The Secret of Pembrooke Park(45)

Several days later, two letters arrived for Abigail—the first was from her mother.

Dear Abigail,

Your father is sorry the bankruptcy business has kept him in London for so long—far longer than he anticipated. We trust you are managing fine on your own, as usual. But do let us know if you are unhappy or need anything. I must say, it is a balm having your father here with us at this time. Things are not progressing quite as well as when last I wrote, and his company is a comfort.

Unfortunately, the details of the bank incident have become public and have begun to overshadow Louisa’s season—for otherwise I have no doubt she would be an absolute triumph. As it is, she has been overlooked by a few highly placed parties who would no doubt be clamoring for her attention if not for the banking scandal. A few gentlemen have continued to call in spite of these circumstances, which are of course quite beyond poor Louisa’s control. Their parents, however, do not share their enthusiasm. Regardless of these few setbacks and the occasional cut direct or spiteful comment, Louisa seems blithely and blessedly unaware and remains in good spirits.

Gilbert Scott continues to impress wherever he goes. It is a comfort to know that his regard has not been affected by the news of our change in circumstances.

Abigail’s heart plummeted, thoughts of William Chapman fading. Gilbert . . . how she missed him. And would go on missing him apparently. She sighed and set the letter aside.

Hoping for something diverting, she opened the second letter, another old page torn from a journal.

The secret room. Apparently its location has been lost over generations and renovations. Does it even still exist? Did it ever? My father certainly thinks so. Why his sudden determination to find it now, when he lived in this very house as a boy? Has he some reason to believe something valuable has recently been hidden there?

The servants swear ignorance. The steward scoffs at the idea of hidden treasure. But that does not dissuade my father. He searches. He taps. He pokes. He pulls books from floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He looks behind portraits and up flues. He swears and curses and keeps looking. Occasionally in his frustration, he drinks himself into a stupor, and for a few days or a week he gives it up. But then another bill comes, or he sees a blood horse he wishes to buy, and he begins his frantic searching all over again.

A few days ago, he unearthed stacks of house plans and pored over them for hours. He hid them from the servants and even my brothers—not wanting to give anyone ideas. Not trusting anyone.

But he didn’t hide them from me. I don’t think he believes a mere girl capable of finding anything he cannot. He doesn’t see me as a threat. In fact, I think he barely sees me at all.

So I waited until he left the house and looked at those drawings myself. I admit I can make no sense of them. Cannot decipher which solid or dashed lines mean original vs. new walls vs. doors or windows. And in truth, I have no idea which of the plans has even been carried out. For the drawers of the library map table hold more house plans than actual maps, it seems to me.

But one thing did catch my eye. A detail in those plans that does not jibe with something I have seen in the house itself. Or am I not thinking of the actual house at all, but rather its scale model? I think I will compare the dolls’ house to the plans tomorrow. . . .

Abigail felt a thrill of anticipation skitter up the back of her neck. Perhaps she could see something in the house plans the writer had missed. It might be worth a try. At any rate, she would certainly find the search interesting.

She went down to the library, folded back the window shutters, and stepped to the large map desk near the center of the room. She pulled out the deep, shallow drawers in order, starting at the top left and working her way down. There were old maps of the world, the West Indies, Europe, England, London, Berkshire, the parish, and the estate grounds.

Finally she found a sheaf of old drawings—building plans—yellowed with age. Were they the latest? Had the plans been implemented, or had they been passed over in favor of some other architect’s vision? She spread them atop the map table and flipped through them quickly, looking for dates. She found an old one marked with roman numerals from the 1600s. It showed a central manorial hall with side wings for stabling, a gate, and a porter’s lodge, which no longer existed. In fact someone had written Destroyed over it. By fire, most likely.

She flipped through several more pages until she found a plan that looked more recent. She saw no date, but the block handwriting seemed more modern and the ink less faded than the others. In this plan, a new addition had been built in the rear courtyard of the house, adding a drawing room below and a bedchamber above. That plan or at least one very like it had been carried out. The bedchamber above the drawing room was the newer one she planned to give Louisa. There were a few other details she was less sure of. If only Gilbert were there to help her understand everything she was looking at.

She retrieved a notebook and drawing pencil, donned bonnet, spencer, and gloves, and went outside on the temperate May afternoon. She slowly walked along the front of the house, surveying its exterior, noting the oriel windows, the gabled roof, and chimney stacks. She started toward the side of the house but paused at the sound of trotting horse hooves.

She turned and watched as a well-dressed gentleman on a dappled grey horse rode across the bridge. Andrew Morgan. He raised a hand in greeting and nudged his horse across the drive in her direction.

“Hello, Miss Foster.”