The Secret of Pembrooke Park(136)

Abigail’s heart burned within her. “I couldn’t, Miles. Only Christ can make an innocent out of a guilty man. That’s what He did when He died a criminal’s death on the cross.” She took his hand in hers. “God loves you, Miles. Ask Him to forgive you, and He will, once and for all.”

Miles stared blindly ahead and nodded vaguely. They sat in silence for several minutes, his hand in hers.

Then Miles pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and dabbed his nose. “Well, at least finding his remains should finally settle things with the courts.”

Abigail hesitated. “Actually . . .”

He looked at her. “What?”

She bit her lip. It wasn’t her secret to tell. And who knew how distraught Miles might become at the news that neither he nor his sister was rightful heir to Pembrooke Park and its treasures?

Instead she squeezed his hand once more. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”



Abigail and Leah walked through the grove between the Chapmans’ cottage and Pembrooke Park. Abigail had told her what she learned from Harriet, and how both she and Miles had reacted to the news that their father’s remains had been found. Leah for her part, reacted calmly to the news—relieved but in no hurry to proclaim her identity to the world. In fact, she had decided to leave the ruby necklace and most of the mementoes in the secret room for the time being—and leave everything else the way it was too.

“Let’s give Harriet and Miles time to come to terms with their father’s fate,” she said, “before springing this on them too.”

Abigail spied someone in the distance, through the trees, and drew up short. Duncan sat just inside the doorway of the old gamekeeper’s lodge. “There’s Duncan. I want to ask him about his father.”

Leah held back, and whispered, “I don’t want to face him right now. I know I’ve hurt him, but he refuses to stop trying to make me feel guilty for breaking things off.”

Abigail looked at her in understanding. “You wait here, then.”

Leah nodded, looking relieved.

Abigail walked toward the open lodge door. Duncan sat on a wooden chair, tipped back on two legs, idly smoking a cigar and sipping from a bottle of brandy—her father’s brandy, she guessed.

“I didn’t know anyone came here,” she began casually, hoping to put him off his guard. “It’s the old gamekeeper’s lodge, is it not?”

He nodded. “I come here now and again to think.”

“Ah.” She said, “Your father was gamekeeper to Clive Pembrooke, I understand.”

“That’s right, and to his brother before him.” He glanced around the dusty room with its low, beamed ceiling. “My father lived in this hovel as a young man, before he married my mother and had me.”

“You grew up in Ham Green?”

“That’s right,” he said with pride. “In a far better house than this. My father made a good living as gamekeeper, and I was to have his place one day, but life, I’ve learnt, is not fair.”

She said, “And I learnt recently of a great service your father performed for Mrs. Pembrooke and her children.”

“Helping them get away from her husband, you mean? Not sure Mr. Pembrooke would have agreed with you.”

“What did your father tell you about Clive Pembrooke?”

Duncan set down the bottle and crossed his arms over his chest. “Not much.”

“Did he tell you about his determination to find a treasure he believed hidden in the house?”

He shrugged. “Everyone knows that.”

“Is that why you’re here? A little lifting and polishing your small price to pay for access to Pembrooke Park?”

“I’m the one getting paid.” He gave her a cheeky grin.

“Getting paid to treasure hunt. Not bad work, if you can get it.”

“There is more than one way to pursue treasure,” he said philosophically, taking a puff on his cigar and watching the smoke rise. “If one door gets slammed in your face, you try another.”

Ah, Abigail thought. He liked to talk in riddles like his gamekeeper father. She interpreted, “Like the door Mac Chapman slammed in your face?”

Anger glinted in his eyes. “Perhaps.”

She asked, “Did you ever even admire Leah Chapman? Or were you courting Eliza all along?”

He lifted his chin. “Yes, I did admire her. But she wouldn’t have me. Laid me low for weeks, I don’t mind telling you. It’s why Pa finally told me . . . who she really was. Thought it might take the sting out. I hadn’t been rejected by Leah Chapman, humble steward’s daughter. I’d been rejected by Eleanor Pembrooke, heiress of Pembrooke Park.” He sneered. “But somehow, that did not make me feel better. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I admired her before I knew, but I don’t see any shame in admitting it added to her appeal. In fact, I wanted her more than ever. And the life I could have had, had she not been blinded by prejudice. Mac influenced her, I know. She might have accepted me, if not for him. Always devilish proud of his Pembrooke connection, Mac was.” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips. “So he sent me on my way. And the young parson took his side against me.”

“And so you thought you’d pursue another Pembrooke ‘connection’ in Eliza—is that it?”