Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  “I don’t know. Clearly she doesn’t want to be a mother.”

  “Then perhaps you should treat her exactly how your parents intended,” he said, setting down his wineglass. “As a sister.”

  She mulled over his words. If Libby was still alive, would she want a sister?

  He cleared his throat. “It’s getting late.”

  She checked her watch and saw it was almost eleven.

  “Do you want me to drive you back to Bibury when we finish dinner or should we find a hotel?”

  She jolted with the question, wondering what he meant until he held up two fingers. “We’ll get two rooms.”

  She looked back at the city lights. It seemed so surreal to think about spending the night in London with Christopher Westcott, even if they had separate rooms. “Can we leave first thing in the morning?” she asked.

  He nodded. “When are you planning to fly back to Portland?”

  “In a few weeks—after I find out what happened to Libby. And the cottage is ready to be put on the market.”

  He leaned closer to her, the strength in his eyes returning. “I think you should stay longer.”

  Her cell phone pounded with its drumbeat, and she jumped at the interruption, spilling wine from her glass onto the tablecloth. “It’s Ella.”

  He smiled. “I’ll pretend not to listen.”

  “Hi there,” she said as she answered the phone, trying to act casual even as her heart raced.

  “Did I wake you up?” Ella asked.

  “No—” She glanced back over at Christopher.

  Ella sighed. “You’re sorting through more boxes, aren’t you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “On a hot date?”

  She hesitated. “Sort of.”

  The silence on the other end made her laugh.

  “You did it, didn’t you?” Ella said, her voice filled with wonder.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Are you having tea together?”

  She glanced at Christopher again. “More like a glass of wine.”

  Ella squealed so loud that Christopher laughed across the table. “And here I was all worried that you would be lonely when I left, but you aren’t lonely at all.”

  “We are—” Heather paused, not altogether certain what they were doing. “We’re just getting reacquainted.”

  “Tell him I approve.”

  She clutched the phone tighter. “I most definitely will not.”

  Christopher flashed her a sly look. “Tell her, I’m glad she approves.”

  Heather glared at him as she continued speaking to Ella. “I have a lot to tell you. Later.”

  “And I have something to tell both of you,” Ella said.

  “Both of us?”

  “Yes.” Ella paused. “Come December, you’re going to be grandparents.”

  Heather emptied her glass.

  CHRISTOPHER COULDN’T SLEEP. OUTSIDE ON the patio, he leaned against the metal railing, gazing down at London’s lights.

  The boutique hotel had two rooms available for the night, right next to each other. With a private door connecting them. He’d thought coming here would be a better option than trying to resist temptation at either of their homes, but he felt like a reckless teenager again—one who needed to get control of himself.

  Mrs. Doyle had taken matters into her own hands to separate them long ago, before Heather found out she was pregnant, but what would have happened to him and Heather if they had married? He hoped he wouldn’t have left like Jeffery had done. Freedom, he’d discovered, was overrated, but back then, he’d craved freedom more than anything.

  He’d gladly given up his freedom when he married Julianna. Then he bitterly gave it up when she became sick—not angry with her but furious at the brain tumor that first stole away her ability to play her piano and then stole her life. Julianna had said she wanted him to marry again one day, but even though he’d dated, he couldn’t imagine marrying anyone else except—

  There was a knock on the door between their rooms, and he hesitated before inching it open.

  Heather was on the other side, dressed in the T-shirt and shorts they’d bought at a tourist shop. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail; her makeup, washed away; and she looked beautiful.

  She didn’t try to step into his room. “Ella just sent me a text. She wishes she hadn’t told you about the baby.”

  He leaned against the dresser. “Why shouldn’t she tell me?”

  “She’s afraid you’re freaking out.”

  He laughed. “Tell her I’m not freaking out nor will I.”

  At least not about her baby.

  “It’s a lot at once, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know how to be a father, much less a grandfather, but I’d sure like to learn.”

  The city lights flickered across her face as she smiled, and his heart did that strange flip-flop thing it used to do when he was young. When all reasoning began to drain away. “You should have slipped me a note under the door,” he said.

  “Were you asleep?”

  He shook his head.

  She leaned against the doorpost. “I can’t sleep either.”

  He ached to take her into his arms, to love her like he had long ago. But if he was going to do this, he wanted to do it right this time. “You’re killing me, Heather.”

  She smiled up at him, and he saw a hint of teasing in her eyes. “Weapons of the heart?”

  He waved her away, inching the door closed again. “Go back from where you came.”

  She held up her phone. “Maybe we should text?”

  He groaned. “I don’t think we should do anything until morning.” Then he propped the door back open a few inches so she could hear him. “If you knock again, I’m not answering.”

  “And if you knock, I won’t answer either,” she said before closing—and locking—the door.

  HEATHER HUMMED AS SHE DRESSED. The sun wasn’t quite up, but she couldn’t remain in bed another moment. Something had shifted in her during the night. She was going to be a grandmother, and it seemed as if Christopher wanted to step into Ella’s life as well as into the life of their grandbaby.

