Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

She found her daughter in a heap in the field, sorrow heaving from her chest.

  “I’m going to have a baby,” Libby said, the shock permeating her words.

  “The doctor will have to decide.”

  Libby shook her head. “No doctors.”

  Snow fell on Libby’s face, and Maggie brushed it away. She remembered well hanging over the railing in Clevedon, not caring about the cold or her fear of the water or even her life. Thank God, Walter had found her and offered her a new life.

  Tears slid down her cheeks. Walter hadn’t just saved Maggie’s life back on the promenade. He’d saved her daughter’s life as well and now she prayed he would help her save Libby one more time.

  She rubbed Libby’s arms. “We have to get you warm.”

  “Walter won’t let me back in.”

  “Yes, he will.”

  “You tried to tell me. About babies. But I didn’t know—”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  A sob escaped Libby’s throat even as her hands curled over her stomach. “I don’t want a baby.”

  “We’ll figure everything out later, darling.”

  Libby collapsed onto her, and Maggie wrapped her in her arms. Never before had Libby come to her with any sort of sadness. Any suffering.

  Perhaps her daughter had never felt pain like this before.

  No matter what anyone said about her emotions, Libby felt things more profoundly than other people. Her ability to deflect sorrow or pain, to see the goodness and beauty in almost everything, was a cocoon of sorts to ward off a mortal wound. Oliver may have been the first one to chip away at the shell of Libby’s cocoon, but Walter, in his anger, cracked it open.

  Libby shook as she cried in Maggie’s arms. As they both cried. She’d longed for her daughter to need her, to reach for her when she was in pain. To communicate like other mothers and daughters. But now, as Libby sobbed, she wished she could weave the cocoon back around Libby’s heart again.

  She didn’t know how long they sat huddled together in the snow, the pain boring through her soul. Then Walter was there, his hand on her shoulder.

  “Come inside,” he said.

  Carefully he helped Maggie stand, but Libby wouldn’t let him touch her.

  Maggie reached for Libby’s hand, and she slowly led her back to the warmth of their home.

  Brie Reynolds knocked on Heather’s front door, two minutes before nine. Heather never thought to inquire about the estate agent’s maiden name, but the moment she opened the door, Heather realized that she’d invited the woman formerly known as Britney Garnett into her home.

  Christopher’s other woman.

  Brie looked quite proper, dressed impeccably in a navy skirt with a matching jacket, navy pumps, and what looked like glitter flaked on the rim of her glasses. She kissed both of Heather’s cheeks, explaining that she’d worked in Paris for five years before returning to England and preferred the French way of greeting.

  “It’s so nice to see you,” Brie said, stepping back. “I was just talking to my sister-in-law the other day about you—do you remember Edith Reynolds? Her name’s Edith Lane now.”

  Heather shook her head, wondering how this woman could be so friendly to her when she’d been sneaking around with Christopher long ago.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t remember most people from around here, since your parents sent you away for school.” She smiled as she set her leather bag on the coffee table. “I was wondering whatever happened to you. I heard you’d gone to London after you and Christopher broke up but then poof—” She snapped her fingers. “You were gone. Years later, I heard you went to the United States.”

  “I met an American in London,” Heather said. “We eloped—”

  “How romantic!”

  She didn’t tell her that their marriage lasted only six years.

  Brie glanced around the room and then walked toward the back window. “I’ve been wondering what you were planning to do with this cozy space.”

  Heather leaned against the stones that framed the fireplace. She didn’t want to work with Britney turned Brie, but she needed a real estate agent and Brie Reynolds was supposed to be the best in the area.

  “I want to sell it,” she explained.

  “Then let’s get it sold.” Brie pulled out her cell phone and began tapping on her keypad with her manicured nails.

  A wave of sadness swept through Heather, her heart clinging to the past in spite of her desire to let it go. But she had traveled here to clean out the rooms and put her parents’ house on the market, not dwell on Christopher or the memories in this cottage. It was time to say good-bye.

