Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  Lady Croft wasn’t the only mother to critique her parenting. A few weeks ago, after church, one woman took it upon herself—like Mrs. Hoffman had four years ago—to lecture her about Libby’s need for more discipline. Then another mother pulled her aside at school recently and said that Libby clearly needed a mother who didn’t withhold affection from her. If Maggie expressed her love more freely, Libby would love other children.

  Did she need to discipline Libby more? Love her more?

  Doubt made her brain twist and twirl like the seawater during a storm. Guilt made her second-guess all of her decisions along with her present state of mind. Had she been withholding affection from the girl she loved?

  Her heart ached for her child, but whatever happened, she would not send her away to one of the homes for children who struggled with their mental capabilities. She regretted so much in her life, but she didn’t regret giving Libby life. She knew well that it wasn’t God’s perfect will for her to become pregnant before she married, but Jesus loved children. He loved Libby too, no matter who her father was. And He understood Libby even more than Maggie did.

  She only wished He would tell her how to mother her daughter well.

  She dug deep into the dirt and planted her bulb, her anger driving her to work even harder. Libby mimicked Maggie’s digging and planting, and then she whispered to each tulip as she planted it, coaxing it to grow. Maggie was keenly aware that Libby would never be like the Croft children, but she didn’t really want her to be like anyone else. She wanted Libby to be exactly who God created her to be.

  An hour later, Walter came home and found them still digging in the old flower beds, trying to make them new. Libby ran to him, wrapping her dirt-plastered hands around his sleeve to tug him toward the gardens.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets as he examined their work. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re making flowers!”

  He glanced back and forth with curiosity between Maggie and her. “You grow flowers, sweetheart—”

  “Not our daughter,” Maggie explained. “Libby makes them.”

  It probably seemed like the most minor of points, a simple technicality in word choice, but Maggie knew it meant everything to Libby. In her was the innate desire to create.

  Libby pointed at a small mound. “This one will be blue,” she said then pointed to another mound. “And that one will be red.”

  She skipped around the flower bed, naming all the colors for him.

  Walter kissed her on the head. “They will be spectacular.”

  In his gaze, Maggie saw the growing love he had for her. Perhaps Libby disappointed him at times, but she didn’t think Walter had ever stopped caring about her.

  “Your flowers will be the most beautiful in all of England,” Walter said, stepping into her imaginary world.

  Libby gave him a curious look, and he blinked hard as if he were fighting back tears. Maggie couldn’t stop her own tears from falling, but wiped them off quickly with the back of her glove.

  “The flowers are thirsty,” Libby said before she bounded toward the house to fill her watering can.

  Both Maggie and Walter watched her rush away. “She loves you so much,” Maggie said.

  He looked back at the messy mounds of dirt. “She’s going to be okay, isn’t she?”

  “She needs to make things. Just like you used to do.”

  He met her gaze. “Writing is different.”

  Maggie watched Libby hop onto the back patio. “I don’t think so.”

  “She’ll be disappointed when the colors are different than she imagined.”

  “Or maybe she’ll embrace the colors that the flowers chose on their own.”

  Walter was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “You’re a good mother, Maggie.”

  Her insecurities about her parenting skills began to subside as she smiled up at him. “And you’re a good father.”

  “But I’m not her fa—”

  She stood up and reached for his hand, silencing his doubts as he had silenced hers. “Yes, you are.”

  He gave the slightest nod and her heart warmed when she saw the hint of a smile.

  Libby had become much more than an obligation to him, and she had no doubt he loved her.

  Not a single one.

  JUNE 1968, LADENBROOKE MANOR

  A wooden seat circled the turret that overlooked Ladenbrooke’s gardens. Oliver sat on the bench, binoculars in hand, his eyes focused soundly on the girl who roamed among the yellow and purple iris below. He didn’t like being anyplace else in the house—the portraits of his ancestors were creepy, their eyes seeming to follow him wherever he went, and everything was valuable, as his mother liked to say.

  V-a-l-u-a-b-le.

  Sometimes she spelled it out just like that, as if he were six instead of almost sixteen.

  He took every opportunity to avoid being in the house, and when he was home on holiday, he spent most of his time in the village, playing cricket or rugby with the other boys in town. Anything to keep from wandering the halls of a house that seemed to be falling apart over their heads.

  In recent years, he’d noticed some of the v-a-l-u-a-b-l-e-s disappearing as well—porcelain vases, tapestries, marble busts. More than twenty years after the war, his parents were still struggling to keep the manor intact. Money didn’t flow like it once had, and his parents had even begun selling off some of their property. His father sold the old bothy to the Doyle family several years back, and Oliver was thankful for that. Libby no longer came to the house after school, but at least she could still sneak into the gardens.

  Sometimes she explored in the afternoons and sometimes she came in the evenings, right before the darkness conquered the light. Once the sun went down, he couldn’t see her anymore, and on those evenings he was highly annoyed at the sun for giving up the fight.

  His mother’s flowers won all sorts of prizes for their beauty, but he thought Libby, with her brilliant copper-streaked hair and striking blue eyes, was more beautiful than anything found in a garden. She was an enchanting princess, reigning over a comely court.

