Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor (16 page)

His mother took credit for the prized flowers of Ladenbrooke, but she never worked in the gardens herself. She hired Henry and a staff of three other gardeners to fulfill her vision, so she hadn’t discovered his magic with the lock. She rarely visited her gardens, but she’d ordered Henry to notify her immediately if Libby returned.

Fortunately Libby had managed to evade Henry’s watch—or perhaps the head gardener looked the other way instead of reporting Libby whenever she visited the gardens.

Oliver didn’t understand—why couldn’t his mother just let Libby dance?

But neither of his parents were fond of the girl who’d captured his attention. If they knew he watched her up here, they would probably banish him from the tower forever. It was foolishness really, how they tried to control his every move, as if they could control his thoughts and his heart along with his actions.

He longed to be free like Libby, but his parents treated him more like a piece of pottery—shaping and molding him into the distinguished Lord of Ladenbrooke.

No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be lord.

Two days ago his father’s man descended on the gardens, presumably to escort Libby back to the gate, but Oliver had rushed down the stairs as fast as he could and told the man to leave Libby alone. The man was conflicted, but he finally relented to the junior Croft, though he later told Lord Croft about their intruder.

Over dinner his mother had ranted about Libby’s presence on their property along with the state of Libby’s mind. Mother said she would appeal to the local authorities if Mr. and Mrs. Doyle didn’t stop their daughter from trespassing.

Oliver told his mother that Libby was as harmless as the butterflies, but his mother thought Libby was a nuisance—a distraction—and she didn’t have time for either.

Oliver, however, had plenty of time.

The door into the tower creaked open, and Oliver shifted his focus away from the window. He braced himself for an inquiry from his parents, but his sister stepped in the room instead.

Sarah flipped on the light overhead, and he shielded his eyes, the bulb blinding him for a moment.

“You’re late to dinner,” she said, her white-gloved hands balled up on the waist of her pleated dress. The ends of her blonde hair were flipped up, and she wore a teal green hat that matched her dress and a double strand of pearls.

He shrugged. “I was busy.”

Sarah glanced down at the binoculars in his lap. Then she switched off the light and stepped toward the window. Her nose an inch from the glass, she scanned the shadows below them until her gaze stopped on the one shadow moving through their mother’s flower beds. “It’s Libby, isn’t it?”

“Does it matter?” He stuffed his binoculars into the bench under the window seat.

“Apparently it matters to you as much as it matters to our mother.”

He stiffened. “Please don’t tell Mother she’s here.”

“She’ll find out either way,” Sarah said, twisting the pearls on her neck.

He shook his head. “Libby comes almost every night at this time.”

Sarah sighed. “You like her, don’t you?”

He looked back out the window, but he couldn’t see her anymore. “Very much.”

“Father would have an awful fit if he heard you say that.”

“Then don’t tell him,” Oliver begged. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Come along to dinner,” she said as she stepped back toward the door. “I’ll keep your secret.”

He held the door open for her. “Thank you, Sarah.”

Mother scolded them both for being late, but he didn’t care what his mother, or, for that matter, what his father, thought—about dinner or the girl next door.

Libby was good and pure. Full of life and laughter. She might never love him like she loved the butterflies, but one day he hoped she might love him just a little.

One day he would win her attention and perhaps capture a small bit of her heart as well.

A
drienne crossed her legs in the leather seat next to Christopher, and she looked almost threatening in her black skirt, tights, and long black boots. Adrienne worked in admissions at Oxford, and even though she was thirty-six, it seemed half the population of male students along with their tutors were vying for her attention. For some reason, perhaps because he hadn’t vied, they had become friends, bonding over their mutual love of rowing and reading, though his choices in literature were much different than hers.

He’d sold his car a long time ago, preferring to walk or bicycle around Oxford, so this morning he drove her convertible through dozens of tiny villages that dotted the Cotswolds. Adrienne was a smart woman who enjoyed a good story—and she seemed to enjoy his company most of the time, until he began talking about theology or his passion for writing. She was able to feign interest for a while but inevitably changed the subject.

His younger brother said his relationship with Adrienne was a “rebound,” but it had been eight years since he’d lost his wife. He wasn’t thinking about marriage right now, and Adrienne didn’t seem the least bit interested in discussing marriage either. Though if he was gut-honest with himself, he did want to marry again one day. It might be too late to start a family, but he longed to settle into a relationship with a woman who didn’t have to pretend to enjoy their conversation.

Adrienne was talking about a new restaurant opening outside Oxford, run by a renowned chef from one of the foodie shows. Christopher tried to pay attention to her words, but as their car crawled through the countryside, his focus was diluted. His anxiety, off the charts.

He’d tried to convince Adrienne to come another weekend, but she wouldn’t budge on their plans. He’d already canceled the trip twice in the last month, and when he suggested rescheduling again, she asked if he was embarrassed to introduce her to his family. He wasn’t embarrassed, though after his experience with Lauren, he was hesitant. And nervous.

It didn’t help his nerves to know Heather was home.

