Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  Her parents hadn’t been as excited about the proposal as she had been, but at the time, she didn’t care.

  The next night Christopher was supposed to take her to one more dance before they left for school, but instead of dancing with her, he’d been out with a girl a year younger than Heather. Her gift to him had meant nothing, and it shattered her heart. And her ability to trust another man.

  “I wanted to marry you,” he said.

  “Then why were you fooling around with Britney Garnett?”

  He lurched back like she’d thrown a stone at him. “What?”

  “You never came that last night to take me to the dance. Mum said she saw you and Britney kissing near Arlington Row instead.” She took a deep breath. “The next day, I drove over to Oxford to talk to you, but you seemed to be quite occupied with another woman there.”

  “That’s why you wouldn’t return my calls,” he said slowly.

  “I gave myself to you, Christopher, and you crushed me.”

  He opened his mouth slowly, as if he were still forming the words, when the phone in his pocket began to ring again. He took out the phone and then looked back and forth between it and Heather.

  “Is it Adrienne?”

  He nodded.

  “You better take it.”

  “I’m sorry, Heather,” he said as he stood, though she wasn’t sure if he was sorry for taking the call or for what happened long ago.

  When he answered his phone, he apologized to Adrienne too—for not answering the first two times she phoned.

  Heather felt numb as she crawled into her bed that night. Alone.

  She had been so angry back then—at herself and at Christopher. At least she had finally been honest with him.

  Or almost honest.

  Perhaps it was time to tell him about Ella as well.

  PART THREE

  For many years, I thought Maggie’s sin had stained our family, ruined any hope for our—my—future. While I was busy criticizing the splinter in my wife’s eye, I should have been chopping up the log in my own.

  Even though it’s small, a splinter can cause tremendous pain, and if someone doesn’t pull it out, an infection can spread through an entire body. Or an entire family.

  Instead of criticizing, I should have helped Maggie heal.

  Perhaps God’s heart isn’t to punish sinners. Perhaps it’s to wash away the guilt from our sins, the pain of our hardship, and bring us back to Him.

  The aftermath of sin might remain, like the destruction after an earthquake, but He cleanses it from our souls so we can rebuild, healing our wrongs from the inside out.

  Libby wasn’t a punishment. She was a blessing.

  Maggie, Elliot, and I—we all had choices. But Libby had no choice. When she was afraid, I should have been there beside her, encouraging—not forcing—her to overcome her fears.

  Maggie asked for my forgiveness, and I refused to give it for far too long. My stubbornness came between all that was right. And I hurt too many people.

  I’ve tried to make my amends.

  Some in life. Some will have to wait until after death.

  I pray Heather will understand.

  DECEMBER 1969, LADENBROOKE

  Oliver’s folly was terribly cold. Clouds hid the warmth of the moonlight along with all the lovely stars that offered Libby comfort when she couldn’t sleep.

  She pulled another blanket over her chest to shield herself from the winter air, but her trembling wouldn’t stop. Something was wrong with her, but she didn’t know what it was. Or what to do.

  Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she tried to warm herself under the blankets, stop the shaking, but she couldn’t rid herself of the cold.

  She’d left home weeks ago, afraid Mummy would take her to a doctor, and she hated the men who asked her all sorts of strange questions and probed her skin with their tools.

  Oliver was the only man she wanted to touch her, but he’d been gone for months now.

  If he was here, he’d know what to do.

  Walter had been searching for her in the evenings, calling her name over and over in the gardens, but whenever he came close to the folly, she hid, afraid he would force her to conquer her fear of the doctors. She’d thought about going to visit Daphne, but her old friend had a husband and a baby to care for now. Besides, on the last day Daphne had come for a visit, Mummy had given her money.

  Daphne wasn’t really her friend. Libby was her job.

  She’d been neglecting her real friends for too long—the ones who would fly alongside her if only she had wings. But winter was here now and the butterflies were gone along with most of the color in the lady’s garden. All that remained were the lonely browns and greens. And the fiery red of the heather.

  Sometimes late at night, she snuck away from the tower and stole through the unlocked servant’s door in the back of the manor to borrow items from the lady’s pantry. She never stayed long, afraid Henry or someone else would find her wandering the house. Last time she’d found some tonics in the lady’s medicine cabinet, but even with the tonics, her ailment remained.

  She didn’t like feeling sick. Didn’t like the queasiness when she moved or the growth in her belly. And the darkness—it felt as if it might swallow her.

  She pressed against her stomach, trying to make the lump go away, but it was as hard as one of the stones by the river.

  Wind rattled the glass, confusion and sickness overwhelming her as she rocked on the thin mattress. Was this what it felt like to die?

  Death wasn’t something she’d thought about much. The rector spoke about it at church, but her mind usually wandered during the talking. She’d much preferred thinking about color and movement and all manner of things to a cold body in the ground.

  If she was dying—would God take her in or would He mock her, reject her, like so many of His people?

  She closed her eyes and pretended that Oliver was here, loving her. He had said he would make a way for them to be together. Forever.

  And Oliver never broke his promises.