  He’d known Libby was a princess since they were children. She’d captivated him long before he started school, and for years, he’d been trying to win her attention. Some people thought she was crazy, but she wasn’t. She was ethereal. Magical. Like a fairy or butterfly.

  If only he could be like her. Happy and free.

  She seemed to understand what so many people did not. That happiness was not found in trying to pigeonhole one’s self into another’s ideal. Happiness was found in embracing all you were created to be.

  She twirled again in the twilight.

  Libby seemed to draw energy from the flowers. She didn’t hurt the gardens or the butterflies, but his mother still didn’t want her on their property. Earlier this summer, his mother directed Henry to padlock the gate between the cottage and manor, but in the afternoons, when Mother was overseeing one of her many committees, Oliver removed the gardener’s lock. And after Libby left for the night, he’d lock up the gate again.

  His mother took credit for the prized flowers of Ladenbrooke, but she never worked in the gardens herself. She hired Henry and a staff of three other gardeners to fulfill her vision, so she hadn’t discovered his magic with the lock. She rarely visited her gardens, but she’d ordered Henry to notify her immediately if Libby returned.

  Fortunately Libby had managed to evade Henry’s watch—or perhaps the head gardener looked the other way instead of reporting Libby whenever she visited the gardens.

  Oliver didn’t understand—why couldn’t his mother just let Libby dance?

  But neither of his parents were fond of the girl who’d captured his attention. If they knew he watched her up here, they would probably banish him from the tower forever. It was foolishness really, how they tried to control his every move, as if they could control his thoughts and his heart along with his actions.

  He longed to be free like Libby,
but his parents treated him more like a piece of pottery—shaping and molding him into the distinguished Lord of Ladenbrooke.

  No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be lord.

  Two days ago his father’s man descended on the gardens, presumably to escort Libby back to the gate, but Oliver had rushed down the stairs as fast as he could and told the man to leave Libby alone. The man was conflicted, but he finally relented to the junior Croft, though he later told Lord Croft about their intruder.

  Over dinner his mother had ranted about Libby’s presence on their property along with the state of Libby’s mind. Mother said she would appeal to the local authorities if Mr. and Mrs. Doyle didn’t stop their daughter from trespassing.

  Oliver told his mother that Libby was as harmless as the butterflies, but his mother thought Libby was a nuisance—a distraction—and she didn’t have time for either.

  Oliver, however, had plenty of time.

  The door into the tower creaked open, and Oliver shifted his focus away from the window. He braced himself for an inquiry from his parents, but his sister stepped in the room instead.

  Sarah flipped on the light overhead, and he shielded his eyes, the bulb blinding him for a moment.

  “You’re late to dinner,” she said, her white-gloved hands balled up on the waist of her pleated dress. The ends of her blonde hair were flipped up, and she wore a teal green hat that matched her dress and a double strand of pearls.

  He shrugged. “I was busy.”

  Sarah glanced down at the binoculars in his lap. Then she switched off the light and stepped toward the window. Her nose an inch from the glass, she scanned the shadows below them until her gaze stopped on the one shadow moving through their mother’s flower beds. “It’s Libby, isn’t it?”

  “Does it matter?” He stuffed his binoculars into the bench under the window seat.

  “Apparently it matters to you as much as it matters to our mother.”

  He stiffened. “Please don’t tell Mother she’s here.”

  “She’ll find out either way,” Sarah said, twisting the pearls on her neck.

  He shook his head. “Libby comes almost every night at this time.”

  Sarah sighed. “You like her, don’t you?”

  He looked back out the window, but he couldn’t see her anymore. “Very much.”

  “Father would have an awful fit if he heard you say that.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” Oliver begged. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Come along to dinner,” she said as she stepped back toward the door. “I’ll keep your secret.”

  He held the door open for her. “Thank you, Sarah.”

  Mother scolded them both for being late, but he didn’t care what his mother, or, for that matter, what his father, thought—about dinner or the girl next door.

  Libby was good and pure. Full of life and laughter. She might never love him like she loved the butterflies, but one day he hoped she might love him just a little.

  One day he would win her attention and perhaps capture a small bit of her heart as well.

  Adrienne crossed her legs in the leather seat next to Christopher, and she looked almost threatening in her black skirt, tights, and long black boots. Adrienne worked in admissions at Oxford, and even though she was thirty-six, it seemed half the population of male students along with their tutors were vying for her attention. For some reason, perhaps because he hadn’t vied, they had become friends, bonding over their mutual love of rowing and reading, though his choices in literature were much different than hers.

  He’d sold his car a long time ago, preferring to walk or bicycle around Oxford, so this morning he drove her convertible through dozens of tiny villages that dotted the Cotswolds. Adrienne was a smart woman who enjoyed a good story—and she seemed to enjoy his company most of the time, until he began talking about theology or his passion for writing. She was able to feign interest for a while but inevitably changed the subject.