  She showed Brie the small kitchen and dining area to the left of the sitting room; then Brie followed her up the steps. Brie clicked her tongue as she examined both of the bedrooms and the one bathroom that separated them, opening up closet doors and the bathroom cabinet as she tapped notes into her phone.

  When they finished upstairs, Brie peeked into the basement and retreated quickly back up the stairs, into the kitchen. “You still have a bit of work to do before we can put it on the market.”

  “I’ll clean out the rest of the boxes.”

  Brie slid onto a bar stool by the kitchen counter. “The clutter must go, of course, but there’s more to it.”

  Heather flipped on the electric kettle beside the refrigerator before turning back toward her. “What else do I need to do?”

  “You’ll need to repaint the bedrooms along with the kitchen. The windows need cleaning of course, and if you want to hire a gardener to help you with the lawn, I can recommend a couple of good ones.”

  As Brie rattled off a list of tasks, Heather’s mind whirled, trying to remember it all. She would finish sorting through the stuff first. Then she would hire someone to do the maintenance.

  Brie glanced up from her phone. “How long has it been since the thatch was replaced?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Your parents bought the house from the Croft family, didn’t they?”

  Heather nodded. “The Crofts sold it to them about fifty years ago. While my mother was working for them.”

  “The Crofts need someone to help them dig out of their rubble now.” Brie typed something else into her phone. “The entire house is going to be ruined if they don’t renovate it soon. I’ve been trying to convince Lord Croft to sell Ladenbrooke to the National Trust before it’s beyond repair, but he won’t even entertain the idea.”

  Heather took a canister of teabags out of the cupboard. “Have you been on their property?”

  “No, but my sister-in-law used to be sweet on the Croft’s son, before she met her husband, of course. She tells the grandest stories about visiting the place. Have you been there?”

  Heather smiled. “I used to sneak over when I was a girl to play.”

  “They say the place is haunted now. It has been, I suppose, since that nasty business with Oliver.”

  Nasty business. The words caught Heather off guard. It seemed strange to talk about the loss of a son, the devastation of an entire family, in such a casual way.

  “What do you think happened to Oliver?” she asked.

  Brie’s eyebrows rose. “In the end, the police said he drowned by accident, but I don’t believe it. . . .”

  The teapot clicked, steam billowing up from the spout.

  “I think he committed suicide,” Brie confided, as if she were sharing a secret.

  Heather shivered. “How tragic.”

  Brie didn’t let the sentiment linger for long, smiling when she spoke again. “Some buyers like the idea of a ghost or two hanging around, especially if they plan to convert the place into an inn.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t find any ghosts in our cottage.”

  The woman glanced around the room again, as if searching for something. “There doesn’t have to be an actual ghost, just the hint of one that links it to the past.”

  “We have plenty of links to the past here.”

&nb
sp; Brie’s gaze rested on the cover of the butterfly book and she picked it up, flipping through the pictures. “These are beautiful,” she said. “Did your sister draw them?”

  Surprised, Heather leaned across the counter. “How do you know about my sister?”

  “Edith went to primary school with Libby. When I told her I was coming here today, she talked like she and Libby had been best friends.” Brie set the book down. “But then again, my sister-in-law thinks everyone is her best friend. She works at the Tesco now, over in Cirencester, and has a whole posse to keep her company.”

  Heather lifted the kettle of hot water. “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be splendid.”

  Heather filled a mug and passed it across the counter before pouring a cup for herself. Both women steeped bags of Darjeeling in their water.

  “Edith wanted me to ask you about Libby.”

  Heather lifted her teabag out of the water and put it on a saucer. “What about her?”

  “She wanted to know if your parents ever found her.”

  Heather set down the mug, confused. “Libby died before I was born.”

