Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor (31 page)

But even as he spoke, the words seemed muffled in her ears. Walter was afraid, and he wasn’t supposed to be afraid of anything.

He shook her shoulder. “Libby—”

She tilted her head back up to look at him.

“Do you understand me?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, closing her eyes so she couldn’t see the fear in Walter’s gaze. Or the emptiness in Oliver’s face.

He stood and took her hand. She followed him to the wall; then he lifted her out of the water and carried her, back to the trees on the other side.

This time she wished he would drop her. So the river could take her too.

“I’ll meet you at home,” he said. “Don’t tell your mum or anyone that Oliver is gone.”

She nodded slowly. He needn’t worry about her telling anyone, but he was wrong about Oliver.

Oliver Croft wasn’t gone. Would never be gone.

No matter what happened, Oliver would always be alive in her heart.

T
he sun was fading behind the churchyard outside Bibury, but Heather didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to visit the cemetery. Kneeling beside the headstone for Margaret Emerson Doyle, she traced her hand over the epitaph.

Her mum had lied to her about Libby and about Christopher. She must have thought she’d been doing the right thing to protect her, but the ripples from her lies had redirected the course of Heather’s life.

She glanced over at her father’s new headstone.

Part of her wanted to be angry at both of them for collaborating against her, but more than anger, she understood exactly why they had done it. Years later, she had lied to her daughter as well.

She’d intended to tell Ella the truth about her father—one day—but the untruths grew and became their own reality over the years, until it seemed impossible to untangle it all.

Now was the time to straighten it out, before it was too late. She wanted to stop the deception from filtering again from one generation to the next.

Mrs. Westcott had left her home several hours ago, tears in her eyes. She thought Heather would be angry at her parents—and at her—for keeping this secret, but Heather felt more relief than anger. It explained so much—why her parents had loomed over her as a teenager, why they’d sent her away to a girls-only school when she’d wanted to stay home, and why they’d insisted she attend college.

Her parents had loved her; she knew that without a doubt. And her heart was filled with gratefulness—at the sacrifices they made to raise the child who was technically their granddaughter. It still hurt that her dad had been so distant in his later years, but she knew she’d disappointed him when she’d married Jeffery.

It saddened her as well that Mrs. Westcott—and not her parents—had been the one to tell her the truth about Libby. Perhaps if she’d known about her birth mother, she wouldn’t have felt so alone during the years she’d spent as a single mom.

Mrs. Westcott asked her forgiveness for keeping the secrets, and Heather had given it freely. Christopher’s mother had helped give her life, and she’d done what she thought best to protect her son. If Heather didn’t forgive her, then she had no right to ask the same of Ella.

After their conversation ended, Heather had retreated down to the basement and dug through several more of Libby’s boxes, searching instead of sorting this time until she found dozens of envelopes addressed to Oliver Croft, to a house in Woldingham. Inside were hand-drawn pictures of a tower and gardens and the backs of a boy and a girl, sitting hand in hand by a pond—a purple butterfly instead of a signature on every one.

As she sat now on the grass between the gravestones, Heather flipped through the butterfly book in her hands again, trying to grasp understanding from the magical pictures, the unique lines and colors of an artist who captured butterflies on paper.

Libby wasn’t her sister, but she couldn’t quite process the fact that the couple she’d thought to be her parents were actually her grandparents. Even though the truth of her past might have shifted, her heart had not, could not. In spite of the lies, Walter and Maggie Doyle had sacrificed to send her to a good school, away from the rumors in Bibury. They’d loved and protected her from someone they thought might neglect or even harm her.

Mrs. Westcott said Libby ran away soon after Heather was born. But where did she run?

Heather closed her eyes.

The last time she’d been inside the parish church was for her dad’s memorial service. The day was a messy blur in her mind. People from town had filled the sanctuary to pay tribute to the man who’d sorted and delivered their mail for thirty years. The rector asked her to read from the Scriptures during the service and she’d selected Psalm 23. When she’d stepped up to the podium, she scanned the crowd and saw a woman standing at the back. It was impossible to miss her—she wore a pale-blue dress while everyone else wore black, and the copper tones of her long hair glowed in the sunlight that filtered through the stained glass.

After she finished reading from Psalms, Heather had looked again toward the back of the room, but the woman was gone.

She’d thought it strange at the time—and even stranger was the sense of déjà vu she’d felt with the woman’s presence, almost as if she’d seen her before in a dream. But like a dream, the memory of the woman faded in the hours after the service.

Was it possible that Libby had come to say good-bye to her father as well?

