Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  This time she didn’t text Ella. This time she called.

  CHRISTOPHER BIKED THE PATH ALONG the placid River Cherwell, passing by a parade of flat-bottomed punts filled with students laughing and singing as they floated in the sunshine. During his first summer as a student at Oxford, he would have gone punting with them, but his gusto for life tanked after Heather’s rejection and sent him into a tailspin. It took him years to regain his footing.

  He’d thought he and Heather were a sure thing. They’d mapped out a life together, as much as one maps out a life at the ages of eighteen and nineteen. She was going to finish college in London, and then they would marry. He’d planned to pursue a degree in economics and she wanted to teach art.

  They’d dreamed about living in London, as a family—Heather wanted four kids but after growing up with three siblings, he opted for two. They’d laughed about their dreams. And in their certainty, their passion, they’d made mistakes.

  He thought Heather rejected him because of his foolishness. He’d tried to make amends with her after that summer, to say he was sorry, but he thought she’d rejected him again and again.

  All along, she thought he’d rejected her.

  No wonder Heather was angry with him. She thought he’d been cheating on her with someone else.

  And it was all a lie, propagated by their mothers, out of fear. When his mum called, she told him the truth about what happened the night he and Heather were supposed to go to the dance. And she told him about Libby.

  It wasn’t that Mrs. Doyle disliked Christopher. His mum said Mrs. Doyle hadn’t wanted Heather to make the same choices as Libby, so she concocted a story that would deter her—just until she thought Heather was old enough to marry.

  But it was more than that for Christopher’s mum. She’d loved Libby and her daughter, but she was afraid as well, fearing Heather would grow up to be as erratic as her mother and hurt Christopher as a result. She cared deeply for the Doyle family, but his mum had a fierce love for her children.

  Heather hadn’t rejected him or his token of a promise. Mrs. Doyle had returned the ring to his mum.

  Something happened when he’d visited Heather last week though. It felt like they were teenagers again, enjoying each other’s company as friends. Or even more than friends.

  He sighed. He couldn’t figure out the state of his own heart.

  He’d loved his wife dearly and grieved deeply after he lost her. And he’d tried to move on in his relationships. Some nights, loneliness still seemed to consume him, but he wanted more than companionship from a woman like Adrienne. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with someone he loved.

  Perhaps it was time to move past regrets and take an honest look into his future.

  Did he want Heather in his life again? The answer inside him was a resounding yes, but he didn’t know if she would consider renewing their friendship, even when she found out the truth about what happened.

  All he could do was ask.

  His mum said she wouldn’t meddle, but somehow, inadvertently, she’d texted him Heather’s number.

  Perhaps he should ring her. Or perhaps these days it was better to start with a text instead.

  He stopped pedaling and set his bicycle against the wide trunk of an oak tree. Then he removed his phone from his pocket.

  But before he decided whether to text or call, a note popped up on his screen.

  It was a simple message. From Heather.

  Can I come to Oxford?

  He didn’t hesitate before texting back.

  Yes!

  JUNE 1970, WILLOW COTTAGE

  The knock at half past eight startled Maggie—Daphne had already visited for the night, and no one else ever knocked on their front door in the evening.

  Two nights ago, Libby had come through the back door, drenched to her core and trembling like the night last December when they’d discovered she was expecting. Now she was soaking in Epsom salts upstairs while Maggie was in the kitchen, preparing a bottle from formula. Since returning home, Libby no longer seemed to care about feeding her daughter. No longer wanted to do anything at all.

  Something had frightened her that night, but just like before, Libby refused to talk about it. Even with Maggie.

  She thought it sadly ironic that Libby hadn’t caught the influenza when she ran away during their harsh winter, but her escape on a warm summer night sent her to bed in a sort of trance that neither Maggie nor Daphne could break.

  When Walter came home two nights ago, he’d been relieved to find Libby there, but after his long search, it seemed as if he contracted an illness too. He’d worked late again last night, then he went straight to bed.

  The knock on the front door came again, more persistent this time. Maggie hung her apron on a kitchen hook and rushed out through the sitting room, past Heather asleep in her little cot.

  On the stoop was Constable Patrick Garland, Albert and Rebecca’s oldest son. She hadn’t seen either Albert or Rebecca in years, although she’d heard that Patrick joined the police after serving with the Royal Navy.

  Beside Patrick was an officer she didn’t recognize, but on the sleeve of his uniform was the double diamond insignia of an inspector.

  She put her hand to her throat, her breath constricting in the passageway. Why was an inspector at their door?

  Her husband’s face flashed in her mind. Walter was twenty minutes late again tonight. Had he been in an accident? She’d been so concerned about losing Libby and then Heather, but heaven help her, if she lost her husband . . .

  Patrick tipped his hat, the lines around his eyes deep with concern. “Hello, Mrs. Doyle.”

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “Is Mr. Doyle home?”

  She shook her head, taking a deep breath as his question resonated in her mind. If they were asking about Walter, it meant he wasn’t injured. “Not yet.” She glanced between the two men. “Why do you ask?”

  Patrick shifted on his feet, looking quite uncomfortable. “We have some unpleasant business to discuss with both of you.”

