Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor (20 page)

Maggie called Libby’s name one more time, hoping she wasn’t far, but there was no answer.

Slipping through the open gate, Maggie hurried through the familiar gardens. Moonlight settled over the flowers, and the estate was quiet and surreal. Just like her daughter.

She glanced up at the darkened windows of the house, hoping she wouldn’t waken the occupants or their dogs. The dogs weren’t allowed in the gardens, but if they began barking, Henry would come out to check on them.

She eyed the trees in front of her. Libby wouldn’t go anywhere near the river, especially after what happened last week, but she liked to hear the sound of the water. Perhaps she was sitting along the bank.

A bright light flashed through the lower terrace of the garden, above the maze, and Maggie stopped. Then the light held steady from the top of the folly, like a beacon.

Had Libby climbed the old tower?

If Lord or Lady Croft saw the light, they would probably phone the police.

“Libby?” she called louder this time.

She’d never been inside the maze, but she had no choice now. The yew hedges blocked most of the light as she moved through the narrow passage, the spindly branches poking her skin. When the path ended, she turned back to try another. And then another.

As she drew closer to the folly, laughter filtered out from the tower, soaring like one of Libby’s butterflies on the breeze. Stunned, Maggie stopped walking. Then Libby laughed again, but this time her laughter was followed by the laugh of a man.

Maggie’s heart began to race as memories flashed back in her mind. Elliot and her at the cave. Her own tumbling emotions as she longed for his return. And how she’d wanted to sail away with him.

But Libby didn’t want to escape, did she?

Her daughter wasn’t old enough to have a suitor, and even if she was, she wouldn’t know how to act with a man. He would take advantage of her and leave her—

Her stomach rolled as she rushed through the tower’s doorway, following the path of light up the steps. She found Libby upstairs, dancing in the arms of Oliver Croft.

Libby grinned when she saw her. “Hello, Mummy.”

But Oliver didn’t smile at her. Instead his laughter dissipated into the walls of the folly. “Mrs. Doyle?”

Her head—and her heart—felt as if they were about to explode. She still saw Libby as a child, but even though her daughter may wrestle with the emotions of an adolescent, her body was maturing into one of a young woman. A beautiful woman.

Libby was too young, much too young for—for
this
.

She may not understand what was happening, but Oliver Croft was almost two years older and knew exactly what he was doing.

“Move away from her,” Maggie commanded, her voice steely.

When he stepped away, Libby reached for his arm, but he shook off her hand. “Mummy, you remember Oliver.”

Maggie nodded slowly. “Oliver is the respected son of Lord and Lady Croft.”

“I’m sorry—” he muttered, guilt etched in the nervous lines around his eyes and lips.

Confused, Libby looked back and forth between them before she spoke to the man next to her. “Mummy doesn’t mind me coming into the gardens.”

“I do mind,” Maggie replied, trying to calm her voice. “Oliver, you should know better . . .”

“We were only playing together,” Libby said. “Like when we were kids.”

Maggie didn’t respond. Oliver knew just like Maggie did that Libby never wanted to play with him when they were children.

Maggie reached for her daughter’s hand, but Libby pulled it away. “I’m staying here,” she insisted.

Anger collided with fear inside her. When she looked at Oliver again, it felt like her heart was on fire. “Go home,” she said, her voice so hard she barely recognized it.

He took a step back toward the stairs.

“And stay away from my daughter.”

When he paused by the railing, his eyes on Libby, Maggie stepped between them. “I hear you’re going to marry Judith Perdue.”

Oliver glanced down at his feet. “My parents want me to marry her when I finish at the university.”

“I’m sure your parents want what’s best for you.”

When he looked up at her again, the fire in his eyes matched hers. “They want what’s best for them.”

She took Libby’s hand and guided her around Oliver.

“Good-bye, Libby,” he said, his voice low.

And Libby smiled at him.

Her heart raced as she led Libby back out of the maze. How could she make her daughter understand what could happen if she continued to entertain a man like Oliver Croft? And how was she supposed to keep Libby from returning to Ladenbrooke if Oliver lured her over?

The Crofts would be gone for months now. Probably until next summer.

Oliver was sixteen, and for the first time, she agreed with Lady Croft. They must—at any cost—keep Libby and Oliver apart. But even with a lock, how would they keep Oliver away? He could come to their house when she and Walter were gone.

“Walter would like Oliver,” Libby said as they walked back through the flowers.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Maggie said. “You mustn’t tell your father that you saw the Croft boy.”

“Why not?”

She paused. “He might hurt Oliver.”

Libby slowed her walk. “Why would he hurt him?”

Maggie thought for a moment. The only time she’d ever seen her husband get violent was when he pummeled Elliot in the alleyway. “He wants to protect the women he loves.”

“I think Oliver might love me too.”

The spider of fear crept up the back of her neck again.

They had to keep this night a secret—from Walter and the Crofts.

Somehow she would stop Libby from returning to the folly.

C
uriosity anchored Heather’s feet to the carpet as Christopher emerged from the convertible, wearing an olive-colored shirt and dress trousers. His warm smile was exactly as she remembered except this time he wasn’t smiling at her.

He quickly rounded the car and opened the passenger door. The woman who stepped out was a foot shorter than him and so petite that Heather thought at first she was barely out of her teens. Her dark hair felt straight over her shoulders, and she looked as if she could command an army.

Christopher’s wife may have passed away, but he was most definitely not single.

Heather backed away from the glass and then spun around, mortified at the thought of Christopher knowing she’d been gawking at him and his—whatever she was.

