The Secret of Pembrooke Park(70)

“I . . . I wished to see Pembrooke Park again. That’s all.”

“Why do I doubt that?”

“I have no idea.” Mr. Pembrooke’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Chapman, I don’t know what I have done to so vex you, but I—”

“Do you not? You were only a boy at the time, but you’re a man now. Surely you heard the rumor about your father and Robert Pembrooke’s death.”

“Yes. And I am sorry to say the rumor is likely true.”

Mac’s eyes flashed. “You mean he admitted he killed his own brother?”

Miles raised a hand. “I never heard him admit it, no, but I am ashamed to say I can believe it of him.”

Abigail thought of the Genesis verse referenced in the miniature book. “Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.”

Mac clenched his jaw. “And where is he now? Did he send you here to check up on the old place and . . . the lot of us?”

“Heavens no. I have not seen Father since we left Pembrooke Park eighteen years ago.”

“We thought you all left together.”

Miles shook his head. “My mother, brother, sister, and I left together. Father was . . . delayed.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I . . . don’t know. As I said, we have not laid eyes on him these many years. My mother believed him dead, but there is a part of me that fears he might still be alive.”

“Fears?” Abigail asked.

Miles looked at her. “You did not know my father, Miss Foster, or you would not ask such a question.”

“True enough,” Mac agreed. “And the rest of your family?”

“My brother died not long after we left here, and my mother died last year. There is only my sister and me now.”

Abigail interjected, “But you said Harry was the executor of the estate. I assumed you meant your brother. But how can that be if he is dead?”

Miles turned to stare at her. “Oh! No, Harri is my sister. Short for Harriet.”

“Oh . . .” Abigail said, feeling foolish. But then she realized it was the first time she had heard the given name of the executor, the person who had likely been sending her the journal pages—Harriet Pembrooke.

Mac asked, “And how long will you be staying?”

“I have not yet decided. Mr. Foster has been kind enough to invite me to stay on as long as I like.”

“Has he indeed?” Mac pierced Abigail with an accusing look, then returned his focus to Miles. “Do you intend to take over Pembrooke Park?”

“Me? Good heavens, no. Besides, there is some question of ownership.”

“A problem with the will?” Mac ventured.

“You’d have to ask my sister, but I believe the will is clear. Pembrooke Park was to go to Robert Pembrooke’s oldest child. It isn’t entailed away to the male line, as you may know.”

Mac nodded. “Aye, I know.”

“Since his family have all died, my father would have been next in line. As he is missing, the lawyers have it tied up in probate, and Harri refuses to pursue the matter. She doesn’t want the place, but nor is she keen on seeing it come to me for some reason. Which is fine by me, as I have no interest in living here again—beyond a visit, of course.” He smiled broadly at Abigail. “And a very pleasant visit it is.”

“Why not?” Mac asked, clearly skeptical.

“Bad memories here for us, as you might guess. Though being here with such charming hosts has soothed some of the bad memories, I own. Yes, I could quite get used to living in such fine quarters, with such pleasant company.” Again he smiled at her, his eyes shining with possessive warmth that sent a prickle of unease through Abigail’s stomach.

“I would’na advise it,” Mac said.

“Oh? And why not?” As much challenge glinted in Miles’s eyes as in Mac’s.

“You’d best be on your way. And leave these good people in peace.”

“Peace?” Miles looked at her and asked pleasantly, “Am I disrupting your peace, Miss Foster?” He pressed a beseeching hand to his chest. “Pray, do tell me if I am, and I shall leave forthwith.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be watching you.”

Miles smiled. “I am flattered, Mac, by your attention.”

Her father came in and drew up short at finding Mac Chapman there. “Oh, I didn’t realize . . .”

“I was just leaving.” Mac stepped to the door, then turned back. “I trust your houseguest will very soon follow my example.”

After the conversation between Mac and Miles, something niggled at Abigail, some little detail that lingered on the murky edges of her memory. Why did Miles’s sister allow the will to languish in probate? And why warn her to turn away anyone named Pembrooke? Did Harriet Pembrooke want the “hidden treasure” for herself? The second verse marked in the miniature book—the one from Numbers—flitted through her mind: “Visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.” Was that somehow related?

After Polly helped her into her nightclothes, Abigail sat on the edge of her bed and pulled out the bundle of letters and journal pages. As she reread the last one she’d received, one line jumped out at her: 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?