Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

Praise for
Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“
Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor
by Melanie Dobson is a beautiful and touching novel filled with family drama, mystery, and romance. You’ll be swept away to the English countryside as you follow the interwoven stories of three women in one family who discover the healing power of love and forgiveness. Engaging from beginning to end!”

—Carrie Turansky, award-winning author of
The Daughter of Highland Hall
and
A Refuge at Highland Hall

“An old, cherished house is like the human heart: we keep treasures safely tucked within—some conquests we proudly display; some treasures we put behind glass; and some secrets we hide from sight, our own and others’. In
Shadows of Ladenbrook Manor
, Ms. Dobson skillfully plaits the complex strands of life: golden and dark, truth and deception, love and loss into an engaging, multigenerational story of heartache and ultimate, unexpected redemption. Any reader might both lose and find herself between the covers of this compelling novel.”

—Sandra Byrd, author of
Mist of Midnight

“Melanie Dobson’s new book skillfully weaves together past and present as she takes the reader on a fascinating journey to a shocking secret held for generations. A book about choices, consequences, and ultimately redemption, this beautiful story highlights the love of family, and the sacrifices we make and secrets we keep for better or for worse.”

—Jennifer Shaw, Telly Award–winning speaker, author, songwriter, and fivetime Top 40 Billboard artist

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JODI STILP PHOTOGRAPHY

For James Beroth

My Dad

Libby’s Book of Butterflies

Autumn Dancer flutters among the flowers, chasing the last rays of sunlight until her haven is swallowed up by the night. Her sisters are asleep now, hidden under the fronds, but she doesn’t care. She dances alone in the twilight, embracing the warmth of the golden hour, her wings sweeping past silky petals of the late summer blooms. In the safe cocoon of her garden, she dares believe that no harm will ever enter the gates. This is her world of beauty and peace, of sweet nectar and life, completely unspoiled by the footsteps of danger or the silent mockery of time.

PART ONE

The papers liked to call it “the storm of the century.” It blew into England sixty years ago, the winter of ’54, but I remember it like it was yesterday. The overturned boats. Wooden shutters smashing glass. The collapse of the pavilion on the pier.

The gale swept up the Bristol Channel that night like a band of pirates ready to pillage our little town. Brackish water poured over the promenade, stealing bits and pieces from the streets of Clevedon and sweeping it back out to bury in the depths of the sea.

I didn’t know it that day, but the winter storm of ’54 was the storm of the century in my life as well. Or at least it will be if I live another fifteen years.

Much later I discovered that a tidal wave had crashed into the seawall of my soul that January night, cracking the foundation, leaving hairline fractures in its wake. What I thought was strong, secure, had been weakened from its violent blow, and though I didn’t know it yet, a slow leak had begun to seep into those places of my core that should never have been exposed, acid burning me from the inside out.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

That stormy evening marked the best day of my life until the day my daughter was born. Unfortunately, life got all muddled after Libby’s birth.

I’ve spent the last years of my life trying to sort it out. Pride, the Good Book says, goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall, but I’ve no place left to fall now.

That night in ’54 changed my life.

If only I could restore the plunder of time and mend the broken places. Blow those terrible winds away.

If only . . .

JANUARY 1954, CLEVEDON, ENGLAND

M
oored fishing boats sagged in the harbor’s waves as the lights on Clevedon’s wooden pier flickered in the wind. A storm was brewing over the swollen waters that separated England from Wales, the dark clouds bulging with rain, but Maggie Emerson didn’t move from her bench along the wide promenade.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her warm, woolen skirt over her stockings. In the summer, day-trippers paraded up and down this promenade, gawking at the sailing boats and the Welsh mountains across the estuary. They clambered over the rocks along the shoreline and paid two pennies each to stroll onto the famous pier that stretched over the water. But few people visited Clevedon this time of year, and on stormy nights like this, most of the town’s residents hunkered down in the safety of their homes.

Maggie knew she should return home too, but even when the clock tower chimed five o’clock, she didn’t stand. Her gaze remained fixed in the distance where salty water from the Bristol Channel collided with the River Severn.

