The Secret of Pembrooke Park(142)

Over the roar of the encroaching flames, Abigail heard a muffled voice. Was she imagining it?

Leah said, “Shh. Listen.”

Abigail, already on her hands and knees, bent forward and laid her ear on the floor.

“Abigail! Leah!” she heard faintly.

“We’re here!” she shouted, mouth close to the wood. “We’re here!”

“Back away from the hatch!” came the shout—William’s voice. Tense and harsh and, oh, so welcome.

“All right. We’re clear!” Abigail called.

Bang, came the first blow. Then another. A sledgehammer? An axe?

Crack! A flash of silvery metal sliced through one of the planks. Then again. Two bent nails went pinging across the floor and landed near their feet.

Behind them, the door of the secret room wavered, then burst into flames, and a wave of heat rushed into the small room.

“William, hurry!” Leah cried. “The fire is getting closer!”

More grunts and blows, more splintered wood. The cadence changed, as did the pace. Two men wielding tools at once, Abigail guessed.

She dared another glance over her shoulder. The fire had entered the secret room like an evil intruder. It lapped at the shelves and seared the walls, moving toward Elizabeth Pembrooke’s portrait among Leah’s gathered things.

Leah stared at it, eyes filling with tears, but she made no protest.

Abigail’s back felt so hot she feared her frock would burst into flames. The portrait was too big to carry, but she swiped up the ruby necklace and tucked it into her apron pocket. Then she grasped Leah’s hand and pulled her to the far wall, on the other side of the hatch. As far as they could go.

With a final crack, the hatch whined from its hinges and fell downward. Below someone grunted and called a warning, followed by the clatter of falling planks. Through the ragged hole, Abigail saw the sweaty, sooty, anxious faces of William and Mac Chapman.

“Leah!” Mac called. “Are you all right?”

Leah glanced fearfully at the flames whipping toward them. “The fire is almost upon us!”

“Come down.” William braced the rickety ladder-steps from the level below. “Hurry.”

“But, Abigail . . .”

“I’m right behind you,” Abigail insisted. “Go!”

Leah sat on the floor and hung down her legs. William reached up and guided her feet to the top rungs while Mac steadied the ladder.

Abigail glanced behind her. The fire consumed a bandbox of family papers and began licking the frame of Mrs. Pembrooke’s portrait.

Suddenly a figure appeared through the flames—a figure in a hooded cloak. Was this the grim reaper come for her? Dear Jesus, no! The coat smoked, sputtered, and sparked as its wearer ran through the inferno and launched itself through the burning door as though through a circus ring of fire. The figure dove toward her, arms outstretched. Abigail shrieked in horror and jumped back. The figure landed face-first on the floor of the secret room with a shuddering thud. The cloak was dripping wet—doused against the flames.

The head lifted and the hood fell back, revealing a black-streaked face, awful, yet familiar.

“Miles?”

“Abigail!” he cried. “I never meant to . . . I didn’t know you were in here. Honest, I didn’t!”

“Miles, we have to get out now!”

He looked up, near his outstretched hands. His focus caught on the ruby necklace spilling from her pocket onto the floor like a red snake.

“I came to rescue you . . .” he said, then his eyes landed on the sparkling rubies once more.

The flames lashed closer and closer, the heat nearly overwhelming her senses. But even before the flames reached her, the smoke did. Abigail coughed and placed her handkerchief over her nose and mouth.

“Abigail, hurry!” William called from below. “Cover your mouth. Stay low!”

Inside the secret room, Miles began digging through the boxes.

“Miles, come on! Let’s go—it’s not worth your life.” She stretched out her hand to him, beseeching him. “Come with me, Miles. Now.”

He looked briefly at her hand, but then he reached for the rubies instead.

The fire flared, catching his cloak on fire and scalding her ankle. Her petticoat hem burst into flames.

“William!” she cried, whirling back to the hatch.

He stood at the base of the ladder, face fierce and set.

“Jump, Abigail. Quick.”

She dropped to her haunches at the edge of the hatch, smacking her petticoat with her hand, hoping to smother the fire before her whole dress went up in flames and her with it.

She propped her hand on the floor to brace herself, only to snatch back her burning hand, and half-fell half-dropped onto the ladder. She flailed for a handhold as the rotted rungs collapsed and she fell onto William. The force of the collision drove him backward, to the edge of the open hatch below, but he caught himself before momentum sent them both tumbling down it.

She looked up through the hatch above in time to see Elizabeth Pembrooke begin to burn and curl and melt.

“I’ll go up for it,” Mac said, starting to shimmy back up the ladder brace.

Leah caught his arm. “Papa, don’t! I’d rather have you alive than an oil painting of someone I barely remember.”

Abigail sucked in a breath and cried, “Miles is up there!”