The Secret of Pembrooke Park(122)

Leah came and stood behind her. “Let me help you.”

Leah picked up the pins and made quick work of securing Abigail’s hair.

A soft scratching at the door alerted them, and Leah walked over and opened it, gesturing for Mac to enter. She returned to the dressing table and pushed in the last pin.

His voice low and regretful, Mac said, “You were meant to be a lady, my dear, not a lady’s maid.”

“Papa . . . I offered to help. And how many times have I told you I don’t mind a little work.”

Abigail rose, ran a self-conscious hand over her hair, and forced herself to meet Mac’s gaze. She was relieved not to see anger there, only caution and concern.

“How many of Mrs. Walsh’s sausages did you eat?” Leah asked him wryly.

“Only two.”

“Ah. Cutting back, I see.”

“I told her Miss Foster mentioned having trouble with her door and I’d said I’d take a look at it. I ran into Duncan on the way up and told him the same.”

Abigail nodded. “Good thinking.”

She hoped Duncan wouldn’t become suspicious with all these visitors to her room, as Miles had.

This time, Abigail locked her bedchamber door and then gestured for the two of them to enter the secret room whenever they were ready. They left the door partway open for her, but she hung back, not wanting to intrude on their private moment, yet undeniably curious.

For several moments a heavy silence hung in the air of the secret room. Then she heard Mac’s voice, throaty and rough, “You look so much like her. Much more so now than when I hung this here. Turns out I was right to do so.”

Abigail stood just to the side of the door, watching the scene through the opening, knowing she probably shouldn’t but unable to look away.

Leah asked, “You took it down from Father’s room and hung it here?”

Mac nodded. “I feared the resemblance would eventually give you away.”

“It’s good to see her again.”

He glanced at Leah. “I’m sorry the painting’s been kept from you. Sorry so many things rightfully yours have been kept from you. I hope you know everything I did, I did to protect you.”

“I do know, Papa.” She pressed his hand.

Reassured, Mac looked again at the painting. “I didn’t know if Clive had been acquainted with Elizabeth Pembrooke. The brothers had been estranged for years, but I feared if he’d met her, he would remember, being as beautiful as she was. It was the main reason we sent you to school for that year. To give time for his memory to fade. His and our neighbors’ as well.”

The words were out of Abigail’s mouth before she could stop them. “It was a courageous thing to do—to hide Robert Pembrooke’s daughter right under his brother’s nose.”

Mac opened the door wider. “Courageous? To hide?” He shook his head, lip curled. “I don’t think so. And I can’t take credit for the idea. I never would have presumed to remove her from the house, to send her away, and then to raise her as my own in our wee cottage, had Robert Pembrooke not asked it of me.”

Abigail felt her brow furrow and joined them inside. “What do you mean?”

Mac turned to one of the shelves. “I left it hidden here. The note he sent with his valet. God rest their souls. . . .”

He picked up a cigar tin from the lowest shelf, blew the dust off the cover, and carried it to the window ledge. There he opened the lid and from the bottom of a stack of invoices and receipts pulled forth a small notebook entitled Household Accounts. “I folded it within this, knowing it would not appeal to a man like Clive Pembrooke, even if he ever found this room.”

From within the account book, he extracted a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Leah. “Written by your father, right before he died.”

Hands trembling, Leah read the letter, her eyes filling with tears as she did so. Then she handed it to Abigail to read.

Abigail hesitated. “Are you certain?”

Leah nodded, and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve.

Abigail read the note written in a hurried, erratic hand. And guessed the dark brown stain on one corner might be Robert Pembrooke’s own blood.

Mac,

Protect Eleanor or he will kill her.

Let him have the house, anything he wants,

but hide my treasure.

—R. Pembrooke

Ellie,

I love you more than life. Never forget.

—Papa

“How I wished that Mr. Pembrooke had identified his attacker,” Mac said. “Given me something I could take to the magistrates to use against Clive. Solid evidence. But considering he was near death, it’s a miracle he was able to write this much. And a testament of his love for you, my dear, that you were foremost in his mind. His last, most precious, thought.”

Mac looked at Abigail. “Leah told you about that night . . . ?”

Abigail nodded solemnly.

Leah explained, “Only up until the part where Uncle Pembrooke left and you took me to Grandmamma’s cottage.”

He nodded thoughtfully and filled in some of the details. “Eventually, we heard the front door slam closed, and for a time, all was quiet. Assuming Clive had fled the scene of the crime, I tiptoed back through Ellie’s room and went down to check on poor Walter, but as I feared, he was dead. I took advantage of the empty house, gathered a few things for Ellie, and then left the manor, taking her to my mother-in-law’s cottage. Thinking she would be safer there than in my own, in case Clive came looking.