In the quiet churchyard, sitting among the bluebells, Heather decided she wouldn’t leave England until she discovered what happened to Libby. If Mrs. Westcott’s story was accurate, forty-five years had passed since she’d left home. It might seem like an impossibility to find her now, especially if she didn’t want to be found, but if Libby had loved Oliver, perhaps someone in Oliver’s family would have an idea where she’d gone.

A quick text to Brie requested the Crofts’ contact info, and seconds later, Heather received a return text with the phone number and address for Lord Croft, the same address from Libby’s letters.

But before she contacted the Crofts, she decided it was time to put an end to her own secrets as well. For too long, she’d thought she was protecting Ella, but looking back, it had been cowardly of her to wait twenty-five years to have this talk. The secrets meant to protect her daughter were really shielding Heather from her own shame. A fortress for her pride and a shoddy tourniquet for her wounds.

This time she didn’t text Ella. This time she called.

CHRISTOPHER BIKED THE PATH ALONG
the placid River Cherwell, passing by a parade of flat-bottomed punts filled with students laughing and singing as they floated in the sunshine. During his first summer as a student at Oxford, he would have gone punting with them, but his gusto for life tanked after Heather’s rejection and sent him into a tailspin. It took him years to regain his footing.

He’d thought he and Heather were a sure thing. They’d mapped out a life together, as much as one maps out a life at the ages of eighteen and nineteen. She was going to finish college in London, and then they would marry. He’d planned to pursue a degree in economics and she wanted to teach art.

They’d dreamed about living in London, as a family—Heather wanted four kids but after growing up with three siblings, he opted for two. They’d laughed about their dreams. And in their certainty, their passion, they’d made mistakes.

He thought Heather rejected him because of his foolishness. He’d tried to make amends with her after that summer, to say he was sorry, but he thought she’d rejected him again and again.

All along, she thought he’d rejected her.

No wonder Heather was angry with him. She thought he’d been cheating on her with someone else.

And it was all a lie, propagated by their mothers, out of fear. When his mum called, she told him the truth about what happened the night he and Heather were supposed to go to the dance. And she told him about Libby.

It wasn’t that Mrs. Doyle disliked Christopher. His mum said Mrs. Doyle hadn’t wanted Heather to make the same choices as Libby, so she concocted a story that would deter her—just until she thought Heather was old enough to marry.

But it was more than that for Christopher’s mum. She’d loved Libby and her daughter, but she was afraid as well, fearing Heather would grow up to be as erratic as her mother and hurt Christopher as a result. She cared deeply for the Doyle family, but his mum had a fierce love for her children.

Heather hadn’t rejected him or his token of a promise. Mrs. Doyle had returned the ring to his mum.

Something happened when he’d visited Heather last week though. It felt like they were teenagers again, enjoying each other’s company as friends. Or even more than friends.

He sighed. He couldn’t figure out the state of his own heart.

He’d loved his wife dearly and grieved deeply after he lost her. And he’d tried to move on in his relationships. Some nights, loneliness still seemed to consume him, but he wanted more than companionship from a woman like Adrienne. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with someone he loved.

Perhaps it was time to move past regrets and take an honest look into his future.

Did he want Heather in his life again? The answer inside him was a resounding yes, but he didn’t know if she would consider renewing their friendship, even when she found out the truth about what happened.

All he could do was ask.

His mum said she wouldn’t meddle, but somehow, inadvertently, she’d texted him Heather’s number.

Perhaps he should ring her. Or perhaps these days it was better to start with a text instead.

He stopped pedaling and set his bicycle against the wide trunk of an oak tree. Then he removed his phone from his pocket.

But before he decided whether to text or call, a note popped up on his screen.

It was a simple message. From Heather.

Can I come to Oxford?

He didn’t hesitate before texting back.

Yes!

JUNE 1970, WILLOW COTTAGE

T
he knock at half past eight startled Maggie—Daphne had already visited for the night, and no one else ever knocked on their front door in the evening.

Two nights ago, Libby had come through the back door, drenched to her core and trembling like the night last December when they’d discovered she was expecting. Now she was soaking in Epsom salts upstairs while Maggie was in the kitchen, preparing a bottle from formula. Since returning home, Libby no longer seemed to care about feeding her daughter. No longer wanted to do anything at all.

Something had frightened her that night, but just like before, Libby refused to talk about it. Even with Maggie.

She thought it sadly ironic that Libby hadn’t caught the influenza when she ran away during their harsh winter, but her escape on a warm summer night sent her to bed in a sort of trance that neither Maggie nor Daphne could break.

When Walter came home two nights ago, he’d been relieved to find Libby there, but after his long search, it seemed as if he contracted an illness too. He’d worked late again last night, then he went straight to bed.

The knock on the front door came again, more persistent this time. Maggie hung her apron on a kitchen hook and rushed out through the sitting room, past Heather asleep in her little cot.