Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  The Crofts were supposed to padlock the gate, but some days the lock seemed to disappear and Libby would wander over as if she were the Lady of Ladenbrooke. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t be in the gardens. She’d practically grown up in the old manor house, freely roaming the grounds throughout her childhood. She didn’t seem to care about returning to visit the house, not like she cared about Lady Croft’s flowers. He and Maggie tried to contain her on their side of the wall, but they continued to fail at their attempts.

  As she stood, Maggie tossed her handful of weeds into a pile. “I’ll find her.”

  Walter shook his head. “I can do it this time.”

  Maggie searched his face, as if trying to determine if he was sincere.

  “I want to get her,” he said. “She needs to understand what the Crofts will do if she keeps trespassing.”

  Maggie took off her gloves. “I don’t want to frighten her—”

  “A little fear is better than having the Crofts dictate her future.” While he wanted to help her conquer her fears on one hand, when it came to the gardens at Ladenbrooke, he needed her to be afraid.

  “Please be gentle with her,” Maggie said as he stepped away.

  He didn’t respond. Gentleness wouldn’t help Libby understand the realities of life.

  The gate in the wall was open, the padlock dangling from the handle on the opposite side. Walter glanced up at the grand house on the hillside. He didn’t see anyone on the lawn, so he descended down the path through the gardens. If he saw anyone, he hoped it would be the head gardener. He knew Henry from his mail route, and Libby knew him as well from her earlier years playing in the garden.

  Libby wasn’t among the flowers in the formal garden or under the arbor of grapevines, so he moved down the terraces on the hill. She wouldn’t be too close to the river, but she might be hiding among the trees.

  “Libby?” he called out.

  Light danced on the leaves, shifting shadows over his path as the sun started to set. He called her name again as he stepped out of the trees, toward the old maze.

  This time he heard her respond. “Shh . . .”

  He followed the sound of her whisper until he found her sitting by the lily pond.

  “We have to go,” he said.

  She pointed at a moss-green butterfly with black spots, hovering above a bed of red and orange poppies. “She’s trying to find a home for the night.”

  He eyed the butterfly. “How do you know?”

  “Because she’s usually asleep by now.” Libby’s gaze remained on the creature. “Butterflies can’t fly at night, you know.”

  He didn’t know—didn’t know anything about butterflies except what Libby told him.

  “Their wings only work when they’re warm,” she explained. “They would die without sunlight.”

  He held out his hand, trying to urge her to stand. “We can’t let the Crofts find you here.”

  “Their wings move like this.” Instead of taking his hand, she shaped a figure eight in the air. “They fly back and forth so they don’t miss anything.”

  “Your mum is going to start missing both of us if—”

  “The poisonous ones don’t fly nearly as fast as the others.” Her hand slowed. “More like this.”

  He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake them, jolting her back to reality.

  “Some of the adult butterflies only live about a month,” she said wistfully. “Only a month to play in the gardens.”

  “You need to stay in the gardens Mum planted for you.”

  She finally acknowledged his words with a shake of her head. “It’s not the same.”

  “Why not?”

  “My friends don’t come into our garden.”

  “The butterflies?” he asked.

  When she nodded, he sighed. Perhaps it was hopeless to make her understand right now. Perhaps he simply had to play along. “Have you invited your friends into our garden?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “They wouldn’t come.”

  “Let’s try again,” he begged.

  Before she replied, he heard a rustle on the other side of the hedge behind them. Then he saw a figure of someone moving between the tangled branches.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  The person stopped moving.

  “Who is it?” Walter called again, but no one answered as he stepped toward the tall hedge.

  He heard rustling again, the sound of someone running. He wanted to pursue whoever was on the other side, but they would be long gone before he rounded the hedge.

  When he glanced back at Libby, she didn’t seem worried about someone watching them.

  He put his arm around her. “We have to get you home.”

  She didn’t move, her eyes still on the butterfly. “I wish I could help her.”

  “You can, Libby,” he said, searching quickly for a reason behind his declaration. “You can encourage her to fly away.”

  She seemed to consider his words before curling her fingers over the edge of a boulder and beginning to stand. The butterfly flittered toward the maze, and for a moment, he thought Libby might chase after it, but she remained at his side.

  “She will find a safe place,” he assured her.

  She looked up into his face, not quite meeting his eyes, and then slowly nodded, seemingly content in his certainty. He thought it strange that a girl so unaccustomed to anxiety would be concerned about this butterfly and not about the person on the other side of the yews.

  They couldn’t go back up through the gardens and the gate now. Whoever had been watching them may already have alerted Lord or Lady Croft to their presence. They needed to find another way around the wall.

  He eyed the forest that hid the river. While he wanted her to be afraid of the Crofts, he no longer wanted her to fear the water.

  Perhaps this was the perfect opportunity to help her confront this fear of the river once and for all. Confront and conquer it. It was plenty warm enough for them to wade through the water. They only had to traverse about fifteen feet until they reached the shore on the other side of the wall.

