The Secret of Pembrooke Park(94)

He dropped his hand. “Practical Miss Foster. You do steal a man’s fun.” He sighed dramatically. “And here I thought we were going to be good friends.”



On Tuesday another letter arrived, but this one bore no postal markings and had been delivered by hand. Kitty Chapman brought it to her, saying a woman in the churchyard had asked her to give it to Miss Foster.

“Did this woman wear a veil?” Abigail asked.

“Yes! How did you know?”

She is near, then, Abigail thought. Did this confirm that the veiled woman in the churchyard was Harriet Pembrooke? She unfolded the old journal page and read it there in the hall.

I finally found it. The secret room. It was there all along, so close. And just in time. His rages are growing worse. And during the worst of them, I slip inside to hide and wait for the storm to pass. But now I’m wracked with guilt. I should have let my brothers in on the secret. But I did not, selfish creature that I am. And now he’s hurt. And it’s my fault, at least in part. I should have protected him. I can still hear my father’s growl and my brother’s sickening cry. The clunk and tumble down the stairs. My mother’s scream.

I thought my heart would burst when I saw him, a tangle of limbs on the marble floor. One leg bent at such an unnatural angle.

Papa refused to send for the surgeon until we all agreed to say it was only an accident. My brother moaned all night until I thought I would go mad hearing it. The following day, in desperation, Mamma agreed and asked us all to lie, which she hated to do. Hated him, for asking it of her. Finally he sent for the surgeon, and the man came, astounded at the damage. He asked when and how it had happened.

Papa looked at Mamma and challenged, “Yes, how did it happen, my dear?”

“He fell down the stairs,” she gritted out, pale and sullen. “A terrible accident.”

Mr. Brown asked, “Why did you not send for me immediately?”

This time Mamma refused to answer and stared defiantly at her husband.

“Oh,” he said casually, “we weren’t sure the injury was serious enough to require a surgeon’s attention.”

Mr. Brown looked from the twisted leg to my father as though he were a madman. And perhaps he is.

The surgeon set the leg as best he could, but suggested my father take his son to a hospital. Papa wouldn’t hear of it. I think he’s afraid of what we might do in his absence. Or that none of us would be here when he returned.

Abigail’s stomach lurched. She thought of what the surgeon had recently told Mr. Chapman, his own similar account of the “accident.” Poor Miles. Had his father really pushed him?

Miles came hobbling across the hall, dressed in riding clothes and leaning heavily on his stick. Her heart twisted anew to think how it had become injured in the first place.

“Miles, may I ask about your . . . ?” She hesitated. Dare she ask about his father?

“About what, Miss Foster? You may ask me anything.”

Her courage failed her. “About your sister, Harriet?”

He pursed his lip. “There isn’t much more I can tell you. As I said, I have only seen her twice in the last dozen years. I left the country when quite young, remember, and she moved elsewhere, both of us eager to leave the past behind.”

“Did she ever marry?”

Miles hesitated. “She wouldn’t want me talking about her private affairs, Miss Foster. You must forgive me. Even though she and I are not close, I am duty bound to be loyal to her as her brother.”

“Of course.”

“But I will say she has been unlucky in love . . . and leave it at that.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“I have not been lucky in love either, in the past. But I hope my fortunes are changing in that regard?”

Was that a statement or a question? Abigail wondered uncomfortably. “I hope so, for your sake.”

Abigail thought again of the veiled woman. “Does your sister ever visit this area?”

Again he hesitated. “I . . . think so, yes. But not often. Again, I don’t keep track of her comings and goings.”

“I suppose she has had to inspect the place over the years—as executor, I mean?”

He shrugged. “I think she has left most of that to her solicitor.”

Abigail nodded vaguely, and Miles continued across the hall. She wondered again what drew the woman to the churchyard—and to write her letters, if indeed they were one and the same person.

“Miles,” she called after him, then waited until he had turned before asking, “You didn’t fall down the stairs, did you?”

He smiled easily. “Oh, but I did. I told you.”

“I mean . . . it wasn’t an accident, was it. You were pushed.”

His smile fell. He looked at her, nostrils flared, fist clenched on the handle of his stick. But his voice when he spoke was incongruously gentle. “Who . . . told you that?”

Abigail swallowed, not wanting to reveal her source. She said quietly, “You were not the only person your father pushed.”

“Ha.” A cracked little laugh escaped him. “Only the youngest.”

She felt tears sting her eyes. “I am sorry, Miles. Truly.”

His mouth, his entire face, twisted in displeasure. “I don’t want your pity, Miss Foster. That is the last thing I wanted you to feel for me.”