The Secret of Pembrooke Park(143)

William gaped in shock. “No . . .”

Abigail grabbed the axe and raised it high—slamming it against the old water pipe. Seeing her intention, William took the axe from her and sliced into the pipe, knocking off the valve with one blow. Water burst forth like a high-pressure fountain, murky, smelly, and wonderful. The rank water flooded the floor and cascaded through the hatch below. It wouldn’t save the secret room, but it might buy them time to escape.

The floor above wavered and orange-red flames leeched through the wood.

Over the roar, Mac called, “We’ve got to get out of here before the whole place goes.”

Abigail frantically searched the hatch opening once more, willing Miles to appear there. “Miles!” she cried.

Nothing.

William grabbed the ladder brace. “I’ll go.”

The floor above them began to collapse, peeling away like bark.

Mac grabbed his arm tight. “No, son. It’s too late.”

William winced and breathed, “God have mercy on his soul. . . .”

They escaped through the next hatch, just as the burning floor above crashed down over it.

Rung by rung, they descended each angled ladder of the tower until they reached the bottom. In the dim cellar-like space stood a door and a low archway. From a distance came the faint sound of the church bell ringing.

Mac reached for the door. “Let’s go.”

“No,” William said sharply. “That leads into the old wine cellar. We want to get out of the house, not back into it. This way.” He pointed to the low half circle that looked like the arched entrance to a cave.

“What is it?” Leah asked.

“A drain tunnel. Watch your heads.”

Ducking low, and trying not to scrape their heads on spider webs, bat dung, and who knew what else, they plodded, bent over, through the murky tunnel. After what seemed like hundreds of yards, though probably far less, Abigail glanced up and saw a crescent of light ahead. William explained in choppy breaths that this was where the excess rainwater from the cistern once flowed out into the garden and fishpond.

They emerged from the tunnel in a tiled drainage area at the back of the garden behind the house.

Mac embraced Leah, stroking her hair and murmuring over and over again, “It’s all right, lass. You’re safe now.”

Leah panted, “I never even knew there was a hatch. I suppose Father covered it to keep me from falling when I was little.”

“No doubt you’re right,” Mac said. “He only wanted to protect you. And so did I. . . .”

Abigail glanced up at William. Saw that he was looking not at his sister but at her, with concern and something else glimmering in his eyes.

“Thank God you’re safe.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Abigail closed her eyes and leaned into his solid chest. He murmured against her hair, “I don’t know what I would have done had anything happened to you and Leah. I treasure you both.”

From the other side of the manor, the calls of neighbors and the clank of buckets and water cans reached them. The sounds of people nearing made Abigail aware that she stood in William Chapman’s embrace. He seemed to realize it at the same moment and pulled back.

His eyes searched her face. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“Yes. I am well, thanks to you.”

He managed a sad, weary smile. “Did I not tell you, back when you suspected me of being a treasure hunter, that had I really wanted to get inside Pembrooke Park, I could have done so at any time?”

She nodded and gestured toward the tunnel. “But . . . how did you know?”

“I grew up not one hundred yards from this spot. I know every acre of this estate and the woods between it and our cottage.”

“And I am very glad of it.” Her smile faltered. “Is that how you so quickly disappeared from the secret room when Miles interrupted us?” When he nodded she asked, “But who nailed the hatch shut?”

William pulled a regretful face. “I did. Last week. I didn’t want any man in a hooded cloak slipping into your room as easily as I slipped out of it. Forgive me. I never dreamed—”

“Of course you didn’t. It’s not your fault, William. You didn’t start the fire. . . .”

Abigail looked back at the house, cringing at the billowing black smoke and angry flames lashing out her bedchamber window. “Poor Miles . . .”

“Yes.” William grimaced and slowly shook his head.

As the shock began to fade, her hand began to throb. She held it up to look at it, murmuring, “I’ve burnt my hand.”

He took it gently in his, both of them studying the red puckered flesh, mottled white. Concern quickly filled his eyes. “We had better get you to Mr. Brown directly.”

As they walked toward the front of the house, a traveling chaise and horses rumbled through the gate, and William saw with mixed emotions that the vehicle conveyed his friend Andrew Morgan, his sister Rebekah, as well as Mr. Scott. He didn’t recognize the chaise but had heard Mr. Scott had been given the use of his employer’s fine carriage for his regular trips from London to Hunts Hall.

“Word reached us about the fire,” Andrew called. “We’ve come to help.”

“And to make sure you were all right,” Rebekah added, eyes wide in concern as she laid a hand on William’s sleeve.