The Secret of Pembrooke Park(68)

Perhaps if the tower had begun as a servants’ staircase and then been converted to a water tower or water closets, windows would have been unwanted. Might that explain it?

“What are we looking at?”

Abigail started and whirled about, surprised to see William Chapman standing there, hands behind his back, staring up at the house as she’d been doing.

“Mr. Chapman. You startled me.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t intend to.”

She pointed out the area above. “Do you see that section of lighter stone—at about the second level?”

He squinted up at it. “Yes. It looks as if there used to be a window.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“No big mystery,” he said with an easy shrug. “Many people have bricked over or otherwise covered unnecessary windows, to avoid exorbitant glass taxes.”

That was logical. She felt foolish not to have thought of it herself. Likely some thrifty owner or steward of generations past had ordered some of the windows to be filled in to save money. Had he covered other windows as well? It didn’t make sense to brick over merely one window for tax reasons. She stared up higher, trying in vain to see evidence of another filled-in window on the level above. She did not see one at the ground level either.

A gig came rumbling up the drive. Abigail glanced over and saw Miles Pembrooke seated beside the coachman, returning from Hunts Hall. When the gig halted, Miles gingerly climbed down, one leg buckling a bit before he righted himself. He waved to thank the driver and turned toward the door. Seeing them standing there at the side of the house, he lifted his hat and hobbled toward them, leaning on his stick.

“That’s Miles Pembrooke,” she said. “Do you know him?”

Beside her William stiffened but said nothing.

“Hello, Miss Foster,” Miles called out as he neared. “Don’t you look a picture in that bonnet.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pembrooke. Did you enjoy your visit to Hunts Hall?”

“It was most . . . enlightening.” Miles glanced with interest at William. When Mr. Chapman said nothing, Miles looked back expectantly at her.

“Forgive me,” Abigail said. “I thought perhaps you two knew each another. Miles Pembrooke, may I introduce William Chapman.”

“Will Chapman . . .” Miles echoed. He offered his hand, but William continued to stare at the man’s face, as if he didn’t notice. “I can’t believe it,” Miles said, shaking his head in wonder. “You were but a wee ginger-haired scamp last I saw you. Perhaps, what, four or five? Darting about the place like a redbird. Of course I was only a lad myself.”

“What brings you here, Mr. Pembrooke?” William asked, his voice uncharacteristically stern and clipped.

Miles hesitated, then took a step nearer Abigail. “I wanted to see the house again. And my good friends and distant relatives the Fosters have been kind enough to invite me to stay. Haven’t you, Miss Foster?” He beamed at her.

She felt self-conscious and illogically guilty under Mr. Chapman’s disapproving gaze. “Yes, Father is very kind,” she murmured.

“I saw your father today, Mr. Chapman,” Miles said. “Though only from a distance. Shot a cork off a bottle at fifty yards. How well I remember Mac. He frightened the wits out of me when I was a boy. Though not nearly as much as—” Miles broke off. “He is in good health, I trust?”

“Yes.”

“Do greet him for me.”

“I shall certainly tell him you’re here.”

Arms crossed, William glanced at her and then looked at Miles, as if expecting the man to excuse himself and take his leave.

But Miles held his ground. He looked from Mr. Chapman to Abigail, as though trying to sort them out. Finally he said, “Miss Foster, you have not been here that long, I gather, so you have only recently become acquainted with our former steward and his family. Is that right?”

“Yes. They are excellent neighbors. And perhaps you are not aware, but Mr. Chapman here is our curate.”

“Will Chapman? A clergyman? Inconceivable.” His dark eyes glinted with humor. “You can’t be old enough.”

“I am indeed. I am nearly five and twenty, and recently ordained.”

“Astounding. Well. Good for you.”

Still neither man made a move to leave. Miles glanced up at the exterior of the house. “And what have you two found so interesting out here?”

Mr. Chapman looked at her, waiting for her to answer. But for some reason, she was hesitant to point out the stoned-in window to Miles Pembrooke.

In her stead, Mr. Chapman reluctantly began, “Miss Foster just noticed that—”

“That the clematis are climbing the wall in such profusion this year,” she interrupted. “Had you noticed? I adore flowering vines on old houses.”

Both men blinked at her.

Miles politely agreed, “Very charming, yes.”

Abigail hesitated. She didn’t want to mention the secret room, but thinking Miles might be able to tell her something about the tower, she said tentatively, “We were discussing past renovations to the house, Mr. Pembrooke. Do you know anything about it?”

He pursed his lip and shrugged. “You may ask me anything, Miss Foster. I am yours to command. But remember I lived here as a boy between the ages of ten and twelve, not an age to notice things like walls and climbing vines.”