  His younger brother said his relationship with Adrienne was a “rebound,” but it had been eight years since he’d lost his wife. He wasn’t thinking about marriage right now, and Adrienne didn’t seem the least bit interested in discussing marriage either. Though if he was gut-honest with himself, he did want to marry again one day. It might be too late to start a family, but he longed to settle into a relationship with a woman who didn’t have to pretend to enjoy their conversation.

  Adrienne was talking about a new restaurant opening outside Oxford, run by a renowned chef from one of the foodie shows. Christopher tried to pay attention to her words, but as their car crawled through the countryside, his focus was diluted. His anxiety, off the charts.

  He’d tried to convince Adrienne to come another weekend, but she wouldn’t budge on their plans. He’d already canceled the trip twice in the last month, and when he suggested rescheduling again, she asked if he was embarrassed to introduce her to his family. He wasn’t embarrassed, though after his experience with Lauren, he was hesitant. And nervous.

  It didn’t help his nerves to know Heather was home.

  Adrienne was adept at managing people whether it was her employees or the men who sought her mobile number. He had no doubt she would manage his family well also, and everything would be fine. Tomorrow, instead of staying in Bibury, he’d take her to one of the tourist spots in another town. Shakespeare’s birthplace. Warwick Castle. Winston Churchill’s childhood home.

  Anyplace far from Willow Cottage.

  Having grown up as friends, he and Heather had spent much more time together than he and Adrienne ever could with their busy careers. Time was the beauty and perhaps curse of young love. You could devote seemingly endless hours getting to know each other.

  It was easy to idealize the past, but dwelling on it was unbeneficial for him as the best memories of his youth all had Heather in them. In Oxford, he’d managed to escape most of the memories, even when he visited Walter, but he couldn’t seem to get away from the memories in Bibury.

  After all these years, he still didn’t understand what had happened between him and Heather. One night he had professed his love for her, saying he wanted to marry her. She’d accepted his proposal but then left for London the next day without even saying good-bye. In the months that followed, she refused every attempt he made to contact her.

  He’d given her his heart along with the promise of the future, and she had rejected and humiliated him.

  Instead of avoiding Heather this time, perhaps he should seek her out. Leave his personal baggage on her doorstep and move on. Once he saw her, reality would come crashing down, and then he could finally let go.

  They passed through a village, and Adrienne glanced around at the stone cottages and gardens as if she was just realizing they’d left Oxford. “It’s beautiful out here.”

  He smiled at her. “You should have come sooner.”

  “I tried.” Her lips scrunched together into a pout.

  “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

  “It would have been a bit awkward to visit my boyfriend’s home without my boyfriend.”

  He cringed at the word boyfriend, but knew he needed to stop being so uptight. “You have a rotten boyfriend.”

  Adrienne pulled down the sun visor to reapply her lipstick in the mirror.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “Not a bit.”

  “They’re all going to love you.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Of course they are.”

  HEATHER PACKED Libby’s Book of Butterflies into her handbag and stowed it in the basket on her old bicycle as she prepared to ride down the hill. To find out about Libby, she must visit the one woman she’d been avoiding ever since she’d come home.

  Mrs. Westcott was the town midwife, and though she’d been much younger than Heather’s mother, they had children the same age. Growing up, it had always seemed to Heather as if Mrs. Westcott and her mum were peers. She was one of the few people who came to visit often during H
eather’s childhood, and as far as she knew, the only friend of Mum’s that was still alive.

  After she crested the hill by Ladenbrooke, Heather spread out her legs and began to soar down toward Bibury. She and Christopher used to race like this when they were teenagers, not a single care anchoring them to the ground. They may have both grown up, but in her mind, Christopher would always be handsome and reckless and completely free from the cares of this world.

  His confidence had shaken her when she was younger. Sometimes she’d felt like she was clinging to the tail of a kite, bobbling along behind him. Her home was quiet—reserved—while the Westcott house was crazy loud and fun. Christopher once said he liked coming to her cottage to get away from the noise, but she hadn’t understood the value of peace at the time.

  Her feet back on the pedals, she braked in front of the Westcott home. Their renovated farmhouse was much larger than her parents’ cottage and, despite its age, in mint condition. The flower beds in front were free of weeds, and the family had replaced their thatched roof with slate.

  She slipped the butterfly book from her bag and walked up the steps, just as she’d done countless times in her teens. It was so strange to be back here, standing on the stoop like she was waiting for Christopher to answer the door again.

  She knocked tentatively on the front door, and seconds later, the door swung back.

  “Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Westcott exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  Heather smiled at the kindness in her welcome. Mrs. Westcott’s white hair was cut short, a pixie style, and her face was pale with the exception of a dark crimson shade on her lips.

  Seconds after she answered the door, Mrs. Westcott’s welcoming smile fell into a nervous one, the lines of her lipstick tightening like a wide rubber band. “I was hoping you would visit, but . . .” The woman didn’t finish her sentence. Instead her gaze traveled over Heather’s shoulder as if she was looking for a car.

  “I rode my bicycle,” Heather explained. “Should I come back another time?”

  Mrs. Westcott looked down at the sketchbook in Heather’s hand. At the pink-and-golden butterfly on the cover. “Where did you find that?”