew or recognized me as a Pembrooke. But with the man we all believed guilty of killing my father living right here in Pembrooke Park—all were willing to keep our secret, apparently.
“How Mac worried over the years, coddling this neighbor or that with loose lips or a tendency to drink too much, or growing old and forgetful. . . . But, thankfully, his worst fears have never come to pass. At least . . . so far.”
Abigail thought of Mrs. Hayes. Did this explain Mac’s visits and gifts?
Leah glanced at the hidden door behind them. “Papa won’t be happy when he hears you know about me. But William and I agree we must tell him. He has every right to know.”
Abigail nodded, a tremor of dread pinching her gut at the thought of Mac’s anger.
“William has ridden to Hunts Hall to tell him, if he can find him around the estate. I think I shall wait to look through the rest of these things until he’s with me. Or at least, until he knows that I’m in here with you.” Leah expelled a breath of amazement at the thought.
“I understand.” Abigail led the way back into the bedchamber, carefully closing the hidden door behind them. She looked around the room with new eyes. “How strange to think this is your room . . .”
“Was my room. Twenty years ago.”
“That’s why you cried—when you watched Kitty play with the dolls’ house. It’s yours.”
“I don’t know why I cried, exactly.”
Abigail shook her head in bemusement and said gently, “You have many valid reasons to choose from.”
“Perhaps. But I choose not to dwell on them. Now, would you mind terribly if I returned later, after I have talked to Papa?”
“Not at all. You are welcome any time. More than welcome. This is your home. Your room.”
“Shh . . . Enough of that.”
“Very well. For now.” Abigail went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. “But in the meantime, you might wish to read these.” She handed Leah the ribbon-tied bundle of letters and journal pages she’d received from Harriet Pembrooke.
Leah glanced at them, saw Abigail’s own name written on the letters, and lifted questioning eyes to her face.
“Your friend ‘Jane’ has been writing to me these many weeks. And I think she’d want you to see them.”
Early the next morning, Duncan knocked on her door and announced that Miss Chapman had come to call. Opening the door a crack, Abigail asked the manservant to send up her guest, as she was not yet fully dressed.
A few minutes later, she opened the door for Leah and shut it softly behind her. “I thought Mac would be coming with you.”
“He is. He’ll be here any moment, I imagine. He let himself in through the servants’ entrance but insisted I go to the front door as a proper lady. He’s probably helping himself to one of Mrs. Walsh’s sausages as we speak.”
“I thought you might return last night.”
“We considered it. But he thought it would be more difficult to explain to your family.”
“Ah.”
“I hope we’re not too early.”
“No. Just give me one minute . . .”
Abigail sat at the dressing table and began gathering her long hair. She had shooed Polly away earlier, saying she would take care of her own hair that morning. In case the Chapmans made an early morning call, she wanted to be alone as soon as possible. Now she hurriedly twisted the hair into a coil atop her head. Holding it in place with one hand, she reached for the pins with the other.