Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor (35 page)

“Do Lord and Lady Croft still live here?” she asked.

Instead of inviting them inside, the young man joined them on the portico. “My grandmother passed away years ago, but my grandfather is still alive.”

“I’m only trying to find—” Heather paused. “My sister and the Croft’s son used to be friends. I thought perhaps Lord Croft might have an idea where she went.”

“Which son?” the man asked.

“Oliver.”

His eyebrows arched. “No one ever talks about Oliver.”

“I believe my sister knew Oliver quite well.”

“I never heard my grandparents talk about their friends in Bibury, but my grandmother loved the gardens at Ladenbrooke.”

“So did my mother,” Heather said. “Have you ever been there?”

“Only once,” he replied. “My aunt Sarah is responsible for maintaining the house now.”

“How many children did Lord and Lady Croft have after Oliver?”

“Two more sons. The oldest one is my father.”

She glanced back toward the door. “Could you ask Lord Croft about Libby Doyle?”

“I’m sorry—” He lowered his voice. “Unfortunately my grandfather has turned into a rather grumpy old man.”

Christopher wondered if Heather might tell the man she suspected Lord Croft was her grandfather as well, but instead she slipped him a business card. “Please let me know if he’d ever like to talk about her.”

He glanced down at the card. “I’ll give your information to him, but I don’t suspect he’ll call.”

“Could I get the telephone number for your aunt Sarah?”

He pondered her question for a moment before pulling a mobile phone from his back pocket. Then he glanced down at Heather’s business card. “I’ll text it to you right now.”

She smiled at him. “You should come back to visit Ladenbrooke.”

His return smile was courteous, but Christopher guessed the young man preferred the city life much more than the countryside.

“What now?” Christopher asked after they climbed back in the car.

She studied the light in the upstairs window of the house before turning back to him. “I’m calling Sarah Croft on the drive home.”

Christopher glanced at the clock. It was seven and they were almost three hours from Oxford with the traffic, but he might never have this opportunity again. “How would you like to have dinner in London?”

“Tonight?”

He nodded.

She eyed the clock as well, a smile returning to her face. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“I suppose I am.”

She tilted her head. “Then I suppose I’ll accept your invitation.”

JUNE 1974, WILLOW COTTAGE

M
aggie gently pushed the hair out of Heather’s eyes, the copper in the strands hidden among the blonde. Just like Libby’s hair.

“Mummy?” Heather asked softly, her head resting back on a nest of feather pillows so she could drift off to her own Never-land.

“What is it?”

“I think I saw a ghost.”

Maggie leaned closer, wondering at the new game. “Where, darling?”

“In the gardens, on the other side of the wall.”

On the other side of the wall.

The words echoed in Maggie’s mind, and she felt faint for a moment. But she fought hard to regain her strength, for Heather’s sake. “Are you certain it was a ghost?”

“I don’t know—it was a woman and she wore a pretty blue dress.”

Relief washed over Maggie that her oldest daughter was safe, but as soon as the wave passed, anger roared within her—anger at Libby on one hand for running away and on the other hand, for not running far enough.

Libby was almost twenty now, and Maggie missed her daughter, desperately at times, the pangs of sorrow acute when she remembered the joy that she’d brought into their lives when she was younger, reflecting color and beauty into this old cottage. And the sorrow was fresh at the thought of her roaming the gardens next door, not coming home to the place where she was loved.

But then again, if she did knock on their back door, Maggie wasn’t certain what she would do. Her greatest sorrow was losing her daughter, but it now warred against her greatest fear—losing Heather.

What if Libby returned to reclaim her child?

One day she wanted Libby and Heather to reconcile, when Heather was much older, but if Libby came back now—Maggie feared it would shatter everything they’d built.

Every night, she prayed that God would protect Libby’s body, mind, and soul. And she knew now that she would never be able to tame—or contain—her daughter. Her visits, Maggie feared, would be much more painful than her disappearance.

It almost seemed as if Libby wasn’t meant to belong in a family, like she was meant to fly alone.

She’d read an article recently about the Monarch butterflies. The Monarchs flew alone during the day, but they roosted in groups at night. Ultimately, when winter was upon them, they sought companionship from other Monarchs, clustering together in a warmer climate. They flew north again in the spring, but only a few had the strength to fly all the way home.

Heather liked to fly, but unlike Libby, she always flew back to their cottage. In fact, Heather seemed to take great pleasure in being their daughter. She held her and Walter’s hands and made them laugh, and each night before bed, she kissed Walter on his stubbly cheek.

Contentment wafted through their house now like the subtle, soothing scent of wisteria, rooted deep in the soil of delight. Not only were she and Walter happy together, they were building this common bond to love and care for their granddaughter.

