The Secret of Pembrooke Park(7)

Finally, they reached western Berkshire, its rolling hills and woodlands giving way to farms and chalk downs near its border with Wiltshire. They passed through the village of Caldwell, with a fine church, cloth mill, and the Black Swan, which Mr. Arbeau pointed out as the nearest inn where they might sleep until they deemed the manor house habitable. A few minutes later, they reached Easton—a small cluster of shops and thatched cottages—near Pembrooke Park.

Abigail felt her pulse quicken. Please, God, don’t let the manor be an utter ruin. . . . Not when I advised Father to come. I cannot stand to disappoint him again.

Leaving the hamlet behind, they turned down a narrow, tree-lined lane. Bumping down the long drive, the coach came to a jarring halt.

Mr. Arbeau’s black eyes flashed. “What the devil . . . ?”

Abigail lifted her chin, trying to see out the window.

The groom opened the door. “Way’s blocked, sir. This is as far as we can go in this big ol’ girl.”

“What do you mean, the way is blocked?”

“Come and see, sir.”

Taking his tall beaver hat with him, Mr. Arbeau alighted, the carriage lurching under his weight. Abigail took the groom’s offered hand and stepped down as well. Her father followed.

Abigail was instantly surrounded by the lush smell of pines and rich earth. Ahead a stone bridge crossed a narrow river. But the bridge was blocked by stout barrels heaped with rocks. The barrels were placed at intervals, allowing pedestrians or single horses to pass but not carriages.

Mr. Arbeau muttered over the barricade and began discussing the situation with the groom and postilion rider. But Abigail’s gaze was drawn beyond the bridge to the manor on its other side—a large house constructed of rubble stone in warm hues of buff gold and grey, with a tile roof and steeply pitched gables. It faced a central courtyard, with stables on one side and a small church on the other, the whole surrounded by a low stone wall and approached through a gate beyond the bridge.

Beside her, her father said, “That’s it, ey? Pembrooke Park?”

“Yes.”

She glanced at him to gauge his reaction, but it was difficult to tell what he was thinking.

Mr. Arbeau stepped nearer, addressing them both. “My client did not mention any such barricade. It must have been erected in recent years without my client’s knowledge.” Mr. Arbeau tugged on his cuffs. “Come. We shall walk from here.”

He employed a gold-headed walking stick as he strode off. Abigail and her father exchanged uncertain looks but followed the solicitor through the barrels and across the bridge.

On the other side, they passed through the gate in the stone wall and crossed the courtyard, their shoes crunching over the pea-gravel drive, where patches of weeds had grown up here and there from disuse.

Nearer now, Abigail noticed the manor’s windows were of different styles and eras. Some were arched, others square casement, and there were even two lovely projecting oriel bays. The front door was recessed under an arched porch. To Abigail it looked like a gaped mouth, and the windows above like frightened eyes. She blinked away the fanciful image.

A chain and padlock bound the double doors closed. Abigail and her father paused as Mr. Arbeau fished an old key on a black ribbon from his pocket. He lifted the padlock and inserted the key.

Suddenly a dog barked viciously and bounded across the drive toward them. Abigail stiffened and looked about for a weapon, ready to grab Mr. Arbeau’s walking stick if he didn’t think to use it. The muscular, square-headed mastiff lurched to a halt a few yards away, body coiled, teeth bared as its warning barks lowered to ominous growls.

Crack! A shot rang out, making Abigail jump and whirl around with a cry.

Her father stretched out an arm as though to shield her, the act touching if futile. Mr. Arbeau slowly turned in the direction of the shot.

There at the corner of the house some twenty yards away, a man held a smoking double-barrel flintlock, pointed up in the air. He was a tall, lean man of perhaps fifty years with faded red hair and trimmed beard, his legs spread in confident stance.

He lowered the gun, leveling it at them. “Next time I’ll na’ aim over yer heads.”

Her father raised his hands.

Mr. Arbeau regarded the man, hooded eyes revealing neither fear nor noticeable surprise.

A second, younger man ran onto the scene. “Pa!” His voice rose on a warning note. “Pa, don’t.” The man was in his midtwenties, with red hair as well.

He flicked a glance in their direction. “Put the gun down, Pa. And call off Brutus. These good people mean no harm, I’m sure. They don’t look like thieves to me.”

For a moment the older man remained poised as he was, sharp eyes darting from Mr. Arbeau, to her father, and at last to her.

The younger man reached out and lowered the barrel of the gun. “There now. That’s better.”

The older man kept his eyes locked on them and demanded, “Who are ye, and what’s yer business here?” His low voice betrayed a faint Scottish lilt. His long, thin nose and high, defined cheekbones gave him the look of an ascetic or aristocrat, though his clothes were less refined than his features.

Mr. Arbeau stepped down from the porch, reaching into his pocket as he did so.

The gun snapped up again in response.

“My card,” the solicitor explained, his hands wide in supplication. “The name is Arbeau. And we have every right to be here, I assure you.”