Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  What would he do if he found out the truth about their baby?

  Living on the coast, she knew well that it only took a small leak to sink a ship. And if a ship, no matter how strong, ran aground, everything onboard could be lost.

  She didn’t know what to do next, but she would do everything she could to keep their little ship intact.

  Yellow rapeseed fields glittered like stamps of gold leaf among the prim and quite proper plots of green and brown. Her nose pressed against the window, Heather scanned the English countryside as the 757 flew low over the farmland and then Windsor Castle in its approach into Heathrow.

  Her daughter was flying from Dulles, and if all went as planned, Ella’s plane would touch down about fifteen minutes from now. They planned to pick up their rental car together before driving the two hours over to the vacant cottage in Bibury.

  It was the last time she’d ever have to visit the place where everything went awry.

  Heather’s father had been gone from this world for almost four months now, but it seemed like much longer—decades even—and she missed him. Her parents had sent her to an independent girls’ school for her primary and secondary education, but when she was home, she’d loved spending time with her dad. Walter Doyle was a man of honor. A man who stuck to his principles when others let theirs slide. He’d been the postmaster in Bibury for more than thirty years, and as a child, she had been proud of his discipline and reputation in their village and the surrounding towns.

  On the summer evenings Mum worked as a hairdresser, earning extra money for Heather’s boarding school, he would entertain her with the most wonderful tales. It seemed like he knew a little about everyone’s business, but when he told her what he’d heard, he would put wings on the stories and make them bigger. Grander.

  The childhood that started idyllically, however, began to sour in the latter part of her secondary school years. And then, after what happened with Christopher—

  She’d left to attend a university in London though really she’d been running away—from her parents and Christopher and the big, gaping wound she thought would heal with time. For years the wound stung, the rejection from her first love slashing through her core. Over the years, it left behind an ugly scar, but even now, she sometimes felt as if her wound had never fully healed. The thought of reopening it terrified her.

  Her father had never forgiven her for eloping with Jeffery during her second semester of college, and none of her visits back to England had repaired the rift that separated them. Unlike the artwork she restored, there were no paints or paste or tools to mend the ragged gap in their relationship.

  Regret and shame haunted Heather during her years with Jeffery. She’d tried to forget the young man she’d loved deeply back in Bibury, but her heart warred inside her. It wasn’t her love for Christopher that slowly severed her marriage. It was her anger at Christopher—and anger toward herself.

  When Ella was six, Jeffery decided to leave, and he never returned. Heather knew she’d made some lousy choices in her struggle to grow up, but she never once regretted being Ella’s mother.

  She glanced out the window again at the sprawl of London that stretched like the threads on a cobweb. As if it wanted to capture her and her heart again.

  Heather’s mum had been disappointed when Heather told her that she and Jeffery had married . . . and were expecting a child. But during the last three years of her life, Mum had loved her granddaughter dearly. Ella attended the service for her grandmother back in 1992, but she hadn’t been back to England since then. She and Matthew had been on their honeymoon the week of her grandfather’s memorial service.

  Having Ella here now would keep Heather focused on the task at hand. For the next two weeks, she was determined to put her past behind her and honor her father by caring for his things.

  And she was determined to avoid Christopher Westcott and his family.

  Once she set the cottage in order, she would hand the keys to a real estate agent and return to Portland. In the rhythm of her work back in Oregon, her ordered life, peace would be restored.

  The plane’s wheels touched down, jolting her back to her reality.

  She found Ella by the window in the Terminal 4 lobby, texting her husband even though it was three in the morning Phoenix time. Ella looked like she was still in high school, with her short strawberry blonde hair pushed back behind her sunglasses, not the least bit frazzled after her long flight.

  “How is my son-in-law?” Heather asked as she slid into the seat beside her.

  Ella turned and squealed before wrapping her arms around her in a giant hug. “He says he’s afraid I’ll love it so much here that I won’t come home.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll love it, but I think you love him a bit more.”

  “That’s what I keep telling him.” Ella reached for her backpack and strapped it over her shoulder. “I can’t believe we’re finally here!”

  “Me neither.” Heather smiled at her beautiful daughter. “I’ve sure missed you.”

  Ella grinned back at her. “The last time I was here, I was like two.”

  “Actually, like three.”

  “I don’t remember a thing.”

  Heather stood up. “Then let’s see England together.”

  They rolled their luggage out to the parking garage, and when they found their rental car—a compact Volkswagen—Ella opened the door on the right side and started to climb inside.

  Heather leaned against the door behind her, holding up the keys. “You want to try it?”

  Ella backed away from the vehicle. “I’m not driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  “It’s not wrong over here.”

  She hurried to the passenger side of the car and buckled in before Heather insisted she try.

  As they cruised slowly out of the airport, Heather regaining her confidence in driving on the opposite side, Ella talked about her new job as an account executive and all the weekend trips she and Matthew had planned for the summer. Heather would never tell Ella, but some days she missed her daughter so much, her heart ached. After Jeffery left, some days—and some months—it had been hard raising a child alone, but she and Ella had leaned into each other like two hearty trees that had sprouted from different roots, their trunks entwined into one. And they’d remained there until Ella began growing her branches. Then the winds of life blew her daughter in a different direction.

