The Secret of Pembrooke Park(26)

She closed her eyes but, hearing a door whine open somewhere, abruptly opened them. Polly, she told herself and turned over.

Then she heard a muffled tapping sound. Tapping—at this hour? It was only a branch tapping against a window, she speculated. Or perhaps a woodpecker in a tree nearby, looking for insects. Did birds do so after dark? She had no idea. They must, she decided, and turned over yet again.

In the distance, something clanged like a tiny cymbal, brass upon brass. Abigail lurched upright, her heart in her throat. A water can—someone dropped a water can. Or kicked one, accidentally in the dark.

But it was no good. She knew she’d never sleep until she checked. She turned back the bedclothes and climbed from bed, wrapping a shawl around herself and wiggling her feet into slippers. Picking up her candle, she opened the door and listened. Silence. She tiptoed into the gallery, avoiding the many pairs of eyes glaring down at her from portraits of Pembrookes long dead.

She heard the faint sound of retreating footsteps padding down the stairs.

Heart pounding, she gingerly leaned forward and peered over the stair rail, her candle’s light barely penetrating the darkness below. A hooded figure floated down the last few stairs. Stunned, she blinked. But when she looked again, the stairs were empty. She had probably only imagined the dark apparition.

With a shiver, she decided that was the last time she would read gothic fiction. It was back to architecture books for her.

She turned toward her room, but then changed course and crossed the gallery, lifting her candle to survey the closed doors until she spied one left ajar. There—the room that would be her mother’s. The same room in which she had seen an open drawer when William Chapman toured the house.

She inched the door farther open and lifted her candle. The drawers were closed this time. But . . . there on the dressing table a hinged jewelry box stood open, and beside it lay a brass candle lamp, on its side. Heart pounding, she walked forward and felt the wick. Still warm.

Trembling, Abigail padded down the back stairs. She could have pulled her cord, but the bells rang in the servants’ hall, and she preferred not to wake Mrs. Walsh. Nor was she eager to wait in the dark alone.

Reaching the former butler’s room belowstairs, which Duncan had claimed for himself, Abigail knocked.

She heard a groan from within, followed by the creak of bed ropes, and then the door opened a few inches. There stood Duncan, hair tousled and chest bare. She hoped he wore something below but did not dare look down.

“What is it?” he grumbled.

“Sorry to disturb you. But I’d like you to check the house and make sure all the doors are locked.”

“Already did. As I do every night.”

“It’s just . . . Mac warned me about intruders, and I thought I heard someone. Saw someone actually, and—”

“Saw what?”

“I . . . am not sure. But please check.”

He smirked. “Had a nightmare, did ya? Shall I bring you some hot milk?”

Irritation flashed. “Will you check the doors or must I wake someone else to do your job for you?”

He frowned. “No need to wake the whole house. Not when you’ve already woken me.”

She became aware then of the defensive way he held his door, only slightly ajar. She had at first thought he did so to shield his nakedness, but the longer he stood there without shirt or apparent modesty the more she doubted that was the real reason.

Good heavens! Had he brought some light-skirt into the house?

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have someone in there with you?”

His head reared back in surprise. He looked over his shoulder into the room as if to ascertain the answer for himself, then opened the door wider. She saw clutter and mussed bedclothes, but no one else in the dim room.

He raised an arm over his head, leaning his elbow against the doorjamb, causing his bulky muscles to flex. He smiled down at her. “I’m flattered, miss. But no, I’m on my own. This time.”

Anger now chased away her last remnants of fear. Better an apparition than a cheeky manservant who thought himself irresistible.

She drew back her shoulders. “Never mind. I shall check the house myself.”

His smirk faded and he lowered his arm. “No, now, miss. Sorry.” His demeanor softened. “Not used to young ladies coming to my room at night—that’s all. Just give me one minute to put on a shirt. . . .”

Together, they checked the house and doors and found them all locked, just as Duncan had said. Upstairs, she showed him the candle lamp on its side.

“So that’s where that lamp ended up,” he said, righting it. “I wondered. Polly borrowed it from the lamp room the other day. She must have left it up here.”

“But . . . what would she be doing in here?”

He shrugged. “Some errand or other.” He pointed at the white covering on the dressing table. “Didn’t you send her up with that cover when it came back from the lace repair woman?”

That’s right, she had. She’d forgotten that. How foolish.

Had the wick been warm at all, or had it been a trick of her fevered imagination? She reached out a hand, now perfectly steady, and touched the wick again. Stone cold.

Definitely no more gothic novels for her.



The next day, when Molly brought her the day’s post, Abigail took it eagerly, hoping for something from her family. Instead, she received a second letter with a Bristol postal mark in that unfamiliar hand. Enclosed was another journal page.