  Brie’s neatly plucked eyebrows arched. “Edith said the police were searching for her around the time Oliver died. She thought it was a romantic tragedy, of sorts. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

  Heather inched her mug away from her, her mind whirling. “Your sister-in-law thinks Libby and Oliver committed suicide together?”

  “Or died of broken hearts.” Brie took a sip of the tea. “Edith likes to create drama, but she swears they were lovers. In secret, of course.”

  Was it possible that her sister wasn’t sick at all? Perhaps Libby had fallen in love with the boy next door and—

  After Oliver drowned, what had Libby done?

  If there was any truth to Brie’s story, it made sense why her parents would have kept the cause of Libby’s death secret. They were probably heartbroken at their loss as well. And ashamed.

  “Where is the Croft family now?” Heather asked.

  “They’re living outside London. In Woldingham,” Brie said before returning to the business at hand. “We’ll want to get your cottage on the market right away. Once the sunshine disappears, no one sells much around here until April.”

  The longer Brie talked, Heather realized she wouldn’t be returning to Oregon next week. She needed to finish this job before she returned to the restoration work waiting at her studio, but now, even more than the work at the cottage, she didn’t want to leave England until she found out what happened to her sister.

  “I can finish the work here in the next three weeks,” she said.

  “Excellent.” Brie took another sip of her tea, and it felt so strange to be sitting here, drinking tea with the woman who had—well, she wasn’t sure exactly what the relationship was between Christopher and Brie. She replayed the conversation with Christopher last night in her mind. He’d seemed surprised by her accusation.

  Brie stood. “Do you have any more questions?” she asked as Heather escorted her to the door.

  She felt odd asking her about Christopher but knew that she must, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. “It’s a little off topic—”

  Brie stopped on the stoop. “You can ask any question you’d like.”

  “Back when we were teenagers, did you and Christopher ever—” She took a deep breath. “Did you ever date?”

  “Of course not,” Brie said with a little wave. “My sights were set on Alan Reynolds from the time I was sixteen, though it took a few more years before he noticed me.”

  She studied the woman’s face as if she could cypher the truth behind her glitzy glasses. “There was nothing between you and Christopher?”

  “He only had eyes for you, Heather. Surely you knew that.” Brie slid her phone into her purse. “You should ask Christopher’s mother about Libby. She knows everything about everyone in this town.”

  Heather forced a smile. “Perhaps I shall.”

  After Brie left, she sat down on the front stoop of the cottage. Had her mum lied to her about seeing Christopher and Brie—or Britney—together? Or was Brie embarrassed by the truth? And at this point in her life, did she really need to find out what happened?

  Twenty-five years ago, she’d cried in her mum’s arms, her heart crushed that Christopher had betrayed her. Never once had she doubted the story—probably because she’d begun questioning whether Christopher Westcott really loved her or if he’d proposed marriage so she’d give herself to him.

  She’d been up most of that night grieving, wondering what had gone wrong. They were supposed to say good-bye the night of the dance, but he’d left without seeing her and then when she found him and a female student huddled together in the lobby of the dormitory. . . . in hindsight, it could have been innocent, a study date perhaps, but at the time, her emotions were in overdrive, reeling from the betrayal.

  She’d returned home without talking to him and ripped off his brass ring. Then she left for school in London and refused to take his calls.

  Leaning back against the house, her gaze wandered over to the stone wall where on the other side, the Crofts lost their son around the same time her parents lost their daughter. Mum had told her Libby was sick but—

  If her mum lied to her about Christopher, had she lied about Libby as well?

  CHRISTOPHER STEPPED THROUGH THE IRON gates, into the pristine quadrangle of Magdalan. Wisteria draped across the honey-brown buildings around the lawn, and flowers clustered near benches occupied by both scholars and tutors. This college, like all the older colleges in Oxford, was fortified with stone walls, centuries old, to separate the students from the townspeople, curbing the animosity between Town and Gown.

