The Secret of Pembrooke Park(141)

Pulse pounding, Abigail whirled to look at the nearest window. Though high above the ground, they would likely survive the fall, far better than remaining trapped as they were.

She glanced back at the window inside the secret room, but it was so small, and let out only to the steep roof, not to safety. Hardly an appealing escape route, even if they could squeeze through. Was the whole house on fire? Or just her room?

Oh, God, help us! Abigail prayed.

Flames leapt toward the bedchamber window, consuming the frilly curtains and cutting off that final way of escape. The fire billowed and roared closer. Abigail leapt back, the fumes slamming the hidden door and barely missing her face. Abigail turned and met Leah’s wide eyes.

“What now?” Leah breathed.

Abigail thought a moment, then prised open the small window, a welcome breeze rushing in to cool the stifling air within. If she yelled from it, would anyone hear her? What could they do about it, even if they heard her calls? Abigail’s mind whirled, searching desperately for a way out. To hatch an escape plan.

To hatch . . . The word echoed in her mind, and she pictured the old building plans for the water tower. She and Leah now stood in one level of that tower, finished into a storeroom at some later date after the water tower had been abandoned. She recalled the rough sketch of stairs. Her assumption that the sketch represented a possible set of servants’ stairs, never completed. But what if they were never meant to be permanent stairs. While workmen were building the tower they had likely used a series of ladders to ascend and descend from one level to the next. Might they still be there?

Clutching the desperate thread of hope, Abigail threw back one end of the square carpet covering the floor.

“What are you doing?” Leah asked.

Abigail studied the wood. No obvious hole or hatch cover—but wait . . . there. A seam. She fell to her knees and tried to tug it up, but even her small fingers were too big.

“Find something I can prise this up with.”

Leah searched the room, then snatched up the nail that had hung the portrait. “Try this.”

Abigail slid it into the seam and tried to prise up the hatch, if hatch it was. Nothing. She came at it along the opposite seam, but it didn’t give. “Find something longer, to use as a lever.”

From the bedchamber beyond came the sound of breaking glass—windows shattering from the heat. Would the sound draw help in time? Or would it allow in wind that would fuel the fire into a frenzy?



William saw Miles Pembrooke leaving the manor, walking in the direction of his family’s cottage. Unease instantly nipped at him.

“Mr. Pembrooke!” He strode over to meet the man.

“Ah, Mr. Chapman. Perhaps you know. I have been looking for Miss Foster and your sister without success. The servants tell me they saw the two ladies enter the manor an hour ago but haven’t seen them since. And I can’t find them anywhere. Have you seen them?”

“No,” William answered in mild surprise, having seen the girls enter the house from his own window.

Suddenly the front door banged open and Polly ran out, waving her arms. “Fire! The house is on fire!”

“Where?” William called, hoping for a simple kitchen fire.

“Upstairs! I saw it from the landing!”

William’s heart lurched. Panic gripped him and in turn he gripped Miles’s arm. “Did you check Miss Foster’s room?”

“I did, yes. But no one was there.”

“But what about . . . the secret room?”

Miles stared at him. “How could I check that, when I don’t know where it is?”

William’s stomach clenched. Were Leah and Abigail even aware of the fire? He said, “I wager that’s where they are.”

Miles paled. “Is the secret room anywhere near Miss Foster’s bedchamber?”

“Yes—opens right into it.”

“God, no . . . The room was empty. I made sure, before I . . .”

“Before you . . . what? Good lord, Miles. What did you do?”



Abigail forced that nail, then a tin lid, then any other object she could find into that seam until her fingernails had broken to the quick and her hands bled. Desperate, she pounded the boards with her fists and let out a frustrated cry.

Leah grabbed one bloodied hand, staying her futile beating. Abigail’s eyes snapped to hers and saw the calm, tear-filled eyes of her friend, the brave resignation as she slowly shook her head.

“It’s no good, Abigail.”

“We can’t give up.”

“We must be ready to meet our Maker. I am not afraid to die—if it is our time to go.”

“It’s not our time.” Abigail beat the boards with her free hand once more.

Leah grasped that hand as well. “I pray not. But if it is, we need to be ready.”

For a moment, Abigail paused in her frenetic efforts and held Leah’s clear, resolute gaze. Then she closed her eyes and prayed, “Lord, please save us. Please pluck us from the fire or protect us from the fiery furnace. I know you can do anything. But if you will otherwise, please let us wake up with you in heaven. I know I don’t deserve it. But in your Son’s name, I ask you to save us both. Here on earth, if at all possible. And if not, for eternity. We—”

A pounding interrupted her prayer, hammering the air and shaking the floor beneath them. Was the tower about to collapse? Would they be buried alive before smoke or fire did them in? Abigail braced herself and squeezed Leah’s hand. Any fate seemed better than that wicked scorching fire.