The Secret of Pembrooke Park(131)

“Come on now. I’ve lain here too long as it is. Damp through from lying on the ground.”

“Oh, very well.” William half pulled, half levered him to his feet and maneuvered his arm around his shoulder. His father bit his lip to stifle a cry, his fair complexion paling all the more.

“Lean on me, Papa.”

Mac managed a terse nod, and William noticed the sweat breaking out on his forehead and his rigid countenance. The pain was evidently bad indeed. William tried to be gentle as he helped him across the stream, bearing as much of the man’s weight as he could, apologizing when he stumbled over a rock.

“There.” William nodded toward the mound of dirt. A bony hand protruded from one end and a leg bone from the other.

“Let me down here. I’ll rest a minute,” Mac said, panting.

William complied, and his father sat on a fallen log.

“No wonder the dog returned,” William said. “Poor soul, whoever it is. We shall have to see that he gets a decent burial.”

Mac solemnly nodded, but then his eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his sitting position, focusing on something. Suddenly heedless of his pain or injuries, he lurched forward into a crouch and crawled the few feet between him and the skeleton.

“Look at this. . . .” Mac brushed away leaves and pine needles from the area around the hand. “What do you see?” he asked, his voice hushed in breathless anticipation, as though afraid to believe his eyes.

William crouched beside his father, looking to see what had captured his attention.

“Good heavens,” he breathed.

For the skeletal hand held a rusted pistol.

“And this . . .” Mac picked up a stick and pried up the finger bones.

“Papa, I don’t think you should touch it.”

“Look. Do you not see what this is? Tell me I am not imagining it, that I am not crazy.”

William looked at the finger bones. “It’s a ring.”

“Yes. By God, it is. And not just any ring. This is Robert Pembrooke’s signet ring. Do you know what this means?”

Before William could fashion a reply, his father looked up at him, eyes glinting. “It means we’ve finally found Clive Pembrooke.”

As darkness fell, William managed to get his father up on his horse for the slow, painful ride home. Brutus bounded alongside, with Toby tethered behind, less willing to leave the ravine.

Hours later, after Mr. Brown had treated and bound Mac’s injuries and reassured the family, William sat alone at his father’s bedside.

“You did it, lad. You found Clive Pembrooke, when no one else could. Can you imagine?” Mac slowly shook his head. “All these years, right there in Snake Ravine. While we worried he’d return any day.”

William bit back the urge to say “Didn’t I tell you so?” That after all this time, it was foolish to live in fear, to keep Leah living in its shadow. But he asked God to help him control his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to gloat over being right.

“Ask your sister to join us. No, wait.” His father chewed his lip, eyes troubled. “She may resent me. Forcing her to keep her identity secret all this time, while her house, her inheritance, her future prospects deteriorated more and more each day. But I did it for her good. Her safety.”

William sighed. “I know you did, Papa. And Leah knows it too.”

“To think—there all along. All the wasted years . . .”

“Will you tell Miles Pembrooke?”

Mac looked up, eyes pensive. “Perhaps it would be better coming from a clergyman. You might offer comfort, though I doubt the lad has any reason to mourn the news of his father’s death.”

“He was still his father, whatever else he might have been. Or done.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Mr. Brown would tell him, I am sure. Or the constable . . .”

“I shall do it, Papa.” William rose. “And Leah?”

Mac sat up straighter in bed, wincing at the pain of his wrapped ribs. “I shan’t shirk my duty. Ask her to come in.”

A thought struck William. “Papa . . .”

“Yes?”

William hesitated to even mention it, not when his father was finally ready to give up his choke hold on Leah’s life, to let her live at last, to be who she was meant to be. But still the thought niggled at him. He winced, then said, “If Clive Pembrooke has been dead all these years, then who did I see in the hooded green cloak?”



After sending Leah in to speak with their father, William walked over to Pembrooke Park, knowing Miss Foster would be awake, worried and wondering. And he was determined to fulfill his duty to Miles Pembrooke as kindly as he could.

Duncan sullenly showed him into the drawing room, where Miles and Miss Foster sat.

“I come bearing news,” William began, hat in hand.

She said, “My family has gone up to bed. But Miles kindly waited up with me.”

Miles rose. “But now I shall leave you—”

“No, stay, Mr. Pembrooke,” William said. “The news affects you even more than it does Miss Foster.”

Miles paused and waited where he was, but did not reclaim his seat.

“Your father—is he all right?” Miss Foster asked, face strained.

“Yes. He will be. He took a bad fall while walking along a ravine and sprained his ankle and bruised a few ribs. Painful, but it could have been far worse.”