The Secret of Pembrooke Park(83)

“Did a candle lamp fall or something?”

“No, Papa.”

“Are you saying you don’t think it was an accident?”

“Keep your voice down, but yes. Someone started that fire.”

“You can’t know that.”

“If you mean can I prove it? No. But I know it. In here.” He pressed a hand to his chest.

“But who would do such a thing?” Mac asked. “And why?”

Abigail spoke up, “I don’t know if I should mention it or not, but I saw a black barouche drive past when I walked up the lane and spied the fire.”

“Whose barouche?”

“I don’t know, but there can’t be many vehicles that fine around here.”

William shook his head. “I don’t think we need to look any farther than Pembrooke Park for a suspect.”

“Duncan, do you mean?” Abigail asked, having witnessed the manservant’s clear dislike of the Chapmans.

Again he shook his head.

Abigail blinked. “You don’t mean Miles? I can’t believe he would do such a thing.”

“He was clearly angry with me last night, and perhaps jealous in the bargain.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed. “What happened last night?”

“I’ll tell you later, Papa.” He looked at her. “Where is Mr. Pembrooke now?”

As if summoned by their conversation, Charles Foster came jogging over, Miles Pembrooke hobbling behind with his stick.

“Molly just came and found us,” her father said. “Is everyone all right?”

“Did you not hear the bell, Papa? Or see the smoke?”

“We were playing chess in the drawing room—it’s at the back of the house, so we didn’t see anything. We did hear bells but assumed it was some special service we didn’t know about.”

William and his father exchanged a look. Was he chagrined to have suspected Miles unfairly? Or did he suspect him still?

“Good heavens, Mr. Chapman,” Miles said, pulling a face. “Your shoulder looks horrendous.”

“Hm?” William craned his neck to look at it.

Mac frowned down at the angry patch of charred shirt and skin, which looked as if some wild cat had clawed William’s shoulder. Perhaps the shock and his focus on putting out the fire had masked the pain, for it seemed as if William—as if all of them—were only now becoming aware of the injury. He swayed slightly.

“Sit, lad. Here,” his father said, guiding him to one of the kitchen chairs they’d dragged out to salvage from the flames.

He sat heavily down.

“I’ll ride for the surgeon,” Miles offered, surprising everyone. “Those burns should be seen to.”

“Mr. Pembrooke, I don’t—”

“Don’t worry. I can’t run with this leg, but you’ve never seen anyone saddle a horse faster.” He turned and began hobbling toward the stable. “Mr. Brown still surgeon here?”

“Aye,” Mac called after him. “Same green house.”

True to his word, Miles Pembrooke was seen galloping over the bridge on his horse a short time later.

After he had gone, Charles Foster looked at William and said kindly, “Come, son. Let’s get you into the manor. “You can’t stay here. Not with all the smoke. The surgeon can see you there.”

Soon William found himself lying on a velvet sofa in the Pembrooke Park morning room. How strange it felt to be there, his parents and the Fosters gathered around him. A clean sheet covered the fine old velvet—the housekeeper had seen to it—and considering his sooty state, William took no offense.

Mr. Brown had come, tended his burns in private, and laid an ear to his chest to listen to his heart and lungs. Then he’d asked the others to join them.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the bandages and reapply salve,” he’d announced. “I recommend plenty of rest and liquids for a few days. And clean air—stay clear of the parsonage.”

“But I need to board up the broken windows, at least, and cover the hole in the wall.”

“Now, lad, don’t you worry about that,” his father said. “Leave it to me.”

“That’s right. Listen to your pa,” Mr. Brown admonished him. “Don’t try to return yet. Not with all that soot and smoke in the air. Bad for the breathing.” He looked at Mac. “Keep him from overexerting himself for a few days at least.”

“If I have to tie him down.”

Kate Chapman added, “We’ll nurse him at home, Mr. Brown.”

“But there isn’t room,” William said. “Not with Grandmamma staying with us now.”

“My wife’s mother has recently moved in with us while she recovers from a fall,” Mac explained. “But we’ll make do.”

William shook his head. “I don’t want to put anyone from their beds.”

Mr. Foster spoke up. “Your son must stay here with us, Mac. We have so many spare rooms. You and your family may come and go as you please—and Mr. Brown, of course—until your son is quite recovered and the parsonage repaired.”

“We could’na do that, Mr. Foster. But thank you for your offer.”

“Why on earth not? Come, Mac, it would be our pleasure. The least we can do for our parson and neighbor.”