  “We have to hurry, Libby.”

  She looked back at the flowers.

  “If we don’t go now, you might never see your friends again.”

  She rubbed her arms. “Like in Mr. McGregor’s garden?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Like Mr. McGregor and his garden.”

  The sun had almost set, casting long shadows over them as she followed him down to the river. He reached for her hand, but she shook away his grasp as she always did when anyone except Maggie tried to touch her.

  She studied the river and then looked down at her toes. Her voice trembled when she spoke again. “I don’t like the water.”

  “I know,” he said. “I will carry you.”

  She started to back away from the bank, and he decided it was time to be completely honest with her, to show her that she could be strong in the face of what she feared. “If the Crofts find you here tonight, they’ll have you sent away.”

  “I don’t like the water,” she repeated.

  “You won’t be able to live at the cottage with your mother and me anymore.”

  She shivered.

  “You won’t even be able to visit Mum’s garden,” he continued as he took off his shoes.

  Her gaze fell to the current, swirling around in the center.

  “But you’ll be safe if you let me carry you to the other side.”

  When she looked back up at him, he could see the wavering in her eyes as she decided whether or not to go with him.

  “You have to trust me, Libby, or some bad things might happen to all of us.”

  She didn’t argue anymore.

  He rolled up his trousers, and then with his shoes in one hand, he leaned over and swept his daughter off the ground. She was delicate. Fragile. More like the flowers she loved than the trees.

  As he stepped into the water, she circled her arms aro
und his neck and he held her close to his chest. She may not let him take her hand, but she freely gave affection on her own terms. Like when she was afraid.

  Stones poked into his feet as they slipped around an overgrown bush. The cold current rushed around his ankles and then his shins, but he didn’t let either deter him.

  He couldn’t remember a time, even when she was a toddler, that Libby had allowed him to hold her. Not that he had tried very hard. He’d allowed his own bitterness, his disappointment with life, to distract him from being a good father, and he feared it was too late to mend it. Yet Libby trusted him enough to let him carry her over her greatest fear. In her heart, she must know he wanted what was best for her.

  The strands of leaves on the willow tree dangled over the water like the beads around Libby’s bed. He ducked under the canopy of leaves, and in the fading light, he could see the field in front of him. In seconds, they could move out of the river and onto the path that would lead them home.

  He took another step, but this time he didn’t feel the smooth surface of a river rock under the water. This time a broken stick speared the sole of his foot.

  His body reacted against his will, his foot recoiling back up above the surface as he leaned sideways, Libby’s screams piercing his ear. He tried to anchor himself again, but it was impossible on the slippery stones. Dropping his shoes, he reached behind to protect them both from a hard fall.

  Water splashed over Libby as they landed in the river, water soaking through his trousers, across Libby’s lap.

  She shoved away from him, her eyes wide in terror.

  “I’m so sorry.” He quickly regained his footing and reached for her.

  Shaking her head, Libby backed away even farther. Then she slipped on one of the rocks and screamed as she fell into the current.

  He tried to help her out of the water, but she shook her head again, her tears mixing with the river. On her hands and knees, she crawled through the water until she reached the other side.

  He retrieved his socks and the shoe that hadn’t been stolen away by the current. Then he climbed up the grassy bank beside her.

  Libby’s arms were clutched around her knees, her entire body shaking as she rocked. When he sat beside her, she scooted away from him.

  “It was an accident,” he tried to explain, devastated that he’d lost control when she needed him to be strong.

  He put his hand on her shoulder, to comfort her as much as himself, but she moved away again.

  Dejected, he sat down on the rock beside her and watched the current flow by.

  Perhaps Maggie was right. They needed to protect Libby from harm instead of forcing her to confront her fears.

  AUGUST 1968, LADENBROOKE MANOR

  The scent of lilac and lavender drifted inside through the open windows, beckoning Libby to come play. She tiptoed through the dark hallway, pausing only to listen at her parents’ door. Through the crack, she heard Walter’s steady breathing.

  She hadn’t been back to the gardens in a week, ever since he’d dropped her in the water.

  She shivered at the memory.

  Mummy said Walter loved her, but it didn’t matter what she said. He was always wanting her to do things she didn’t want to do. Things that scared her. He wanted her to play with children who teased her. Read books instead of draw. Go to school when she didn’t learn a ruddy thing except that she was different from everyone else.

  Walter said he loved her, but he didn’t much like who she was.

  And sometimes she didn’t much like who she was either.

  Soft moonlight enveloped her path, guiding her toward the gate like creamy white petals leading a bride to the altar. Walter didn’t understand—she needed to be in these gardens. The beauty of it breathed life into her. Filled her very soul.

  She pushed down the latch, testing it slowly to see if it was locked on the opposite side. Her heart leapt when it opened.

