The Secret of Pembrooke Park(140)



Oh no. How would Miles react? Should she bolt from the room and snatch them away? She certainly couldn’t overpower the man if he refused to hand over the letters. And in so doing, she would reveal their hiding place. And Eleanor’s treasures. And they weren’t ready to do that yet. Besides, the letters were written by his own sister. They were his business, in some ways, more than hers.

Would Harriet wish Miles to read them? Probably not. But at the moment Abigail could think of no way to forestall him without revealing the secret room to him.

“What is he doing?” Leah whispered anxiously.

“Reading the letters you returned.”

Leah’s mouth formed a silent O as she, too, thought through the implications.

There was little in the letters Miles didn’t already know or hadn’t lived through himself. If he read through them all—and found the one in which Harriet mentioned finding the secret room at last, even then the letter did not specify where it was. There was no great risk to them. If anything, reading them would likely spur him to seek out his sister, as he’d claimed he’d do earlier. Abigail did not like the thought of driving a wedge between brother and sister. To cause problems for Harriet. But better for Harriet, than for vulnerable Leah . . .

As Abigail watched, Miles lifted the glass off her bedside lamp, set it aside, and then fed the corner of one of the letters into its flame. Abigail gasped. “He’s burning one of them. . . .” She wondered which. Maybe the one in which Harriet had accused him of lighting a fire in the dolls’ house and blaming their brother.

Miles carried the letter toward the hearth, then returned empty-handed to read another.

Abigail watched for a few moments longer, then stepped away from the peephole and tiptoed back to her chair.

“Let’s see how long he stays,” she whispered. They would wait him out and keep their secret to themselves for a little while longer.

She sat down and picked up another box to sort through. Then she lifted the family Bible onto her lap and looked at the names written in the front leaves, tracing her fingers down the long list of births and deaths until she reached Eleanor’s birth date. Eight years later came the birth of Baby Emma. Her birth and death dates a poignantly brief span, followed by the death of her mother, Elizabeth. Abigail traced the entries but found no notice of Eleanor’s fictional death. Nor of Robert Pembrooke’s death, which had been all too real.

Leah glanced over Abigail’s shoulder and said, “No wonder Mac hid the Bible in here.” She picked up another letter from her stack and resumed her reading.

Abigail read for a while longer as well, and then leaned her head back against the wall. Her thoughts drifted to William as she idly glanced around the room. How strange to find herself there with Eleanor, Robert Pembrooke’s “treasure.” Her gaze rested on the rusted water pipes against the far wall. What was that verse William had quoted? “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt. . . .”

Sometime later, Abigail looked up and wondered what time it was. From the small window, she saw fading daylight in orangey twilight hues. She’d lost track of time as she’d read a series of love letters between Leah’s great-grandparents—distant relatives of Abigail as well. Even so, she wouldn’t have expected to see the sunset from this east-facing window.

She glanced at the cushions beside her and noticed Leah had fallen asleep, a letter lying on her chest. Abigail closed her eyes and listened for movement in the next room. Was Miles still there? She heard a low roar but couldn’t identify the sound. She took a long breath and suddenly stilled. What was that smell? She sniffed the air again. Smoke.

She frowned. Was Miles still burning letters? Or had Polly come in to lay a fire for the evening? Abigail’s neck ached from bending over letters for so long. She rose on stiff legs and tiptoed to the peephole. She didn’t see Miles. But she couldn’t see the whole room from her vantage point.

She laid her palm on the panel and gingerly opened it a slit. Suddenly heat penetrated her skin, and she snatched it back. The door was hot. What on earth . . . ? Then through the crack she saw . . . Her heart banged against her ribs. The dolls’ house engulfed in flames. As she stared, disbelieving, fire seemed to leap from the carpet before the hearth to the nearby window curtain. Then orange-red flames whipped up her bed-curtains.

Panic gripped her.

Miles. Had the letters he’d burnt fallen to the floor by accident? Or had he set the fire intentionally—somehow knowing Leah was there and meaning to snuff out her life, to follow in his father’s footsteps and do away with the rightful owner of Pembrooke Park? Please, God, no . . .

Nerves zinging to high alert, she whirled to her companion.

“Leah? Leah, wake up!”

Leah groggily turned her face away. Was the smoke affecting her already? Abigail crouched beside her and shook her shoulder. “Leah! Get up. The room is on fire.”

Leah’s eyes opened, and Abigail’s words penetrated, chasing the dazed look away.

“Fire? Where?” Panicked, Leah lumbered to her feet, and Abigail gripped her arm to help steady her.

“In the bedchamber. We have to get out. Now.”

She yanked the lap robe from the cushion and told Leah to cover her nose and mouth. Lifting her foot, she pushed open the hot door with her shoe. The room beyond was now nearly engulfed in flames. Their way to the door blocked—the carpet runner between them and the door burned like a pathway of hot coals, and fire licked its way hungrily up the doorframe.

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