They never talked about the night Oliver died, and it was just as well. Together they seemed to embrace truth in their lives now, staying far away from the make-believe worlds that Libby used to create, worlds that had left their daughter unsatisfied with reality. She and Walter stayed firmly within the pleasant walls of the reality they’d created for themselves.

“Perhaps she wasn’t a ghost,” Heather said, leaning forward as if she had a grand secret. “Perhaps she was a fairy.”

In that moment, Maggie decided it was best to play along. “She could be one of the falling stars from your pocket.”

Heather’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

Maggie brushed Heather’s hair back over her shoulders. “I think she slid down the moonlight just to visit you.”

“Maybe,” Heather said, and then she smiled. “Or maybe she’s really a butterfly. She said I could fly with her—”

Maggie’s heart lurched, and her voice quaked when she spoke again. “You mustn’t go back into the gardens.”

Her eyes grew wide. Alarmed. “Why not?”

She searched for a reason, any reason, to convince Heather to stay away. She didn’t want to frighten her, yet she needed her to be scared. “A boy died at Ladenbrooke, when you were just a baby.”

“How did he die?”

She took a deep breath. “He did something he should not have done.”

“Maybe she was his angel, coming to look for him.”

Maggie shook her head. “There’s nothing anyone can do to help him.”

Heather seemed to contemplate her words. “But she took care of me when I couldn’t find my way back.”

Maggie leaned toward her, nudging Heather’s chin up so she could look in her eyes. “Angels fly away sometimes,” she explained. “And they don’t always return.”

Heather looked as if she didn’t believe her. “But butterflies come home.”

Maggie’s eyes roamed toward the windows, to the gardens out back. “Not all butterflies,” she whispered.

“I won’t go again, Mummy.”

Maggie kissed her forehead. “I want you to always fly home.”

WALTER LIFTED THE HANDLE TO
the latch and stepped into the gardens that were becoming overgrown with all manner of weeds. Henry did his best to maintain the manor house along with the gardens in the absence of the Croft family, but last Walter saw the man at the post office, the head gardener said he didn’t think Lord or Lady Croft were ever coming back. Walter didn’t know if they still officially employed Henry as their gardener, but the man had taken on the role of caretaker in their absence.

It was impossible, though, for one man to maintain all the buildings at Ladenbrooke along with almost a hundred acres of property.

Henry continued to plant vegetables, and Walter suspected that he knew Libby was eating the fruit in the orchards and the vegetables from his garden during the warmer months. He also suspected Henry might be leaving a door unlocked in the vacant manor house so Libby could spend some time indoors.

Maggie didn’t know Libby had returned, and while he wasn’t as practiced as his wife at keeping secrets, he tried to harbor this one. Maggie still worried that Libby might take Heather, and if she knew Libby had returned—

He set down the brown bag with the bread he’d purchased in town.

During the summer months, he bought extra cheese, bread, and salami from the market at night and set it near the gate. The food always vanished, but he rarely saw Libby until the days grew cold again. Then he bought her a bus ticket down to Kent to stay with his mother.

Walter’s stepfather worked for the government, and he often traveled for weeks at a time. Granny Doyle welcomed Libby’s company and set up a studio in the basement so she could paint. Every spring, his mother would accompany Libby back to Ladenbrooke and spend a few days playing with Heather at their cottage, though she never told Maggie about her houseguest during the winter months.

Maggie rarely talked about Libby, but he knew she thought about her every day. Her indifference was her way of coping with the loss of the daughter she would have done anything to save.

He circled the gardens once, just in case he might see Libby, but like most of the garden creatures, she remained hidden among the flowers.

C
hristopher took Heather to an Italian restaurant for dinner, an upscale place overlooking the River Thames. The lights of Big Ben flickered in the distance even as the blue lights from the Ferris wheel—the London Eye—circled slowly above the water.

She set her cell phone above her plate, in case Sarah Croft returned her call tonight, but as she sat next to the window, sipping white wine, she wasn’t thinking about anything except the man in front of her. Christopher seemed to be a rock, unwavering in the face of her revelation while she was still processing it all.

It was too late to change the past, but perhaps he was right. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for their future.

She rotated the wineglass. “Tell me about your wife.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze traveling to the window before returning to her. “Julianna was a pianist and quite devoted to her talent. I loved hearing her play whether it was at a concert hall or at home. And she loved to laugh often, about everything except her music.”

“Did you learn to play an instrument?”

He shook his head. “In my free time, I was either rowing or reading.”

“But you loved her.”

“Very much.”

She looked out the window as well, thinking about what a blessed woman Julianna Westcott was to be loved like that. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

He took a sip of his wine. “Did you leave a boyfriend back in Portland?”

Her mind flashed to Nick, and she realized that he hadn’t texted her in days, not even to ask about artwork. “Only friends who happen to also be boys.”