  She stepped outside to join them on the stoop, the door open behind her. “What sort of business?”

  “We need to know where you were on Monday night,” Patrick said.

  She felt as if the floor had shifted under her. “I was right here, caring for my daughter.”

  Heather began to cry in the sitting room, and she stiffened as his gaze traveled swiftly over her shoulder, to the cot in the room behind her.

  “When did you have another child?”

  Her mind raced, trying to put together the pieces of their story. In that split second, she decided to claim Heather as her own.

  “In December.” She stepped back, forcing her voice to be calm. “She was born a bit sickly, but is recovering quite well.”

  Turning back inside, she lifted Heather from the crib and straightened the collar on her red-and-white-checkered romper. Then she gently rubbed Heather’s back to soothe her as she carried her slowly toward the kitchen. The men on the stoop could wait as she tested the temperature of the formula on her wrist. And processed her thoughts.

  Something terrible had happened when Libby disappeared on Monday night. Something that sent her daughter back to bed and Walter into a strange stupor. Something that drove these two policemen to her front door.

  The second drop of formula still burned against her skin, but she couldn’t keep Patrick and the inspector waiting any longer. It was finally time to introduce her granddaughter to their little world. And find out what Walter and Libby were hiding from her.

  As she stepped back over the threshold, Patrick looked down at Heather. “I’d offer a toast if the circumstances weren’t so dire.”

  Maggie bounced Heather on her hip. “What are the circumstances, Constable?”

  The inspector scribbled something in a notepad, and she prayed Patrick wouldn’t ask her about Libby. That he would assume she was still away.

  The inspector steppe
d up beside Patrick. “Where was your husband on Monday?”

  She tested the bottle again, and the formula was cool enough now for Heather to drink. She held the bottle up to Heather’s lips until she latched onto the nipple.

  “Mrs. Doyle?” The inspector persisted. “We need to know where your husband was on Monday night.”

  Maggie tried to keep the bottle steady. “I suppose it would depend on the time.”

  “The entire evening.”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment before she spoke. “After work, he went to Daphne Westcott’s home down the hill to borrow some powdered milk.”

  “Was he gone long?”

  “Long enough to get the milk.” She took a deep breath. “You can verify with Mrs. Westcott.”

  “Of course,” Patrick said as the inspector made another note on his pad.

  She shifted Heather in her arms, her eyes narrowing with her question. “What happened on Monday?”

  A glance passed between the men, and she didn’t think they were going to tell her. But Patrick began to speak again, his voice somber. “On Tuesday morning, we found Oliver Croft’s body on the riverbank in Bibury.”

  She gasped.

  “He went missing the night before.”

  She felt faint, the doorframe her support as she collapsed back. The baby blanket was draped over her arms, and she prayed neither policeman would notice the trembling under it. “Did someone kill him?”

  The inspector clicked his pen. “We’re planning to find out precisely what happened.”

  “That poor family.” She pulled Heather closer to her chest. “I should go visit Lady Croft.”

  “The family left for London this afternoon.” Patrick paused, his gaze wandering to the stone wall beside them. “When was the last time you saw the Crofts?”

  “I don’t know exactly—it’s been five or so years, I suppose.”

  He studied her face. “You used to work for them, didn’t you?”

  “A long time ago.” She forced herself to stand straight even as she prayed that Libby would linger in her bath. And that Walter wouldn’t come home yet from work. She had to warn him—

  “Did you leave the position on your own accord?” Patrick asked.

  “It was a mutual decision between Lady Croft and me.”

  The inspector lowered his notepad. “One of the house staff said Lady Croft is a difficult employer.”

  Maggie forced a shrug. “No more difficult than any other I’ve had.”

  “The woman said you might hold a grudge against Lady Croft for releasing you from your work there.”

  She stiffened. “Am I being accused of something?”

  “Of course not.” Patrick shot a glance at his partner, silencing him. “We’re just accumulating the facts. Why did Lady Croft let you go?”

  “Their family decided to begin spending most of their year near London instead of staying at Ladenbrooke.”

  She saw the doubt in the inspector’s eyes, but he would not bully her into saying anything that would incriminate her or her family.

  “Did you see anything suspicious on Monday?” the inspector asked.

  “Not that I can recall, but it’s all so shocking. I don’t believe I can think straight.”

  He slipped his notebook back into his pocket. “If you remember anything unusual, please come to the station.”

  “Of course.”

  Patrick still didn’t ask about Libby, and this time, she was grateful the local police were apathetic about finding her daughter.

  She waited by the open door as the men walked down the drive, not wanting to rush to close it. There was no reason to give either man any cause to wonder.

  When she finally stepped back inside, she leaned against the wooden panel and slid down to the floor, Heather in her arms. Her recollection of Monday night wasn’t nearly as cloudy as she’d tried to portray. But if she was honest . . .

  Her mind flashed back to the scene in the alleyway, fifteen years ago. Walter punching Elliot in the face.

  Walter might hit Oliver Croft as well, but was he angry enough to kill him?

  It was too much to comprehend what might happen when—if—the police began to suspect Walter. Her daughter might be lost to her already. She couldn’t lose her husband too.