  She was no longer alone.

  Gone was all the bitterness, her fears dissipating as she embraced this new day. Whatever it held for her.

  She’d been up until late, long after she’d locked the door between her and Christopher. He’d been the quintessential gentleman, and she was glad he remained strong because she didn’t feel as if she had any strength left within her.

  Christopher met her at eight thirty in the lobby for eggs, sausage, and grilled mushrooms. She smiled as she poured English breakfast tea from the pot. Finally she and Christopher were having tea together—Ella’s heart might fail if she knew they were having it over breakfast. In London.

  They didn’t talk about last night, focusing instead on their day ahead. “I have a lunch meeting in Oxford,” he said. “If you want to drive to Bibury, I can take a bus home.”

  She shook her head. “I’m going to Oaken Holt Care Home this morning to check on my dad’s journals.”

  They stuffed their few things into plastic bags and checked out of the hotel to walk down the block, toward the lot where he’d parked her car. When they rounded the corner, she saw a sign for Bridget’s Bookshop, the window display filled with teddy bears and colorful children’s books.

  Christopher pointed up at the sign. “I want to buy something special for Matthew and Ella’s baby.”

  “Baby won’t be arriving for another seven months.”

  “But it’s good to read to babies, isn’t it?” he asked. “While they’re still in the womb.”

  She smiled at his enthusiasm. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Then my grandchild needs a good book, from a British author.”

  “What’s wrong with American authors?”

  He rolled his eyes, as if she should know. “I can’t send her a book written by a Yankee.”


  Heather laughed. “I’m sure Ella would love a British book, especially if it’s from you.”

  Standing at the bookstore counter was a young woman with bright-purple streaks through her black hair, the name Bridget on her nametag. Christopher walked up to her. “Do you have a copy of Autumn Dancer?” he asked.

  Heather stopped walking, and everything within her seemed to freeze at his question.

  For a moment she couldn’t say anything at all.

  “I just received ten copies,” Bridget said, waving them toward the children’s section. “But half of them will be gone by the end of the day.”

  Heather reached for Christopher’s arm to stop him. “What did you say?”

  “I want to buy a special book—”

  “The name of the book,” she prodded. “What was the title?”

  “Autumn Dancer,” he repeated as he turned to follow Bridget. “It’s my niece’s favorite book and I think the writing is quite brilliant as well.”

  The woman guided them past another display, this one with farm animals, then by an entire wall devoted to Fancy Nancy. If she’d been thinking clearly, Heather would have pointed out that Fancy Nancy came to London via New York, but her mind was all jumbled as she stared at a section with sparkly butterflies hanging on the wall.

  Bridget walked her fingers along a row of brightly colored spines until she reached a red one and plucked it off the shelf. “Here you go,” she said as she held out the book to Christopher.

  As he took it, Heather reached over and traced the glittery orange and reds that were splashed on the hardcover, the shimmering butterfly in the center that looked like it might indeed dance off the confines of the page. At the bottom was the name of the author.

  L.D. Walters

  The name tumbled in her mind. L.D.—Libby. Libby Doyle. And Walters—perhaps for her father’s name?

  Libby’s Book of Butterflies

  “Who is L.D. Walters?” she whispered.

  Bridget tilted her head, a quizzical look in her eyes.

  “She’s not from England,” Christopher explained to the woman.

  “No one seems to know who the author is,” Bridget answered her question with a shrug. She pulled two more books off the shelf—Moonlit Fairy and Lavender Lace. “The publisher says it’s a British woman, but they won’t say anything else about her. There have been rumors that the books are really written by a man, and that’s why the author is incognito.

  “Others say she’s really an American, pretending to be British—not that there is anything wrong with being American—but in the country known for Harry Potter and Peter Rabbit, we pride ourselves on our children’s authors.” She took a quick breath. “Quite honestly, it doesn’t matter one whit to me who’s writing about the butterflies. All the books in the series sell like crazy here.”

  Christopher handed her the book and Heather held it lightly, reverently. “How many are in the series?” she asked.

  “Twelve of them,” Bridget explained. “Each one about a different daughter of the Butterfly King.”

  Heather opened the cover and began to read the story of the Autumn Dancer—the places she visited in her garden, the friends she met. The playful dancer was free from the cares of life until a motley gang of bees imprisoned her for stealing their nectar, and she couldn’t dance anymore. The king and his army had to rescue her before the winter snow.

  Heather put the book down on a table and the room felt as if it had wings as well, tilting and looping in circles around her.

  Mrs. Westcott said that Libby couldn’t write, but at one time, Walter Doyle had loved to put stories on paper. And according to Christopher, her father wrote a lot in his last years.

  Perhaps Libby was not only alive. Perhaps she was doing quite well.

  MARCH 1992, WILLOW COTTAGE

  Broken bones he could fix, but the doctor said it was too late to stop the internal bleeding in Maggie’s vital organs. Walter had found her in the ditch going down into the village, after their car had slid on the ice, and she’d been conscious enough to tell him that she didn’t want to go to the hospital.