When Mrs. Westcott turned toward her, she saw worry reflected in the woman’s eyes. “Her name is Adrienne,” she explained. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

“No, I—” Heather shook her head. “I think I will use the back door.”

She rushed through the kitchen and into the sunroom. Voices echoed behind her, and she hurried outside, down the path between the house and detached garage to her bicycle. All she needed to do was pedal quickly away while Mrs. Westcott distracted everyone inside the farmhouse.

She pushed her rickety bike around the shiny black convertible then climbed onto the seat. It was a short driveway. It would take her only seconds to—

The front door slammed behind her, and she heard whistling. Her heart collapsed within her, and even though she knew she should pedal away, her feet fell to the ground.

“Hello,” Christopher called out.

She didn’t turn around. Couldn’t turn. She lifted her right foot again to push off, but it was too late. Christopher Westcott was beside her.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Slowly she took a deep breath before looking over at him. “Hello, Christopher.”

His eyes grew wide, as if he’d seen a ghost. “Heather?”

She nodded.

He groaned, and she felt his rejection fresh again. How was it, twenty-five years later, she still felt the wounds as acutely as she did when they were teenagers. “What are you doing here?” he asked though it sounded more like an accusation.

She inched up her chin, straightening her back. She had done nothing wrong. “I was just visiting—”

He glanced toward the front door. “It’s not a good time for us to visit.”

“I didn’t come to see you, Christopher. I came to see your mother.”

At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.

She teetered on her bicycle. “I thought you were in Oxford.”

“I’m only here for the weekend.” He paused. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Her shoulders softened a bit.

“Christopher?” Adrienne called behind him, and he glanced back and forth between Heather and the door.

As Adrienne stomped toward them, Heather wished she could run again as she’d done years ago, but she hadn’t come to the Westcott home to threaten anyone. Nor had she returned desperate to rekindle any sort of relationship with her ex-boyfriend.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Westcott said from the front porch.

Icy shards seemed to shoot from Adrienne’s gaze. “Who’s this?”

Sighing, Heather stepped off her bike again, and when she looked back up at Christopher, she saw the anxiety in his eyes. And the anger. As if she’d flown across the Atlantic to ruin his life, almost three decades after he’d broken her heart.

She tapped her foot. If only the gravel drive would open up and swallow her whole.

He cleared his throat. “Adrienne, this is Heather Doyle. She’s—”

“My last name is Toulson now,” she interjected. “And I’m a friend, from long ago.”

“It has been a long time,” Christopher said, a sharp edge piercing his words.

The younger woman glanced back and forth between them. “I’m Adrienne. Christopher’s friend now.”

Heather stretched out her hand in an attempt to be civil. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Adrienne didn’t echo her sentiment, but she shook her hand, her grip remarkably strong for such a small woman. “Did you say Doyle?”

Heather nodded. “That was my maiden name.”

Adrienne looked up at Christopher. “As in,
Walter Doyle
?”

Heather glanced between them. She was missing something but didn’t know what. “Walter was my father.”

Adrienne’s eyes were still focused on Christopher’s face. “You never mentioned that Walter had a daughter.”

Heather glanced toward Mrs. Westcott on the stoop then hopped back on her bicycle

“Thank you for your help,” Heather said before finally pedaling toward the street. She didn’t know if they were watching her ride away, but she held her head high, pretending like pride in oneself was overrated.

Christopher looked every bit as good as he had when they were teenagers, and he probably had dozens of women, college students even, tripping over themselves to be with him. She was a relic in comparison.

But then again, no matter how good Christopher looked, he was older than her.

Ella said his wife had passed away eight years ago. Was he going to marry this woman now? Perhaps they were already married.

It shouldn’t matter—didn’t matter—to her.

After parking the bicycle beside Willow Cottage, she plucked her handbag with the butterfly book out of the basket and fled into the sitting room. Inside she pulled the window shades down and sank onto the couch.

She hadn’t been stalking Christopher—she hadn’t even known he was home—but her heart still pumped voraciously. For years, she’d wondered what she would do if she saw him again, and now she knew.

She’d regress.

Slipping her cell phone out of her handbag, she checked her voice mail. Three new clients had called asking for her assistance and two current clients wanted updates on their projects.

She should leave her past in the past and immerse herself back into what she knew well—work that was challenging but predictable. Relationships with clear boundaries to ward off the unknown. Blemished artwork that could be restored.

The beech tree outside the window blocked the afternoon sunlight so she turned on the lamp and began flipping through Libby’s butterfly pictures again, trying to distract herself from her encounter with Christopher and Adrienne. Mrs. Westcott was hiding more from her than the impending arrival of her son and his date. Something about Libby made her feel uncomfortable and Heather wasn’t certain how to siphon off the truth. And it wasn’t like she could go back and ask Mrs. Westcott about it again, at least not until she was completely, absolutely certain that Christopher was gone.

She closed the book and stood. There was no point in sitting here, commiserating about what might have been. Libby was gone, and Christopher had moved on a long time ago in his relationships.

She changed into jeans and a T-shirt then borrowed her mum’s gardening shoes, gloves, and trowel along with the worn kneeling pad she’d used as a girl.

Pink foxglove and violet clusters of verbenas struggled for survival among the weeds behind the cottage. It felt good to yank out the plants that were choking the remaining flowers and pile them up beside her. It was all part of her struggle for control, she supposed. Order along with a steady pace to calm the mind.

Mum used to do the same thing when she got frustrated, kneeling beside her and telling her stories about her childhood in South London as she pulled out fistfuls of weeds. Heather had been intrigued by the war, fascinated that her mum could remember hiding in a shelter and German planes flying overhead. The darkness in London and the fear she’d felt before she was evacuated to Clevedon.