  Walter had been irate over what Oliver had done to Libby—the judge would have to see that. Any father, she hoped, would understand. The judge might have questions about Heather as well and why Maggie had yet to get the required birth certificate. Yet she’d implied—or had she told?—Patrick that she had a baby. If the truth came out about Heather being Libby’s child, the police—and the judge—would suspect everything.

  For years she’d carefully woven her web, not to trap others so much as to protect herself and Walter and Libby and now Heather. She’d been weaving from that first night she met Elliot in the caves, plaiting a safe cushion around herself and her family, and she wouldn’t let anyone unravel it all now.

  The door to the steps opened, and her daughter padded into the room. Libby looked down at Maggie and Heather on the floor, her eyes blank. “Who was that?”

  Maggie clutched Heather closer to her chest. Did Libby know that Oliver was gone?

  She must. And no cure from Daphne, or any doctor for that matter, would take away her pain.

  “No one of importance,” Maggie said. “Go back to bed now.”

  Instead of going up the stairs, Libby sat on the bottom step. Her wet hair was tangled, and her cheeks were a bright red. “When will Papa be home?”

  “Soon.”

  “I need him,” she whispered.

  Maggie lifted the bundle from her lap. “Do you want to hold Heather?”

  Libby shook her head.

  WALTER COULDN’T SLEEP.

  Three months had passed since he’d found Libby and Oliver at the river, but the scene still haunted him. He and Libby hadn’t talked about that night. It seemed as if they were two shells living in the same house, both of them empty inside. And both of them needing each other.

  In days past, he would retreat with paper and pen to sort through his thoughts, but he couldn’t put this in writing.

  Sometimes the memory of that night felt like a knife had slashed through his core and ripped out all of his emotions—anger, fear, and even sorrow were all gone. Only his curiosity remained.

  He wished he knew what happened that night on the river before he arrived. At first he’d thought Libby had done something to harm Oliver, but as he replayed the scene in his mind, over and over, he couldn’t fathom her taking Oliver’s life. Libby’s grief had sprung from deep inside her, a wellspring of love and loss.

  But perhaps there had been some sort of accident. Perhaps Oliver had drunk too much and drowned on his own accord. Still, if the police knew Libby was there, they would suspect she’d done something to injure him.

  Maggie had gone to bed an hour ago, but he sat beside the fire, watching the blaze dance as if it longed to break free of the grate casing. With no more coal to feed it, the flames began crumbling into ash.

  The police had come twice to their house since they had found Oliver’s body, but it seemed they had uncovered nothing to incriminate him or Libby. Walter had lied to them, straight up, saying he hadn’t been on the Crofts’ property that night. If he told the truth, they would ask why he had gone, and he would have to tell them about Libby.

  He could not—would not—tell them that he’d found her in the water with Oliver’s body.

  After all these years, he finally understood Libby. No matter how hard anyone pressed her to be strong, she’d crumble under an interrogation by the police. And in the courtroom, she’d never be able to defend herself. In her confusion, with a solicitor asking questions, demanding answers, she would break down into a fit of tears. They would pronounce her mentally unfit, and, he feared, guilty.

  Since Oliver’s death, Libby had disappeared almost completely into herself, wrapped away in the silk threads
she’d woven. He wouldn’t force her out of the cocoon that kept her heart from being crushed, but he wanted her to thrive inside her shell. And in time, he prayed she would fly again.

  He and Maggie had told their friends months ago that Libby’s health was fragile. People seemed embarrassed to talk about it, as if they’d known all along she was sick, so they talked about almost anything except what tugged most at Walter’s heart.

  When the clock chimed midnight, he tried to move quietly upstairs, but the old steps creaked under him. His and Maggie’s room was dark, Heather probably asleep beside their bed.

  Light crept out from under Libby’s closed door, and he hesitated by her bedroom, not sure what to say to her. Still, he knocked.

  When she didn’t answer, he nudged the door open. Tubes of paint, pencils, and pieces of paper were scattered across the floor, and in the middle of it all, leaning back against her bed, was the girl he’d come to love. For he no longer saw Elliot Bonheur’s offspring sitting before him, filling a blank page with color. He saw his daughter, and more than ever before, Libby needed a father to care for her.

  She didn’t look up, her gaze focused entirely on the paper before her as she drew what looked like a wing. He picked up one of the papers from the floor, and on it was a butterfly, the colors a blending of vibrant yellows and oranges.

  He held out the paper. “What’s this one called?”

  “Golden Shimmer,” she said. “She loves the sunlight.”

  He picked up a picture of a light-purple butterfly with a string of pearls around her neck. “And this one?”

  “Lavender Lace. She has the power to heal all sorts of wounds.”

  He scanned the room, all the pictures on the floor. “Do they each have a name?”

  Finally she looked at him, her bright-blue eyes meeting his. “Of course.”

  And he realized with a pang of sadness that these were Libby’s friends for life.

  “They are beautiful.”

  A glint of a smile. “Thank you.”

  He picked up another butterfly, this one a dark violet shade, a silver streak bleeding across the edge of its wings.