Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  Maggie looked back down at the stack. “He is.”

  “What’s wrong with him—”

  Maggie stiffened. “There’s nothing wrong with Walter.”

  “Then tell him to stop delivering her mail.”

  Mrs. Reynold’s eyes remained fixed on the magazine as Maggie curled her fingers over the back of the chair, facing her former employer. For the first time she realized that she was actually taller than Lady Croft by an inch or two. “Clearly you need to tell Oliver to leave my daughter alone.”

  “He doesn’t want to see her—”

  Maggie snorted. “Then why does he keep inviting her over?”

  “Oliver does nothing of the sort.”

  Maggie picked up the bottle again and turned to Mrs. Reynolds. Then she pointed the tip of her lotion toward an empty chair, speaking to the lady who stood trembling beside her. “If you’d like me to set your hair, you’ll have to wait for an hour. If not, I suggest you find your way back home.”

  Lady Croft didn’t move, holding the shopping bag like a shield in front of her. “Lord Croft and I have plans for Oliver, and I won’t let some—” She stopped herself. “I will do anything to protect my son.”

  Maggie met her gaze in the mirror. “And I will do anything to protect my daughter.”

  JULY 1969, LADENBROOKE MANOR

  Libby wore her prettiest dress as she glided through the backyard, a shimmering, blue one like Grace Kelly had worn in To Catch a Thief, before she became a princess. The moon was a perfect crescent, shooting rays of silvery light across the garden.

  After almost a year of waiting, Oliver had finally returned.

  She hadn’t seen him yet, but somehow he’d climbed the tree outside her window and left the loveliest bouquet of purple-and-bronze dahlias on the windowsill, tied together with twine, and a simple note that said to meet him by the gate tonight. At midnight.

  Or at least, that’s what she thought the note said. After writing the time, he’d drawn a clock with both hands pointing to the top.

  It was half past now, and she hoped she hadn’t missed him.

  “Oliver,” Libby whispered through the wrought-iron slats.

  When he didn’t answer, she waited for him in the shadows. Her fingers trembled against the metal, her heart racing. The family had been gone all winter and spring, but she hadn’t forgotten him for one single day. Not even a minute.

  Had he received her pictures?

  She’d sent dozens and dozens of them, but he hadn’t sent any letters in return.

  It didn’t matter now. Oliver said he would come tonight, and he never lied to her.

  What would he think of her and her new dress and her sandals instead of saddle shoes?

  Her gaze roamed over the dark garden on the other side. For months she’d visited this gate, longing to be among the lady’s flowers as they bloomed in the sun and curled up in the rain. But even more than the gardens at Ladenbrooke, she’d wanted to be with Oliver.

  He was her friend. Forever.

  Her hands twitched at her sides, and she pinched the gauzy material on her skirt. Oliver had always known her as a girl, but she’d changed since last summer. She was a young woman now—a woman who had other friends.

  She no longer attended school, but Daphne came almost every day after her work at the hospital for a visit. Daphne had married six months ago so she didn’t stay as long as she used to, but Libby liked it when her friend read to her.

  During the day, while Mummy worked, she spent hours in her room, drawing and painting butterflies and fairies and new flowers that were even more beautiful than those of the lady’s. These flowers were planted in the soil of her heart, rooted down inside her. Their blossoms opened slowly in her sketchbooks and on the paper her mummy brought her, revealing the secrets of their beauty to no one but her.

  Now that she was fifteen, visiting the flowers didn’t interest her as it once had. Instead she preferred drawing them alongside her butterfly friends.

  Daphne was a friend as well, but Libby didn’t long for her company like she did with Oliver. That was the reason she’d failed school again. How could she concentrate on silly numbers and such when Oliver kept wandering into her mind?

  She much preferred the study of Oliver Croft.

  She was done with school anyway. For good. She didn’t have a job nor could she attend the secondary modern school for another term. Once she failed her classes for the second year, no one pushed for her return.

  She didn’t care. Butterflies didn’t need to attend school and neither did she.

  Something rustled on the other side of the gate. “Oliver?” she whispered again.

  “Hello, Libby.” His fingers settled over hers, and she smiled at his touch. “I missed you.”

  She grasped his hand through the iron slats. “I want to see you, Oliver.”

  He quickly released her fingers to unlock the gate.

  OLIVER SHOOK THE IRON SLABS that separated him from Libby. The padlock was lying on the ground, the only thing that kept him from seeing the girl who’d danced through his dreams all year, but still the gate didn’t budge.

  “Walter put a lock on this side,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t want me in your garden.”

  His parents didn’t want her here either, but he needed to see her, more than anything.

  “You belong here, Libby.” And he belonged with her. “Can you climb over the wall?”

  “I already tried,” she whispered. “But I fell.”

  He could smell the lilac scent of her lotion through the gate, could see the copper strands of her hair glowing in the moonlight and her silky dress ruffling in the breeze. Libby Doyle was no longer the pretty girl he admired. She’d grown into an absolutely stunning woman.

  He touched her fingers through the gate again, and electricity shot through him.

