Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  “What is she called?”

  “Silver Shadow.”

  “Does she have a story?”

  Libby’s smile faded. “She’s lost and can’t seem to find her way home.”

  PART FOUR

  Maggie and I tried to contain Libby, but we finally resigned ourselves to the fact that we could not cage a butterfly. Our daughter was mesmerized by colors. Light. The Garden of Eden was quite alive in her mind—a place where everything was beautiful again. Where everyone was good.

  We tried to shield her wings from sorrow, from the frailties of the human condition, but we couldn’t shield her forever. Libby is a wanderer at heart, an artist who doesn’t see things like other people. Doctors today might be able to contain her, but back then, we didn’t know what to do with a spirit begging to be free.

  To cage her would crush her.

  To love her, I knew we must set her free.

  Maggie was ashamed of her past and—God forgive me—for a long time, I was ashamed of the girl He’d given us as a daughter. Libby made choices I didn’t understand. She hurt me and Maggie and many others, but we hurt her as well by trying to mold her into something, someone, she was not.

  Some people might think Libby was being selfish for abandoning her baby, and perhaps, in one sense, this is true. But there was also a thread of selflessness through her heart. She knew she couldn’t care for a baby so she left her child with two people who could.

  The doctors say my days are numbered now. And my mind is beginning to fail.

  My one desire is that someday, after I’m gone, Libby and Heather will reconcile. When Libby is ready.

  Heather broke Maggie’s and my heart when she married a man we didn’t know and moved so far away. But I never stopped loving her. I only wanted peace—peace and happiness—for our family, but both were fleeting during my lifetime.

  In these final hours, I rely solely on the Scriptures, and I cling to the hope that God has forgiven me of my trespasses. I hope my daughters forgive me as well.

  I tried to be a good father to Heather and Libby. Tried to love them both like they were my own. I wish I could have been there to love my great-granddaughter too, but I hope Heather and her daughter will one day know how much I loved them.

  The truth, I pray, will bring Libby, Heather, and Ella back together.

  Perhaps together the three of them can fly.

  MAY 1974, WILLOW COTTAGE

  Maggie knitted a pair of baby boots while Heather gently set her dolly in the cradle on the back patio. The cottage garden was in full bloom, and the butterflies fluttering around the blossoms reminded her of Libby. She tended the flowers carefully, as if Libby might return to wander among them, but Maggie didn’t really expect her daughter to come home. At least not for more than a day or two.

  Libby had left again four years ago, in the months after Oliver’s death, and only returned once, during a cold spell in the winter of ’71. Neither Maggie nor Walter searched for her after that winter, though Maggie suspected that Walter knew exactly where she was. The padlocks between the manor house and their cottage had been removed, and Maggie didn’t attempt to find another one since both Libby and the Croft family were gone now.

  For the first time in their marriage, she and Walter were focused on their future instead of stuck rummaging around in their past. She was privy to his thoughts, his kind words to both her and Heather. And he finally seemed content as a father to Libby’s daughter, for better or worse.

  Heather didn’t know, would never know, the circumstances that brought her into the world. One hidden blessing in all of the chaos was that Patrick Garland couldn’t contain the news about the baby girl he’d discovered at the Doyle’s house.

  By the time Maggie and Walter went to the courthouse to ask for a birth certificate, it seemed the entire village knew they’d quietly birthed a second daughter. There were whispers, of course, about why they might keep it a secret, but no one seemed to doubt their story.

  Some people thought Heather was sickly, like their first daughter, and that Maggie and Walter were trying to hide her like they once had Libby. Others thought Libby might have passed on and Walter and Maggie had spent the winter mourning their loss.

  Daphne said she witnessed Heather’s birth, and no one questioned her. The only other person who knew the truth was Libby.

  Maggie’s greatest fear was that one day Libby would change her mind and decide she wanted her baby back. But even before Libby left, it almost seemed as if she no longer recognized the child as hers. Like she would be content, relieved even, if Heather called another woman “Mum.”

  Heather tugged on the hem of her skirt. “Mummy?”

  Maggie lowered her knitting needles. “Yes, love?”

  She glanced over the gardens. “Do you want to dance?”

  The familiar fear pinged through her, at the worry that Heather might want to dance with the butterflies. “Why don’t we sing instead?”

  Then Maggie began to sing, her voice low.

  Catch a falling star an’ put it in your pocket. Never let it fade away.

  Heather giggled as Maggie pretended to look in her pockets, searching for the hidden star.

  “It’s here,” Heather said, opening the pocket of her raincoat so Maggie could peak inside. “A pocketful full of starlight.”

  “Indeed.” Maggie shaded her eyes as if the stars might blind her.

  “I’ll put them back tonight.” Heather tilted her head to look up at the sky. “So they won’t be lonely.”

  “They won’t be lonely as long as they have you,” Maggie said, gently pressing her thumb on Heather’s chin to lower her head. “Now off to bed.”

  “I’m not tired.” Heather stretched her arms with her yawn.

  “I can see that perfectly well.” Maggie patted Heather’s pocket. “But the stars are exhausted. It takes a lot of work to shine, and they’ve been shining for an awfully long time.”