  It was a strange season, having her daughter married and off working in another state now. Ella used to say they were two peas in a pod, traveling, playing, and even studying together when Heather returned to college to finish her degree. They were still two peas, just no longer in the same pod. Ella had a husband and a career, and Heather treasured these rare mother-daughter moments.

  “Tell me everything that’s happening at home,” Ella said, but when Heather started talking about her latest restoration projects, her daughter yawned.

  Some moms sang their children to sleep when they were young. Others read a book or told a story. All Heather had to do was start talking about the details of her work, and her daughter would be asleep in minutes. Ella was as curious as her grandfather about the world, but she had little tolerance for details or order.

  For a while, Heather thought none of the efficient, orderly genes from the Doyle side of the family had passed down into her daughter’s life, but about five years ago, Ella suddenly realized she needed to develop a somewhat orderly schedule to maintain a job. Fortunately, she didn’t need to sit still for long in her position with the marketing firm.

  “Surely you’ve been doing something other than working,” Ella said.

  “There’s not much time for anything else,” Heather replied, drumming her fingers as she drove.

  Ella eyed the steering wheel. “Are you nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps there are some friends in Bibury you’ll want to see.”

  “Most everyone has moved away.” Glancing over, sh
e saw Ella studying her face. “What?”

  “I wonder if one of your old boyfriends still lives here.”

  Heather managed a grin. Ella, in her four months of marriage, now thought herself an expert on relationships and she was determined to help her mother find love again. But there were no relationships Heather wanted to discuss. As long as Ella didn’t find out about Christopher, everything would be fine. “Maybe,” she finally said with a shrug.

  Ella clapped her hands. “Is he still single?”

  “Probably not.”

  Ella sighed. “Then I guess you’ll have no choice but to stick with Nick.”

  “I’m not sticking with anyone—” She stopped herself, glancing back over at her daughter. “What’s wrong with Nick?”

  “He’s a bit stuffy and . . .”

  Her eyebrows climbed. “And what?”

  “You need to be with someone who’s not like you!”

  “You’re saying I’m stuffy?” she asked as she pulled down the sun visor.

  Ella tilted her head. “A bit.”

  “You’re getting quite bold in your older years.”

  “Matthew says I need to practice transparency.”

  “Don’t feel compelled to be so transparent with me.”

  When Ella laughed, Heather’s heart flooded with joy. Matthew’s tenacity combined with his responsibility and honesty was good for her daughter. And Ella’s love of spontaneity, adventure, and all things beautiful was good for him.

  They turned off the main highway and drove back through the grassy hills in the Cotswolds. “I only want you to meet someone who will—” Ella started.

  “Who will what?”

  “Who will make you smile.”

  “I can smile just fine on my own.” Heather flashed her a grin to prove it.

  Ella rolled her eyes. “It’s so much better to smile with someone else, isn’t it?”

  Of course it was, but she didn’t tell her daughter that.

  Ella closed her eyes, her short curly hair forming a sort of halo around her head as she leaned back against the seat. A couple minutes later, her breathing deepened into the steady pace of peaceful slumber.

  Heather glanced over at Ella’s unblemished skin and button nose. She looked like Mum, but their personalities were different. Maggie Doyle had been wary of most people and their motivations, but Heather adored her, even during her teenage years when it felt as if her mum interrogated her almost every night about where she had been and with whom.

  In hindsight, she should have listened more instead of balking—and ultimately all out rebelling—against both her mum and dad.

  Ella woke again as they entered the picturesque village of Bibury. A stone bridge arched over the placid River Coln, and Ella craned her neck to watch a swan and its fuzzy, brown cygnets floating alongside beds of watercress and the boggy watermeadow called Rack Isle.

  Ella lifted her phone and snapped a picture. “It’s like someone cued them.”

  “I called ahead.” They drove past a row of sandstone cottages with colorful gardens, and in the center of town, Heather pointed out the ancient Saxon church. “St. Mary’s was on a Christmas stamp a few decades back.”

  Ella rolled down her window to take another picture. “It’s all so—so perfect.”

  Sometimes it felt a little too perfect, Heather thought, on the outside at least. For better or worse, one thing she liked about Portland was that no one seemed to be afraid of their imperfections.

  As they climbed the hill above the village, Heather sped past the large country home on her left, averting her eyes from the Westcott family residence. But she slowed the car as they neared the Croft family property.

  Ella took off her sunglasses to examine the massive iron gates and gray stone wall. “What’s behind that?”

  “An old manor house called Ladenbrooke.”

  “How far away is our cottage?” Ella asked, her gaze still on the formidable wall.

  “Right next door.” She hadn’t thought about Ladenbrooke in such a long time, not until Nick had brought that painting to her studio.

  Ella looked back at her and grinned. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to our neighbors.”

