The Secret of Pembrooke Park(38)

Kitty frowned. “Perhaps that isn’t the right verse.”

“Perhaps it is . . .” he murmured.

Abigail wondered what he meant.

“And what about Numbers?” Kitty asked.

Mr. Chapman flipped past the rest of Genesis, Exodus, and Leviticus. He skimmed through Numbers 18 but apparently nothing caught his eye. Then he turned to Numbers 14. “Verse eight is about the land of milk and honey. . . .” he murmured. He slid his finger to verse eighteen, and read it aloud, “‘The Lord is longsuffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.’”

“I like the first part of that verse but not the second,” Kitty said.

“Does God really do that?” Abigail asked. “Visit the iniquities of the father upon his children for generations to come? That doesn’t seem fair.”

Mr. Chapman took her question seriously. “I don’t believe children are guilty of their parents’ wrongdoing. But we have all seen people who suffer because of their parents’ neglect or abusive behavior, or other wrongdoing. And children often follow in their parents’ footsteps.” He shrugged. “Like it or not, sin has consequences. Which is why God lovingly warns us against it. Thankfully, He is merciful and ready to forgive if we ask Him. But that doesn’t erase natural consequences of our actions. Cause and effect.”

Abigail thought of her own father. He might forgive her—and hopefully, someday, Uncle Vincent as well—but that didn’t erase the consequences he and the entire family would suffer. Oh, how she wished she could correct the mistake before it affected her sister and herself, not to mention their children and children’s children. What kind of inheritance could her father, could any of them, leave for future generations now?

Kitty frowned. “Another depressing verse. And I can’t see that it’s any sort of clue about a secret room or treasure.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Abigail said, sharing a sad smile with the girl. “I’m sorry our discovery didn’t turn out to be more amusing.”

“This may not be a clue about a secret room,” William agreed, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a message.”

Abigail felt foreboding prickle through her. “Or a warning.”

That night, Abigail lay in bed as she often did with drawing pencil and sketch pad in hand. She sketched idly, this and that. Plus signs and numbers giving way to letters of the alphabet. She began sketching the letter E—Eliza’s brooch. She hesitated, turning the pad on its side, and suddenly remembered where she had seen a pin very like it. Had Duncan taken it from the jewelry box on Mrs. Pembrooke’s dressing table to give to his lover? Her stomach cramped at the thought. The footsteps in the night, the candle lamp on its side, Duncan not wanting her in his room . . . It all rushed back through her mind, and with it the distasteful conclusion that Duncan had stolen the brooch. She hoped she was wrong. She would check the jewelry box, and if the brooch was missing . . . well, she would talk to Mac. He would know what to do.



In the morning, she returned to the mistress’s bedchamber and opened the jewelry box, expecting the worst. Instead, there lay the brooch—not an M or W as she’d originally thought, but an ornate E, exactly like the one she’d seen Eliza wearing. Apparently the design was more common than she’d thought. Guilt and self-recrimination made her feel nauseated. She had misjudged Duncan and would endeavor to be kinder to him in future.

Later that day, Abigail received two letters. The first, a terse reply in Mr. Arbeau’s neat hand.

Miss Foster,

I am in receipt of your letter but cannot satisfy your request. I have been instructed to not divulge the name of my client until he or she directs me to do so. I have contacted my client to communicate your wishes, but the request has been denied for now. My client neither confirms nor denies knowledge of the letters you mention. I do not intend to begin a guessing game with you, Miss Foster. But assuming this is your first and last guess, I can tell you that I have no client by the name of Miss Pembrooke.

I remain,

Henri Arbeau

The second letter was another missive in that now-familiar feminine hand. A newspaper clipping had been enclosed in the outer letter. She first read the handwritten note, addressed to her personally.

Miss Foster,

If anyone named Pembrooke comes to the house and asks for entry or shelter, I beg you refuse his request—despite his surname and likely protestations of his rights and even assertion that he is the owner of the place. For my sake and for your own well-being, as well as your family’s, resolutely send him on his way. If he demands to know on whose authority you refuse him, you may refer him to the solicitor who let the house to you. He is paid well to deal with such difficulties.

This advice differed somewhat from what Mac had asked of her, but it held a similar edge of warning. After this note, a space had been left blank, followed by another single line.

In case you have not yet learnt this history of your newly acquired home, I thought I would send the enclosed to you.

Abigail picked up the clipping from a newspaper. In faded ink, someone had handwritten in the corner: 4 May 1798.





Stabbed? Good heavens. Mac had mentioned nothing about a stabbing. The report made Abigail feel queasy. She could not help but imagine her reaction had thieves broken in to their London home and stabbed her father when he caught them in the act. How awful. Robert Pembrooke had been everything a gentleman should be, if Mac Chapman’s account was not overly biased. What a tragic waste of life.