The Secret of Pembrooke Park(133)

“Thank you, Molly.”

Abigail returned the quill to its holder and hurried out. In the hall, she found Harriet Webb standing, hands clasped, looking around and slowly shaking her head. “I told myself I would never set foot in this place again.” She spread her arms, disbelief and self-deprecation in her expression. “Yet here I am. . . .”

“Come into the drawing room and sit down,” Abigail said warmly.

“The morning room is far enough, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Abigail led the way and opened the door for her. “How are you? Did Miles come to see you?”

“Yes. I still haven’t slept.”

“Did you go with him to . . . Caldwell?”

“I did. I didn’t want to but knew I must . . . to finish the story. I thought of writing to you again. But instead, I decided I would come and see you in person.”

“I’m glad you did. Here. Sit down. Shall I ring for tea?”

“No. Nothing for me.” She pulled a grim smile. “Other than a listening ear.”

Abigail sat across from her. “Gladly.”

Harriet swallowed and lifted her eyes as though searching her memory. “About a week before we left here, Mother told us to quietly begin gathering our possessions—just a few special things that meant a great deal to us, and only three or four changes of clothing. Nothing obvious, that our father would notice until after we were gone. After Father and the gamekeeper left for a hunting trip, Mother met with the housekeeper. I don’t know exactly what she said to her, but I gather she told her to let all the servants go. She was probably afraid what my father might do to anyone foolish enough to be in arm’s reach when he returned and discovered us gone.”

“She also told Mrs. Hayes to lock up the place after we left. To lock it up exactly as she found it—not to linger and risk being here when Father returned.”

So, Abigail realized, that’s why she had found the rooms left as though they had been abruptly abandoned.

Pain glittered in Harriet’s eyes as she continued. “We were planning to leave the next day. Mac and the servants had left already. Only Mrs. Hayes remained to lock up after us. Father wasn’t expected home for two days. We thought we had plenty of time. But we were wrong. He came home earlier than expected. . . .”

Harriet shivered and slowly shook her head. “The boys and I were already in our beds, though I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink. Mamma was still downstairs, packing a few last-minute things and drinking tea to calm her nerves. What happened next is something of a blur . . . a nightmare. The door slamming. My father shouting. My mother crying . . .”

Harriet bit her lip. “I heard a blow, heard Mamma shriek and fall, and knew he had struck her. My brother Harold shoved Miles into my room and told me to lock the door. I thought about hiding in the secret room but instead remained glued to the door, listening. Harold ran downstairs to try to protect Mamma, I knew. What a coward I felt standing there, doing nothing to help. I remember thinking Father would kill Mamma and Harold, and then come upstairs for Miles and me. I tried to pray but felt so hopeless, I couldn’t. Finally, I tiptoed out of my room, telling Miles to wait inside. I had to see what was happening, even as I dreaded it. From the stair rail, I looked down and saw Harold and Father struggling in the hall below. Father had a stranglehold on Harold’s neck, and Harold was turning red, suffocating . . . Mother lay sprawled on the floor nearby, pleading and sobbing. Harold began to turn blue. I wanted to do something—to at least shout at Father, tell him to stop—but I was frozen in terror. Useless.

“Suddenly a gunshot rent the air, and Father and Harold fell as one. I turned in stupefied shock and stared, unable to believe what I was seeing. There stood my little brother, a pistol in his outstretched hands—a weapon Father kept under his bed in case of intruders. The gun was not large, but it looked huge in Miles’s hands. He was only twelve years old at the time. He stood there, pistol still leveled, smoking, until his arms began to shake, and then his whole body.

“Mother crawled over and rolled Father’s body away to get to her son. Only then did we see the awful truth. Miles had meant to shoot our father. But the bullet had gone through him and into Harold.”

“Oh no!” Abigail exclaimed. “Poor Miles!”

“Poor Miles, yes. He’d meant to save his brother. But poor Harold. The bullet lodged in his abdomen after passing through Father’s side. Both were alive but were losing blood fast. Harold looked very bad indeed. Father was stunned out of his senses for a time, and Mamma sprang into action. She ran out to the stable to find the gamekeeper, who’d gone hunting with Father. She found him unsaddling the horses and asked him to ready the traveling coach. She returned to the house and commanded Miles and me to bring down our things, Harold’s valise as well. We did so, terrified though we were.

“The gamekeeper came into the house. He took one look at Harold, then at my mother’s bruised face, and offered to help us get away. I wasn’t sure if we should trust him. He was in Father’s employ, after all. But Mother must have felt we had little choice and gratefully accepted. The man helped her carry Harold out to the coach and even offered to drive. We had planned to hire horses and a postilion, but there was no time to make such arrangements. We left Father there, on the floor, not knowing if he would live or die. But Mother was determined to take Harold to a surgeon as soon as we were safely away.”