Adrienne was adept at managing people whether it was her employees or the men who sought her mobile number. He had no doubt she would manage his family well also, and everything would be fine. Tomorrow, instead of staying in Bibury, he’d take her to one of the tourist spots in another town. Shakespeare’s birthplace. Warwick Castle. Winston Churchill’s childhood home.

Anyplace far from Willow Cottage.

Having grown up as friends, he and Heather had spent much more time together than he and Adrienne ever could with their busy careers. Time was the beauty and perhaps curse of young love. You could devote seemingly endless hours getting to know each other.

It was easy to idealize the past, but dwelling on it was unbeneficial for him as the best memories of his youth all had Heather in them. In Oxford, he’d managed to escape most of the memories, even when he visited Walter, but he couldn’t seem to get away from the memories in Bibury.

After all these years, he still didn’t understand what had happened between him and Heather. One night he had professed his love for her, saying he wanted to marry her. She’d accepted his proposal but then left for London the next day without even saying good-bye. In the months that followed, she refused every attempt he made to contact her.

He’d given her his heart along with the promise of the future, and she had rejected and humiliated him.

Instead of avoiding Heather this time, perhaps he should seek her out. Leave his personal baggage on her doorstep and move on. Once he saw her, reality would come crashing down, and then he could finally let go.

They passed through a village, and Adrienne glanced around at the stone cottages and gardens as if she was just realizing they’d left Oxford. “It’s beautiful out here.”

He smiled at her. “You should have come sooner.”

“I tried.” Her lips scrunched together into a pout.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“It would have been a bit awkward to visit my boyfriend’s home without my boyfriend.”

He cringed at the word
boyfriend
, but knew he needed to stop being so uptight. “You have a rotten boyfriend.”

Adrienne pulled down the sun visor to reapply her lipstick in the mirror.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Not a bit.”

“They’re all going to love you.”

She flashed him a smile. “Of course they are.”

HEATHER PACKED
Libby’s Book of Butterflies
into her handbag and stowed it in the basket on her old bicycle as she prepared to ride down the hill. To find out about Libby, she must visit the one woman she’d been avoiding ever since she’d come home.

Mrs. Westcott was the town midwife, and though she’d been much younger than Heather’s mother, they had children the same age. Growing up, it had always seemed to Heather as if Mrs. Westcott and her mum were peers. She was one of the few people who came to visit often during Heather’s childhood, and as far as she knew, the only friend of Mum’s that was still alive.

After she crested the hill by Ladenbrooke, Heather spread out her legs and began to soar down toward Bibury. She and Christopher used to race like this when they were teenagers, not a single care anchoring them to the ground. They may have both grown up, but in her mind, Christopher would always be handsome and reckless and completely free from the cares of this world.

His confidence had shaken her when she was younger. Sometimes she’d felt like she was clinging to the tail of a kite, bobbling along behind him. Her home was quiet—reserved—while the Westcott house was crazy loud and fun. Christopher once said he liked coming to her cottage to get away from the noise, but she hadn’t understood the value of peace at the time.

Her feet back on the pedals, she braked in front of the Westcott home. Their renovated farmhouse was much larger than her parents’ cottage and, despite its age, in mint condition. The flower beds in front were free of weeds, and the family had replaced their thatched roof with slate.

She slipped the butterfly book from her bag and walked up the steps, just as she’d done countless times in her teens. It was so strange to be back here, standing on the stoop like she was waiting for Christopher to answer the door again.

She knocked tentatively on the front door, and seconds later, the door swung back.

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Westcott exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

Heather smiled at the kindness in her welcome. Mrs. Westcott’s white hair was cut short, a pixie style, and her face was pale with the exception of a dark crimson shade on her lips.

Seconds after she answered the door, Mrs. Westcott’s welcoming smile fell into a nervous one, the lines of her lipstick tightening like a wide rubber band. “I was hoping you would visit, but . . .” The woman didn’t finish her sentence. Instead her gaze traveled over Heather’s shoulder as if she was looking for a car.

“I rode my bicycle,” Heather explained. “Should I come back another time?”

Mrs. Westcott looked down at the sketchbook in Heather’s hand. At the pink-and-golden butterfly on the cover. “Where did you find that?”

“In my parents’ basement,” she said, holding it up. “I was wondering if you could answer some questions about my sister.”

Mrs. Westcott opened the door wider. “I only have a few minutes.”

“I can come back tomorrow.”

But Mrs. Westcott waved her inside, and Heather stepped over the threshold into the home that had once been as familiar as her own. The last time she was here, she and Christopher were supposed to be filling out forms for college at the kitchen table, but at the time, it had been almost impossible for her to focus on paperwork.

Mrs. Westcott pointed toward the plaid couch for Heather while she sat on an upholstered chair, drumming her fingers on the arms. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to offer you tea today.”

“I won’t stay long,” Heather promised, glad she didn’t have to make small talk this afternoon.

“Will you come back for tea another time?” the older woman asked.

“Of course,” Heather replied. Christopher was living in Oxford now and their teenage years were far behind them. It was absurd for her to continue avoiding this place.

She slid the book across the polished coffee table in front of Mrs. Westcott. “Did my sister paint these butterflies?”