  But he hadn’t listened. He borrowed the Westcotts’ estate car and drove her straight into Cirencester. When the doctors said there was nothing they could do to save her life, Walter had brought her home, and in Maggie’s final hours, Daphne labored alongside him to care for her.

  Walter sat by Maggie’s bed that last night, holding her hand and wiping the sweat off her brow. “I need to know something,” she said, her breathing labored.

  “Ask anything you want.”

  “Did you kill Oliver Croft?”

  He shook his head.

  She struggled to take another breath, the pain almost paralyzing her. “Libby cared about him.”

  “I know.” He stroked her hand, hoping to settle her heart.

  “And I know you were caring for Libby.”

  He dipped the rag back into the cool water and dabbed her forehead.

  “I’ve done too many things wrong, Walter.” She stopped again for a breath. “I need to make it right.”

  “It’s okay—”

  “With you and Libby,” she continued. “And with Heather and Christopher. They belonged together, but I was afraid. I—I would have done anything to keep her heart from being broken.”

  “I know you would have.” He carefully brushed her hair. “Heather made her own choices, just like Libby made hers.”

  “Do you know where Libby is?”

  He shook his head. He couldn’t tell her now that Libby left after his mother passed away and never returned.

  “Please find her. Tell her how much I loved her.”

  “I will,” he said, though he wasn’t certain how he’d find her.

  “You cared for me, even when I wasn’t the woman you needed me to be.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Quiet, darling.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me . . . and for rescuing our girls.”

  This time he gently squeezed her hand, tears welling in his eyes. “I need to thank you, Maggie.”

  “I didn’t do anything—”

  “Thank you for loving me even when I was hard to love.”

  She seemed to search for her breath, and when she found it, she spoke again. “Walter?”

  He kissed her cheek.

  “You need to find Libby,” she said, “and you need to do something else.”

  There was nothing else he wanted to do, but still he listened.

  “I want you to start writing again.”

  “I don’t have anything to write about.”

  She smiled at him one last time. “You should write about butterflies.”

  HEATHER HAD BROUGHT ELLA HOME for Maggie’s memorial service. It was too late for Heather to say good-bye to her mother, and Walter thought it was for the best. She was happily married, living in the state of Oregon with her husband and beautiful daughter. There was no reason to muddle her happiness with the truth about Libby and much too late for Maggie to make amends.

  He hadn’t told his wife, even in her last hours, that he knew the storm back in Clevedon hadn’t tried to blow her away. She’d planned to go willingly with the wind. He was glad, so very glad, she’d lived, and that she chose to give Libby life as well.

  It was quiet in the house now without Maggie or their girls. Too quiet.

  He padded down into the basement and began sorting through the boxes that Maggie piled together after Libby had left, to make room for Heather and her things.

  For the first time in years, his desire to write was returning, welling within him. The words swarmed together, all jumbled. Order is what they needed. On paper.

  But the words inside him weren’t like the stories he’d written back in Clevedon. He wanted—needed—to tell a different kind of story.

  Inside Maggie’s boxes, he found exactly what he was looking for: the many pictures of Libby’s friends.

  He sat on the step and pulled out the emp
ty tablet from his front pocket, the notebook he’d been carrying for years in case inspiration struck. Then he picked up the first picture, studying it for a moment before he began to write.

  This butterfly likes to explore in the gardens before the sun sets, in the hour when no one can see her dance.

  He scratched out his words and tried again.

  Autumn Dancer flies in the cool of the evening, in the minutes before the trailing sunlight disappears into darkness.

  Better, but that still wasn’t quite right. Underneath he tried one more time.

  Autumn Dancer flutters among the flowers, chasing the last rays of sunlight until her haven is swallowed up by the night.

  Smiling, he began to scribble more words in the notebook, staying up all night to tell the story of Libby’s friend.

  Heather slid her passport to the attendant across the front desk of Oaken Holt Care Home, and then she signed a form saying she was indeed the daughter of Walter Doyle. The attendant typed her information into Walter’s file before scanning the record on his screen.

  “This says we mailed his belongings to you in Oregon. Six boxes that contained all the personal things left in his room.”

  Heather fidgeted in her chair. “I received all the boxes, but there was only clothing and books inside.” Dozens of books.

  “Were you expecting something else?” the man asked.

  She nodded. “His journals.”

  He glanced down the list of items they’d mailed. “There’s nothing here about journals.”

  “A friend said he kept them on the bookshelf by his bed.”

  “Let me talk to his nurse.”

  The attendant stood and stepped back into a room behind the desk. When he returned, he typed something else on his keyboard before facing her.

  “The nurse said the journals were gone before he passed away. Apparently, he asked her to mail them to a relative here in Oxford.”

  Heather’s heart pumped faster. “Do you have the address?”

  He scanned his computer screen again. Then he wrote something onto a piece of paper and slipped it back across the desk. She glanced down at the street address in Oxford along with an apartment number.

  “There’s no name of the recipient in our records,” he said.