  The lady left her gardens every autumn now when the flowers began to die, and Mummy didn’t seem to care if she visited the gardens when the lady was gone. But in the summer, when the flowers were blooming, when the air smelled sweet and the butterflies danced in the breeze, Mummy and Walter didn’t want her to explore.

  Yet this was her sustenance. Her magic. She needed to be here as much as the butterflies needed their nectar to fly.

  Quietly she closed the gate and hurried across the brick path until she reached the circular rose garden. In the center of the roses was the most lush carpet of grass. She tossed her shoes into the air, the soft grass tickling her toes. Then she stretched out her arms and twirled in the moonlight.

  Some people thought the rays of the moon were cool, like the rays of the sun were warm, but they were wrong. The light from the moon was as warm as the sun, a lovely, golden warmth that electrified her from the inside.

  “Libby,” someone whispered from the other side of the rosebushes.

  She stopped her dance, her hands falling to her side. It was him again. Interrupting her. As if he couldn’t stand the thought of her being alone.

  Some nights she liked seeing him, but nights like this when the moon was full, when the light and flowers were luring her outside, she just wanted to dance.

  Sighing, she moved toward the trees. “Oliver?”

  He stepped out from behind the trunk of an elm, into the moonlight. His hands were in his pockets, and he grinned at her in that sheepish way that made the girls in Bibury act all weird.

  Last week she’d been trying to sketch in the park, and he’d walked right over to her with an ice cream cone in each hand. He didn’t even ask. Just handed her one and then sat right down on her blanket like she needed company.

  Edith and her friends had walked by, laughing like they always did. They tried to get Oliver to come walk with them, but he refused. Edith glared at her when they left, as if she’d tethered Oliver to the blanket.

  For some reason, Edith and her friends didn’t like her at all.

  “Can I dance with you?” he asked.

  She hiked up her nose a notch, crossed her arms over her chest. “I only dance by myself.”

  When he laughed, her chin fell again. She loved to study the colors on a flower, the patterns on a butterfly wing, but she’d never really studied a face before.

  Was Oliver teasing her like the girls in the village? She stared at his eyes, but couldn’t tell. “It’s not funny.”

  “It seems to me that you are always dancing with something, Libby. The butterflies or the breeze or the starlight.”

  Something shifted inside her with his words. He’d never mocked her like some of the other children did. In fact it seemed as if he might understand a small part of her.

  She never danced alone, but it was a secret. And it scared her that Oliver knew her so well.

  She turned away. “I have to go home.”

  “I want to be your friend,” he said.

  “I already have friends.”

  “But I want to be your friend forever.”

  She considered his words.

  “Come with me,” he said, pointing back to the trees.

  “Where would we go?”

  He reached for her hand. “To the river.”

  Her skin bristled as she stared down at their hands knotted together like the vines over the lady’s arbor. No boy had ever touched her, but as he held her fingers gently in his, a strange feeling coursed through her. Not disgust or worry. Something closer to happiness, like the feeling of the grass under her toes.

  Oliver used to annoy her when they were kids, always wanting her to play with him, but he didn’t bother her as much anymore.

  “Come with me,” he whispered again.

  She shivered. “Not to the river.”

  “We’ll go someplace else then.” He clicked on his torch and light spread across their feet, erasing the warmth from the moon. “Have you been up in the tower?”

  She turned toward the path of light and then looked back at him, c
onfused. There were three towers in the manor, but the lady wouldn’t let her inside any of them.

  “I’m not allowed in your house.”

  “Not that tower.” He grinned. “The old folly in the maze.”

  She followed him across the paths of the lady’s gardens. And then into something like a tunnel between the yew bushes. She didn’t like the branches and leaves scratching her face, didn’t like the canopy above them that blocked the moon and stars.

  She tugged on his hand. “I want to go back.”

  “The tower’s right there,” Oliver said, pointing up to the tip of a structure between the bushes.

  She hesitated again. “I don’t know—”

  “We won’t stay long,” he promised, placing his other hand over hers, cradling her fingers.

  She’d spent most of her life trying to ignore Oliver, wishing he would leave her alone, but in that moment, her heart seemed to break free. She wanted nothing more than to be with Oliver in his folly.

  As she clung to his hand, he guided her through the bushes, through the corners and crevices and winding turns of the maze. When they reached the tower, he stepped inside first and the light from his torch flooded the ground floor. Cobwebs hung from the low ceiling, and she shivered again. She liked creatures that flew among the flowers, not ones that liked to hide.

  He urged her toward the circular stairs, but she refused to move.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  She didn’t want to be afraid of anything—not the river or other people or spiders—but still the fears pressed against her.

  He squeezed her hand again. “You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

  She nodded and warily began to walk toward the stairs with him. He tested the first step and then the second one. When he deemed each step safe, she climbed up after him.

  “My great, great-grandfather built this tower,” Oliver said. “The village thought it was only a folly, but it wasn’t.”

  Intrigued, she glanced up the steps. “What was it?”

  “His secret place.” Oliver reached for her hand. “He used to bring his mistress up here.”