Every evening, after she finished her work at the library, she sat on this bench and watched for a certain yacht to appear. But for the past two months all she’d done was sit alone, watching the fishing boats sway. Aunt Priscilla had warned that the yachtsmen who stopped here wanted only one thing, and then they’d be gone. Maggie hadn’t understood what her aunt meant at the time, but now she knew exactly what Elliot wanted when he’d sailed into their town.

Last summer, when Aunt Priscilla found out about Elliot, she’d threatened to pack Maggie’s suitcase and drive her to the station for the next train headed to London. But Maggie had sworn that she’d never see him again, and she’d kept her promise . . . until Elliot sailed back in October.

Another wave smashed into the seawall of the promenade, and the pier lights flickered one more time before darkness fell over her.

Elliot had said he would return by Christmas and spend the rest of the winter in Clevedon with her. He said they would marry, and when the weather turned warm, they would sail far away from here.

But more than two months had passed since she’d seen him and now—

Her hand rolled over her abdomen, her tears mixing with icy raindrops that began to fall from the sky.

Aunt Priscilla and Uncle Timothy—who weren’t really her aunt and uncle at all—might wonder why she hadn’t returned home yet, especially with the impending storm, but as their three biological children grew older, they’d stopped asking where she went after work. The Frasers had been fostering her since she was five, and recently they’d made it quite clear that it was time for her to either marry or return to London. She had opted for marriage . . . or at least, she thought she had.

She rocked against the bench, her arms wrapped over her chest.

What was she supposed to do?

If the truth of her indiscretion took wings, it would taint the impeccable reputations of her aunt and uncle and destroy all they valued. Everyone in town admired Aunt Priscilla for her charity work and Uncle Timothy for championing the production of penicillin. If Aunt Priscilla found out about the baby, she would insist Maggie hide her shame—their shame—from the entire town, and Maggie couldn’t blame her. Though the Frasers had required Maggie to work hard over the years, she knew they’d sacrificed much for her.

The people in Clevedon treated her like she was one of the Frasers’ children, but she’d never stopped missing her brother or parents. While she knew her dad and mum would never return, she’d dreamed for years about reuniting with her younger brother, Edmund. He had been evacuated with her in 1940, but after the war ended, the Frasers sent Edmund off to an orphanage. Maggie had begged them to keep her brother, swore she would care for him, but they’d only wanted a girl. Then by the time she was old enough to travel to Swindon to visit him, Edmund was gone.

The conditions at the orphanage hadn’t been horrific—not like the stories she’d read about the old workhouses—but the rooms were sterile. Cold. The kind of place that probably killed her brother’s spirit before pneumonia took his life.

The wind blew away the tears on her cheeks, her hand cradled over her stomach again. No matter what happened, she would never send this baby away.

Another wave crashed over the pier and smashed into the seawall, shooting thirty feet above her, the frigid spray showering down on her head, soaking her coat and skirt.

Like Edmund, not all orphaned children found homes, but even if her baby were adopted, she would never know if her child was being raised with love or contempt. She didn’t want to give up her child and yet the alternative was impossible. No reputable employer would hire an unmarried mother, and she wouldn’t be able to support herself and a child with assistance from the government. Even if she were able to get a job working as a skivvy or a laundress in Bristol, there would be no one to care for her baby.

She shivered in her soaked clothing. If she stayed out here much longer, she might catch pneumonia like her brother. She might—

A seed of a thought began to germinate in her mind.

Perhaps an illness wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Perhaps an illness would be the answer to her prayers.

She’d already begged God’s forgiveness in the chapel, her knees aching as she’d knelt by the altar. She and the baby could escape this world together. Surely God, in His goodness, His mercy, would welcome them home. Into a safe, warm place where her baby would thrive.

A loud crash startled her, and she turned as the storm tore a shutter off a nearby shop. Then she curled her fingers around the edge of the bench, battling to stand in the wind. If she caught pneumonia, her aunt would call the doctor, and the doctor would find out—

She couldn’t let the doctor examine her.

Another thought slipped into her mind, a dim beacon in the haze.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to succumb to an illness or the questions of doctors trying to cure her. She was terrified of the water, but maybe she should embrace the storm and its fierce lashing. Let the winds blow away her fears. In seconds all would be well again. Her heart would be calm—