  She rocked back and forth again.

  Part of her wanted to die, but she didn’t want to die alone.

  WET FLAKES FELL BEHIND THE cottage, more slush than snow. Maggie stood on the back patio, her heart grieving as she watched the gray slurry from the skies mask her garden. Libby was out there someplace, alone and cold, and all Maggie could do to rescue her daughter this time was pray.

  Libby had been gone a month now. She’d packed up a small suitcase one Tuesday night, along with a new sketchbook, and disappeared while Maggie and Walter were sleeping.

  When Walter found her room empty, he’d gone straight to the local police. The captain said he would look for her, but Walter wasn’t convinced. Everyone in town knew about Libby and her strange ways. Many thought she’d run away for good.

  Perhaps they were right. It wasn’t odd for Libby to leave during the night, but in the past, she’d always come home by morning. Maggie couldn’t bear to think her daughter wanted to stay away from her.

  Several days after Walter’s visit to the station, Maggie petitioned the police as well, but they were so condescending she wanted to scream. She canceled her appointments for a week and spent her hours searching around Bibury. Then she expanded her search to the surrounding villages, a picture of Libby in hand, but no one recognized her daughter.

  Something was wrong. Maggie knew it deep within, and it terrified her. She’d always been able to fix the wrongs for Libby before—the teachers who thought she was slow, the children who’d mistreated her, even the night she found her daughter with Oliver Croft.

  She rubbed her hands together to warm them.

  The scaffolding she’d built under her daughter’s feet was collapsing, and if she didn’t know where Libby went, she couldn’t do anything to fix it this time.

  Maggie moved back across the path to the wrought-iron gate, as she had done every night since Libby left the house, but it remained locked
. Had it been a horrible mistake to keep Libby out of Ladenbrooke while Oliver and his family were gone?

  Maggie once hoped the gardens behind their house would renew Libby’s body and mind, but perhaps her time at Ladenbrooke was more than just enjoying the flowers and her butterflies. Perhaps it was her daughter’s only means of feeling free. Independent. While trying to protect her, she and Walter had taken away the one place where she thrived.

  Where would Libby go if she couldn’t enter the gardens?

  She’d never cross the River Coln, but still Walter had waded across to Ladenbrooke the morning after Libby disappeared and then returned over and over in the evenings, searching for her.

  Fear gnawed on Maggie’s insides, gorging itself like a tapeworm on her regrets. Ever since she’d seen Oliver holding Libby’s hand in that folly, more than a year ago now, the memories of her and Elliot haunted her again. She’d been swept off her feet by an older, dashing sailor, but she’d never thought Libby could be swept away like that.

  For months Libby seemed to pine for Oliver as Maggie had once done for Elliot, but this past summer, even when Oliver was home, Libby never fought with them about the lock on the gate. She’d thrown herself into her painting, and Maggie was glad she had something to distract her.

  Oliver might enjoy Libby’s company, but he didn’t love her any more than Elliot had loved Maggie. If he were like Elliot, he’d want to claim Libby for himself, without offering her a future.

  Oliver had seemed to awaken something in Libby’s heart. Part of her might have rejoiced at the maturation in her daughter’s emotions, but Libby was far from ready to be in a relationship with a man—especially one like Oliver who wanted the only thing he couldn’t have.

  No one ever talked to Maggie when she was younger about the ways of men and women or how babies were made, but she had told Libby that neither storks nor gypsies delivered them. Libby hadn’t been horrified by the truth as some children might have been nor did she seem curious to learn more. Instead, she only seemed bewildered by Maggie’s explanation.

  If her mother had survived the war, Maggie liked to think she would have talked to her about the relationship between men and women. Instead, Elliot had been the one to explain how a man loved a woman. And how a woman was supposed to love a man. Yet their first time together wasn’t as magical as Elliot claimed it would be. Instead it had scared her. She’d known in her heart what she was doing was wrong, but still she met Elliot at the cave, desperate for what she’d thought was love.

  Walter had never forgiven her for carrying Elliot’s child or for deceiving him. But how could he really when she had never been able to forgive herself? She wasn’t even certain that God had forgiven her.

  She pulled her house robe tighter around her chest.

  What happened wasn’t Libby’s fault. It was hers alone. If Walter found out about Libby and Oliver, he would think Libby was just like her mother. And Maggie feared he would stop searching for her.

  She scanned the drifts of muddy snow again. Where was her daughter tonight?

  She prayed Libby was safe. That no one would harm her. That she had food and a warm, dry place to sleep.

  She walked back into the house and started the electric kettle, but she didn’t make herself a cup of tea. She’d hardly eaten anything since Libby left them. How could she savor the warmth of food or tea when her daughter might be hungry tonight?

  “Why are you up?” Walter asked from the shadows, slouched in one of the sitting room chairs. He rarely smoked the cigarettes he kept hidden in his church shoes, but an acrid cloud billowed around him now.

  “I was hoping the snow would bring her home.”

  “I don’t think she’s coming home,” he said, resigned.

  “She’s warm, isn’t she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her gaze wandered back toward the dark window. “I pray to God that she is.”