  She tapped the gas. “The Crofts moved a long time ago, and as far as I know, they’ve never returned.”

  “But you haven’t been here in eons!”

  “No, but—” She slowed again before turning into the driveway for the cottage. “Their son Oliver died the year after I was born, and the family moved over near London. I don’t think they ever returned.”

  Ella unbuckled her seatbelt. “How did he die?”

  “He drowned in the River Coln.”

  “The same river that goes through town?” she asked skeptically.

  “The very one,” Heather said as their car bumped over the gravel. “The current travels fairly fast down the hill, but I used to wonder as well how a teenage boy could drown in it.”

  Ella opened her door, but she didn’t step outside. “Did you ask your parents?”

  She nodded. “I asked my mum, but she said no one can explain a tragedy.”

  “Surely she knew something—”

  Heather shrugged. “She hated talking about sad things like that.”

  “I’ll do a little digging,” Ella said, looking past Heather at the stone wall that wrapped around the Ladenbrooke property, separating the cottage from the manor house. “Perhaps we can figure out what happened to Oliver Croft.”

  “If the answers are still around, I have no doubt you’ll find them.” Instead of looking toward Ladenbrooke, Heather stared at the old stone cottage ahead of her—the home for Ladenbrooke’s gardeners, decades before Oliver died.

  For all she knew, someone had bought the Croft house and renovated it. The old manor deserved to be cared for, yet a small part of her also wished they’d leave it alone. The world changed so fast, those close to you were gone sometimes before you were able to say good-bye.

  She wanted everything—well, almost everything—in Bibury to remain the same.

  JULY 1954, CLEVEDON, ENGLAND

  Walter held his sleeping daughter in his arms, his eyes intent on her face as if she might fly away if he dared blink. She had blue eyes like Maggie, tiny toes that flailed when she cried, and a nose that reminded him of his mother. With her halo of blonde hair, she was beautiful, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and—in spite of her early birth—she was absolutely perfect.

  When the midwife first handed him his daughter, he’d been terrified that he might hurt her. She was so small—only five pounds, eight ounces—but Sally said it was a healthy weight. No need to even call the doctor. While Maggie slept off the pethidine, Sally showed him how to hold the baby properly, and he’d taken great care to follow her instructions with precision.

  Now he glanced over at his wife tucked under the sheets of the narrow bed in the maternity home. Asleep. Maggie was still groggy from the medication, but Sally told him not to worry and not to rush in waking her. So he sat in a small chair beside Maggie’s bed and tried to feed their daughter from the glass bottle their midwife brought him.

  July 27, 1954

  The date that would forever be inscribed in his heart.

  At first he’d been terrified when Maggie began having contractions, ten weeks before their baby was due. He didn’t know much about babies, and he’d spent almost seven hours pacing up and down the block outside the maternity home, praying while his wife labored. Sally had finally given Maggie the pethidine to ease her pain, and after the birth, she said Maggie was recovering well. With that news, he’d breathed deep with relief and thanked the One above for answering his pleas.

  He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost Maggie or their baby.

  Things had been strained between he and Maggie this past month, ever since she’d asked him to leave Clevedon. The morning after their dispute, she’d even said she doubted his love, and her words cut him deeply.

  How could she ever dou
bt his love for her?

  The summer he’d met her, two years ago, he wanted to ask her to marry him. She had gone out on a few dates with him, like she had with several other boys in Clevedon, but she hadn’t reciprocated any of his interest. Even when he got up the nerve to propose the first time, she kindly but soundly turned him down.

  But everything changed that night of the storm, when the wind almost carried Maggie away. She’d later told him that she hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d stepped so close to the railing. Thank God he’d come before it was too late. He couldn’t bear to think what might have happened if he hadn’t seen her.

  Of course, it was almost impossible that he wouldn’t see her. Every night for months, whether or not his work was done for the day, he’d taken a walk along the harbor because he knew Maggie would be sitting on that bench. She always looked so intent, her eyes focused on the pier and estuary beyond them. He never spoke with her on his walks, hadn’t wanted to intrude.

  The night he finally intruded, he discovered that she did love him after all. He understood why she’d waited to reciprocate—she was almost seven years younger than he was—but he didn’t understand why she’d then questioned his love.

  He’d wrestled with her words, her accusation that he didn’t really love her, for weeks. Now that their baby had come, he was certain Maggie would agree they must stay in Clevedon. How could he give up his newspaper—work he enjoyed—to move away when decent work was so hard to find? The income was nominal, but between the newspaper and his freelance work at the Standard, it was enough to provide for his family. Few men in this area actually liked their work, but he thrived when he had a pen and paper in hand.

  His daughter stirred, and he picked up the milk again. Nudging the blanket away from her face, he watched her suckle the bottle. It was even more critical now to provide the best he could for his family. Maggie needed to be at home with their baby for as long as possible.

  It would be a tall challenge to father well, with all the changes happening in their country, but he wanted to protect both Maggie and their children and give them the gift of hope for their future. He wanted his daughter to look up to him as he had done with his father before he was killed in the war.