  She was fifteen now, no longer a child. And he was almost seventeen. A man who knew exactly what he wanted—and what he did not want. He’d never wanted to follow in his father’s steps as lord of this manor or anything else.

  The past school year he’d spent mingling with Judith Perdue and other debutantes in London, and most of the young women—Judith included—treated him with great respect, even awe. Like he already ruled over Ladenbrooke Manor.

  Libby didn’t treat him like royalty. She treated him like a friend.

  But he wanted so much more than a friendship from her.

  How he wished he could marry her, all proper-like, instead of marrying Lord Perdue’s youngest daughter.

  Blast his future! He had to find a way to see Libby tonight, in the folly. “We’ll have to go through the river,” he said.

  She pulled her fingers away from his. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll meet you down on the bank.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Libby?” he whispered, afraid she’d left.

  She was silent, and he ached, ached for her and everything he wished they could be together. Ached to be with her for the rest of his life.

  “Please, Libby,” he begged.

  “I’m afraid of the water.”

  He reached for her hands again, kissing the top of her fingers. “I’ll take care of you.”

  LIBBY WRAPPED HER ARMS AROUND Oliver’s neck when he lifted her. She’d dreamed for months about seeing him again, but she’d had nightmares about water her entire life. Falling into the river alone, struggling for air. She feared she’d be trapped under it forever.

  Oliver kissed her head as he stepped into the water, and she clung to him. He’d said he would take care of her. He wouldn’t drop her like Walter had done.

  Still she was terrified. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to pretend they were dancing in the folly instead of wading through the river, but the nightmare flashed through her mind again. She was at the edge of the water, screaming, begging whomever held her not to let go. She never knew who held her back, but she wished she could thank him.

  And then she realiz
ed she was shaking in Oliver’s arms as well. “Don’t worry, darling,” he assured her. “We’re almost there.”

  When she opened her eyes, she saw him smiling down at her, confident and handsome and strong. And she realized that he wasn’t walking anymore.

  Gently he placed her bare feet on the grassy bank.

  “You didn’t drop me,” she said, breathless.

  “Of course not.”

  He handed her the sandals he’d strung over his shoulder, and she strapped them on. Then he reached for her hand. A strange shyness swept over her as she took it. He was used to her quietness. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice this change in her as well.

  But he seemed to notice that something had changed because he pulled her close and kissed her. The pulse from his kiss threaded itself through her skin like the sticky strands of a web, all the way to her toes, capturing her wholly, body and soul.

  They followed the path of moonlight through the forest, to the maze, and he guided her up the stairs of the folly.

  When he turned on the lantern, she gasped. The dust and cobwebs that littered the floor last August had been swept away, replaced by dozens of colorful silk pillows and satin blankets. There was a basket, overflowing with fruit, and a cooler she opened to find different flavors of soda pop on ice. And a bottle of champagne.

  He lit two candles, then turned off the lamp.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  She rubbed away the goose bumps on her arms. “I feel like a princess.”

  “You are a princess.” He reached for her hand and twirled her around before pulling her close. “And I, dear lady, am your prince.”

  Heather?”

  The trowel trembled in her hand even as her heart leapt. She turned slowly to watch Christopher walking toward her in the darkness, instinctively pushing her hair behind her ears. If only she could hide among her mum’s remaining flowers.

  “I—” He hesitated, pointing at the lantern beside her. “I saw your light and wondered if we could talk.”

  She stabbed her trowel into the dirt. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your guest?”

  “She needed some time to herself.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Why are you working out here so late?”

  “I needed some time outside.”

  He stepped back. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “No—” she started and then stopped. This was a discussion that was long overdue. “What do you want to talk about?”

  He glanced up at the archway to her mum’s secret garden, and she wondered for a moment if he remembered their last night together as well as she did. “Do you want to join me for a walk?”

  She should be exhausted after spending most of last night rummaging through the basement, but even though it was after ten, she didn’t feel the least bit tired. At least not with Christopher so close.

  Instead of answering his question, she tossed her gloves onto the kneeling pad and stood up beside him.

  “Should we walk down to the river?” he asked, lifting his lantern.

  She shook her head. “There’s a field of rapeseed growing between here and the forest.”

  He cocked his head slightly, a tentative smile on his lips. “I bet we can find a path.”

  She followed him past the arched entryway, to the edge of her parents’ property. They didn’t find an official path, but barriers like that never seemed to stop Christopher. In lieu of a trail, they waded together through a sea of gold, the lantern light skimming across the tips of bright-yellow blossoms until they reached the grove of trees. The rush of the river current grew louder as they moved through the forest.

  After they stepped up onto the riverbank, she sat on a flat boulder next to the weeping willow tree and Christopher lowered himself on a rock near her.

  “I have so many memories of you and your mum working in that garden,” he said, his eyes focused on the river. “You wanted to be just like her when you grew up.”