  And with good reason. Back in 1355, there was a confrontation between the students and a local innkeeper over the quality of the tavern’s wine. A riot ensued, and sixty-three scholars were killed along with thirty townsmen. For almost five hundred years, on St. Scholastica’s Day, the town and its mayor had to pay annual penance for the slaughter until a mayor in the early 1800s refused to participate. The tradition ended, but the old wound was easily reopened.

  His visit to Bibury ended late Friday night when the old wound inside him had been ripped open as well. He’d been honest with Adrienne about his visit with Heather and tried to reassure her they were just two friends, reconnecting after the death of her father, but he hadn’t convinced Adrienne, or himself for that matter, that it was completely innocent. Adrienne had said there was no misunderstanding—she was just the only one willing to admit it.

  It had been a long drive back to Oxford.

  He walked into the chapel at Magdalan this morning and sat down on one of the hard pews. Wooden statues of the saints stared down at him; music from the organ above wafted through the narrow room. Closing his eyes, he prayed silently for wisdom and peace and direction. God knew the truth about what happened long ago between him and Heather. Perhaps He could reveal it now to both of them.

  Christopher had known Britney Garnett from school, but she had been younger than him, and he certainly never met her near Arlington Row. He didn’t even remember socializing with her as a student.

  But he did remember the night he’d come to take Heather to the dance, a bouquet of wildflowers in hand. Mrs. Doyle had opened the door before he knocked and told him that Heather had already left for London. It was no surprise then that Mrs. Doyle told Heather a story about him and Britney. Heather’s mum had consistently tried to thwart their attempts to be together. Of course, it didn’t help that in his immaturity, he’d proposed marriage before they were ready. At the time, he hadn’t been thinking about consequences, and he would give just about anything to undo his actions that summer.

  He’d been honest with Julianna about his relationship with Heather, and he had loved his wife with all his heart. But still he’d wondered what happened so long ago. . . .

  It was his mum who’d given him back the brass ring—a sil
ly token of his affection for Heather, as cheap as how he’d treated her their last night together. In his mind, he knew God’s forgiveness had washed over him, but it still felt like he paid penance every time he returned to Bibury.

  Had his mother somehow conspired with Mrs. Doyle to keep him and Heather apart?

  After the organist stopped playing, he stood up and stepped under the dark paneled doorway, into the sunlight. As he strolled the path alongside the quad, he called his mum.

  “Is Adrienne angry?” she asked.

  “Terribly.”

  “Oh dear—”

  “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Of course,” she replied quite unconvincingly.

  “I need to clear up something else with you.” He turned a corner into another quad with a meadow of bluebells. “Back when I was in college, you said Mrs. Doyle brought back the ring I gave Heather. You said Heather decided she didn’t want to marry me after all.”

  There was a long pause before his mum replied. “You were both so young.”

  “Not too young to hear the truth.”

  “We thought you’d do something you would regret,” she said.

  He leaned back against a brick wall. “Did you and Mrs. Doyle plot against us?”

  She didn’t answer his question. “We were afraid, for both you and Heather.”

  Two young scholars walked by him hand-in-hand. “What were you afraid of?”

  His mum sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “I have plenty of time.”

  DECEMBER 1969, WILLOW COTTAGE

  Maggie paced in front of the fireplace, the lights from the Christmas tree glowing behind her. For a lifetime, she’d longed for the Christmas she’d dreamed about as a child—of love and gifts and slowly sipping eggnog while her family savored one another’s company.

  She’d wanted her husband and daughter together for Christmas, but not in this way. Now she wished the light of Christmas would shine into the hearts of the two people she loved more than anyone else. That hope would flood their hearts.

  Sometimes the barrier between Libby and Walter had seemed as impenetrable as the stone wall that separated Ladenbrooke from Willow Cottage. But walls weren’t impossible. She wasn’t certain whether she should quietly traverse this one or knock it down, but one way or another, the barrier must go.