  “I hope God listens to you.”

  She flinched. Sometimes she didn’t know if he was trying to be optimistic or if he was condemning her for her past, sentencing her again and again.

  Guilty.

  She switched on the lights of the Christmas tree, trying to brighten the sitting room, and sat down in the upholstered chair beside him. “We may have started our marriage wrong, Walter, but have we done everything wrong?”

  “We did our best.” His chair creaked as he spoke. “Now Libby has to choose how she wants to live her life.”

  “But she can’t choose. She doesn’t know what is right and wrong.”

  He took a drag on his cigarette. “We all know the difference between right and wrong.”

  It always came back to the same worn argument. Walter thought Libby was more capable than what Maggie gave her credit for. Maggie thought Walter’s expectations for her were impossibly high.

  A knock on the back door interrupted their quarrel, the sound prickling the hair on her arms.

  She shouldn’t allow herself to hope, but she couldn’t stop the surge that rushed through her. The door was unlocked, as it always was. Libby usually just walked in.

  She glanced over at Walter in the hue of Christmas lights, and he slowly crushed his cigarette in the ashtray before rising from his chair as if he didn’t want to allow himself to hope either.

  The knock came again, harder this time, and Maggie trailed her husband through the kitchen, holding her breath as he opened the door.

  On the other side, in the darkness, stood a young woman, her stringy hair wet, her threadbare coat covered with snow.

  Maggie’s heart collapsed within her. “Libby?” she whispered.

  The woman nodded.

  It was Libby and yet she looked nothing like her daughter. Her simple beauty was washed away. And her stomach. Dear God.

  Maggie caught herself on the edge of the counter.

  Libby was pregnant.

  DECEMBER 1969, WILLOW COTTAGE

  Anger raged through Walter as he stared down at Maggie’s daughter. He’d spent the past fifteen years toiling to provide for her like she was his own, pushing her to succeed even when Maggie thought she would fail. But Libby wasn’t his. Never was and never would be. She’d followed right in her mother’s—and her father’s—footsteps.

  After all he’d done for her. After all he’d desired for her future. He had wanted a different life for Libby, and yet she betrayed them.

  Libby’s shoulders were hunched, her gaze on the ground. “Something is wrong with me.”

  He folded his arms tight over his sweater. “I daresay it is.”

  Maggie pressed her fingers into his arm. “Walter . . .”

  He waved her hand away. “Whose child is it?”

  Her eyes grew wide, her voice cracking when she spoke again. “What child?”

  Maggie tugged on his sleeve. “She doesn’t understand.”

  “I think that she does.” He didn’t take his eyes off Libby, searching for the truth like he’d done the day she was born, except back then he’d been searching for the truth from her mother. He wouldn’t be played the fool again. “Who’s the father?”

  Maggie reached around him, taking Libby’s hand. “Come inside or you’ll freeze.”

  “What child?” Libby repeated, staring at him.

  “She doesn’t know,” Maggie said, trying to push him out of the way, but he wanted—needed—someone to tell him the truth this time.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  She looked back up at him, those big, beautiful eyes not as innocent as they’d once been. “With the butterflies.”

  “There are no butterflies in December.”

  She held up her sketchbook, wet from the snow. Inside were her pictures.

  “Did someone hurt you?” Walter asked.

  “No—”

  His voice trembled. He hated asking these kinds of questions, but if Maggie wouldn’t do it, then he must. “Did someone force you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

  �
�He’d never force me.”

  “Who, Libby?” He pressed. “Who wouldn’t force you?”

  She began to cry again.

  “You have to go back to him,” Walter said.

  Maggie gasped. “You don’t mean it.”

  He ignored her. “Go back to the baby’s father.”

  Libby’s cries grew louder, and Maggie pushed around him. “He doesn’t mean it.”

  But he did mean it. A baby should be with its mother and father. No good had come from this pasting together of a family. No matter how strong the glue—nothing could hold them together.

  Libby shivered, and Maggie began to cry with her. “This is my fault,” Maggie said.

  “Libby is old enough to choose.”

  “I should have—” Maggie started as she shook her head, defeated. “I’ve ruined everything.”

  Libby tried to step around him, but he wouldn’t budge. “Go back to him, Libby.”

  She sobbed, and then turned and ran away.

  Stunned, Maggie stared over at him for a moment before following Libby into the night.

  Walter fell back against the doorpost, sobbing as well, deep from his gut. He was only forty-one, but he felt like an old man, tired and aching in every joint. No matter how he’d tried to keep everything together, his family had fallen apart.

  MAGGIE CHASED LIBBY BACK THROUGH their garden and into the field beyond. She called out her name, but Libby didn’t listen, just as she hadn’t listened when she told her to stay away from Oliver.

  Walter would never forgive her and now Libby—

  Her husband hadn’t kicked out Libby. After all these years, it was really Maggie that he was ridding himself of. He had stayed with her out of duty. Obligation.

  Walter could leave them if he must, but she would not—could not—allow Libby and the child to go back to whatever squalor she’d been living in.