  She studied the gilded sheen of light that skimmed across the water, her mind wandering back to the pleasant memories with her mum. She had wanted to be just like Maggie Doyle when she grew up, with a family and a husband who loved her for a lifetime. She loved being a mother, but unlike her mum, she’d failed miserably in her marriage.

  “Instead, I became me.”

  “And who exactly are you?” he asked.

  Christopher had wandered, unbidden, into her dreams over the years, but she’d always wakened and run away from her memories by immersing herself in the busyness of her work. Now she wanted to run again like she had so many years ago, back across the ocean if necessary, instead of sitting here with this man who pretended to care when he hadn’t really cared at all.

  “Your dad told me you restore artwork.”

  She tilted her head. “I didn’t know you and my father were friends.”

  Christopher threw a rock into the water, black ink spreading across the light. “We’ve been friends since I was in graduate school. I always wanted to be like him when I grew up.”

  “A postman?”

  He shook his head. “A writer.”

  She pondered his words for a moment. She knew her father had written when he was younger, but she’d never seen him writing when she was home. It saddened her that Christopher knew a part of her dad that she’d never known. “What did he write?”

  “He poured himself onto paper in his last years, like you used to pour yourself into your paintings.”

  She rubbed her hands together. “It’s been a long time since I painted.”

  “I thought you’d be an artist when you grew up.”

  “There are plenty of people creating art,” she explained. “Not so many taking care of what we already have.”

  “I liked your art.”

  She cleared her throat, not wanting to talk about herself anymore. “I hear you’re an official fellow at Oxford.”

  “It sounds lofty, doesn’t it?”

  The limbs over the river swayed in the breeze. “You were never one for loftiness.”

  “I can fake it pretty well.”

  She stretched her arms around her legs, pulling them close to her chest. “You were able to fake a lot of things pretty well.”

  He reached for another rock and threw it in the water. “Are you trying to make me mad?”

  “No.” She paused. “I’ve just had a lot of things I’ve wanted to say to you over the years.”

  “And I’ve had a lot of things to say as well.” His gaze met hers and she looked away. “Perhaps we should say them now.”

  “Perhaps.” But even as she spoke, her thoughts scrambled in her mind. She’d rehearsed her lines over the years, in case she ever saw Christopher Westcott again, but she had wanted to pummel an arrogant, conniving man with her words, not the one being kind to her right now. And the one who’d been kind to her father.

  “Heather—” His gaze lingered on the river. “What happened to us?”

  She didn’t reply for a moment, surprised at the directness of his question. “You know exactly what happened.”

  “I showed up to take you to a dance but you’d already left for London—” He leaned toward her. “For months, I took a bus to the city on my days off school to talk to you, but you were never there. And you never returned my calls.”

  She’d ignored his calls but—“I didn’t know you came to London that many times.”

  “Your roommate wasn’t particularly excited to see me.”

  “She knew I was angry at you.”

  He cocked his head. “Angry?”

  “Okay, I pretty much hated you.”

  “And now—” he started. “Do you still hate me?”

  “Some days.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Not so much,” she said, the anger at him turning inward for her weakness. Christopher was the one who’d cheated on her. He was the one who pretended to love her, the one who’d asked to marry her, while he was out with Britney Garnett on the side.
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br />   “I didn’t even know you’d married until I saw the announcement in the paper.”

  “It was for the best—” she said.

  “Not the best for me. Or your parents.”

  “But it was best for—” She stopped.

  “For who?”

  She shivered. This place, along with this man, unnerved her. Of all the lines she’d rehearsed during the past decades, the conversations she’d repeated in her mind, this was not one of them.

  Christopher’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen before muting the call. Then he looked back over at her.

  “You said you’d marry me,” he said, his voice so low she could barely hear it above the sound of the current.

  “Only because I thought you’d be faithful.”

  “I was faithful to you until the day I found out you’d married someone else.”

  She released her legs and crossed her arms over her chest, angry with him now for his lies.

  “You knew I loved you, and yet you ran away. If I knew where you went, if I’d known you were going to marry—” His voice cracked. “I would have broken down the door if I had to, Heather, but you hid yourself while I racked my brain to figure out what I did wrong.

  “And I still wonder,” he said, searching her face in the lantern light. “What went wrong?”

  Her hands trembled. Finally, after all these years, she had the opportunity to confront his deception. Get the vindication she’d sought. Finally she could tell him the truth. “That night in the garden, you told me you wanted to marry me. You got down on your knee and gave me the ring you bought at Woolworths.”

  “I remember it well.”

  And so did she. It had been warm that night. Starlight had rained down on them, and her mum’s garden smelled sticky sweet. Heather was preparing to start her first year of college in London, Christopher his second year at Oxford. Both of them spent the summer working at a shop for tourists in town, and during the long evenings, they biked in the hills and walked along the river. Sometimes, when both her parents were working, they hid out behind Willow Cottage.

  After their glorious summer, Christopher had met her in the garden and slipped down onto one knee. He didn’t have the money yet to buy a diamond, but she accepted the brass band with a pink opal and told him she didn’t like diamonds much anyway. And she’d given him everything that night, thinking they would marry—