  Heather looked unconvinced for a moment, but then she smiled. “Can they sleep with me tonight?”

  “Hmm, you’d have to be quiet as a mouse.”

  “I can be quiet,” Heather whispered.

  “Very good.”

  Walter stepped out onto the patio, and Heather squealed, rushing toward him. He lifted her, spinning her in his arms, and she flung her head back, her ponytail twirling as she laughed with abandon, as if nothing else in the world mattered to her except being with her daddy.

  He set her back down on the patio and knelt beside her. “What have you been doing?”

  She opened her pocket. “Catching stars.”

  Maggie saw the concern in his eyes, at the world of make-believe that seemed to steal away the mind of their older daughter. “Other kids like to catch stars before bed too,” she said, trying to reassure him.

  “Bedtime, is it?” he asked, checking his watch.

  Heather shook her head. “Not for a hundred more hours.”

  He lifted his hands, curling his fingers into claws. “No one can escape the bedtime bear.”

  He didn’t look the least bit scary, but Heather played their game. Squealing again, she ran into the house this time, her dad growling behind her.

  Then she heard Walter and Heather singing through the open window. One of Elvis Presley’s songs instead of Perry Como.

  Maggie lingered outside. As the stars began to emerge, she wondered again where Libby was tonight. She could wish on one of the stars, but she wasn’t sure what to wish—for Libby to come home and join in their fun or for her to stay far away.

  Her gaze fell to the stone that lined their property, and she hated this—the feeling of a wall erected between her and Libby. It was a safe wall, to protect Heather, but in her heart, she didn’t want anything to separate her and either of her daughters.

  A BUTTERFLY FLUTTERED FROM FLOWER to flower in the old garden, gracing the silvery-blue tips of the crocuses and what remained of the icy-white petals of the lady’s prized tulips. The yellow strands o
n the butterfly’s wings shimmered in the fading light, and Libby watched the creature in its journey, mesmerized by the graceful rise and fall of its dance.

  Her arms outstretched, Libby twirled around like she had as a girl, embracing the last rays of sunlight. Here in this garden, she was as free as the butterfly. Here she didn’t have to hide.

  The butterfly climbed above the flowers and soared toward the lily pond. Beyond the pond were more flowers, hundreds of them, and then the trees.

  Soon the butterfly would curl up under a rock or leaf and rest for the night, hiding in the darkness, alone and vulnerable until the sun powered her wings again at dawn.

  Libby trailed the creature around the pond to see where it would land. If the night stayed warm, she might curl up beside the butterfly to rest, but not now. She no longer had to hide in these gardens.

  Soon the moonlight would glaze the paths with gold, and she would explore for hours, enveloped in the shadows and the light.

  Near the maze, a patch of larkspur swayed, and Libby stepped closer, curious as to why the leaves danced with no breeze. The butterfly disappeared in the trees beyond the flowers, but she no longer watched the creature. Her eyes were on the little person trying to hide among the stalks.

  A girl watched her through the petals and leaves, as if she thought Libby couldn’t see her. Her blonde hair was brushed back into two pigtails, and the pastel greens and pinks in her cape blended with the colors of spring. The girl was four, Libby knew that, and already she loved the lady’s gardens too.

  She leaned down, and the girl’s eyes grew wide when she realized the woman had found her hiding place.

  “Go home,” Libby whispered.

  The girl shook her head and then stood, her pigtails inches above the blossoms.

  Libby tilted her head, studying the worry in the girl’s eyes. “Are you lost?”

  This time the girl nodded, and a tear slipped from her eyes, splashing the petals.

  “We all get lost,” Libby said softly as she reached out her hand. “I can take you back.”

  The girl studied the outstretched hand for a moment before she took it. Then Libby guided the child back over the bridge, to the gate in the stone wall.

  “Heather?” a woman called on the other side.

  “Mummy!” the girl shouted back, pulling her hand away before she rushed home. Libby stepped toward the gate. Her chest ached, but her gaze held steady as she watched the child pass through the cottage gardens, to the woman with the outstretched arms. She’d made her choice. The right choice. Still, sometimes it hurt as badly as the night she delivered the baby.

  Turning swiftly, she hurried back through the formal garden and down the terraces, past the maze and old folly until she reached the riverbank.

  Libby didn’t mind being alone, but she hated the feeling of loneliness that rooted itself in her soul. She hurried through the trees, to the family cemetery on the hill above the riverbank, the old and new tombstones hemmed together by iron stitches on the fence.

  She crept through the open gate and collapsed onto the grass below one of the stones. A tear slipped from her eye as her fingers traced the name on the grave.

  Oliver

  He had understood her. He’d known why she must dance among the flowers and their butterflies. He’d known why she must be free.

  But here in the cemetery she never danced.

  Sometimes she wondered about that night when she’d found Oliver in the river, wondered if she could have saved his life. Sometimes she thought it was all a terrible nightmare and he would return home one day soon. Sometimes when she was dancing, she even pretended he was still alive.

  But here she couldn’t pretend.

  Pain cramped her chest again. Memories both sweet and painful spread like wildfire through her. Her heart had been shredded into pieces, and she’d buried the remnants here with Oliver when she’d said good-bye.

  No one could make her leave Ladenbrooke during the summers, with her butterflies and her memories.

  This is where she belonged.

  In the few hours Heather had slept, she’d dreamed the haunting dream of her youth, wandering the ruins of an overgrown garden, holding the hand of a woman with copper hair and a pale-blue dress. But when she woke, all she could think about was Christopher.

  For too many years, she’d been afraid he would reject Ella, like she thought he’d rejected her, but if Brie and Mrs. Westcott were telling her the truth, he hadn’t rejected her at all.

  When she finally talked to her daughter, Ella had cried over the phone. Instead of being angry, Ella thanked her for her honesty. Then she’d told her to get herself to Oxford ASAP and have tea with the professor.

  She was done keeping this secret. Someone else could restore the cottage, but no one else could restore her relationships for her.

  Christopher had invited her to meet him for lunch in Oxford, so she drove east even though everything within her screamed to turn south, back to the airport and Portland, to stability and the safe shell she’d constructed around her heart.

  But this was no longer about just her. It was about Christopher and Ella as well.

  He met her at a car park near the edge of town, dressed in jeans, a brown tweed jacket with a tie, and sunglasses. Confidence, kindness even, replaced the frustration she’d seen in his face when she’d surprised him at his mother’s house.

  “Did my mum tell you about Libby?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Seems like we have a lot to talk about.”

  He led her past massive stone buildings and formidable iron gates, crowded tearooms and quaint bookshops, fields of bluebells in ancient churchyards. It was a town of fairy tales, he said, of hobbits and wizards, of talking lions and one brave mouse. Stories where good always conquered evil.

  As they walked, she almost asked about Adrienne, but his current relationships weren’t any of her business. The truth was her business, and she’d withheld it for way too long.

  Jeffery had known she was pregnant before they married—and he’d known the baby wasn’t his—but he was a gambling man and decided to take a shot at becoming a father and husband at the same time. She’d gambled as well, hoping she could succeed at marriage for the sake of her child, even when her heart belonged to another.

  Unfortunately, they both lost their gamble.

  She’d justified what she was doing—after all, Christopher had been with another woman—but she had wronged Ella, Jeffery, and Christopher in the process.

  As she walked alongside Christopher, better memories flooded back to her. The years that he had been her confidante when she returned from school each summer. He’d loved her and supported her and asked her to marry him so they would never be apart. She remembered being afraid back then that it was all a lie. That he didn’t really love her as he said he did. Her mum’s deception about seeing him with Britney was simply confirmation.

  She prayed it wasn’t too late to repair some of the rips and stains in her past after all. With honesty and humility instead of wheat paste and bleach. She prayed Christopher would forgive her like Ella had done.

  He directed her through the gates of one of the colleges, past the perfectly trimmed lawn and stone academic buildings, back into a quiet park with periwinkle clematis climbing a medieval wall. In the middle of the lawn was a pool of water with a small fountain, surrounded by tall grasses and creamy coral-tipped tulips.

  They sat on a wooden bench, her handbag between them, both of them watching the statue of a boy in the fountain, water trickling over the book in his hands.

  “Did you tell Adrienne we were meeting today?”

  “No—”

  “I don’t want to come between you and her.”

  He crossed his arms. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry, Christopher.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “Adrienne and I were never meant to be anything more than friends. According to her, I’m te
rribly dull.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said with a laugh.

  “My wife used to tell me that too when I refused to come out of my study.”

  “I read you were married.”

  His eyebrows slid up above his sunglasses. “You read it?”

  “I—” She stuffed her phone into her handbag. “I looked up your profile on the Oxford website.”

  He smiled.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.” She fidgeted with the strap of her handbag. “Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

  He lifted his sunglasses, and the blue in his eyes seemed to swallow her. “We both have a lot to say.”

  She looked back out at the pool. “I knew you came to visit me once in London, but I couldn’t see you.”

  “Why not?”

  She looped the strap around her hand, her eyes on her lap. “I was five months’ pregnant.”

  When she glanced back at him, his eyes were wide. “Jeffery’s baby?”

  “No.” She paused, breathing in courage before she spoke again. “I was pregnant with your daughter.”

  His mouth dropped open.

  She hadn’t known what to expect when she looked back up at him. Anger, perhaps. Dismay. Ridicule. Instead there were tears in his eyes.

  “Her name is Ella.”

  He slipped his sunglasses back on, shifting his focus toward the fountain. “I have a daughter?”

  “I should have told you both before—”

  “Did Jeffery know?”

  “He did, and he thought it would be grand to be a father. We married in London, not long after I told him, and he tried to be a good dad. But we were both so young, and he hadn’t bargained on having a child with colic and a wife who wasn’t nearly as fond of riding motorcycles as he’d hoped.” She paused. “And a wife who’d left part of her heart on the other side of the pond.”

  Christopher looked at her, but she kept talking before he could respond.

  “Ella was six when he filed for divorce, and the moment it was final, he disappeared from our lives.” She leaned back against the bench. “I should have told her about you when she was a teenager. . . .”