Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor (8 page)

Heather’s eyebrows climbed. “It’s been more than twenty years.”

“But I still remember.” Ella nudged at a loose paver with her toe. “We’ve aged together.”

“You’ve aged well, my dear, but the house—not so much.” She leaned over and plucked out a tall weed. “Your grandfather used to be meticulous about the upkeep.”

Ella pushed her sunglasses up on her head, her curls bunching behind her ears. “Now it’s more vintage.”

Heather’s father had been classic vintage. After a hard day of work, he liked to sit in front of their fireplace, in his overstuffed chair, smoking a pipe and reading one of his many books about philosophy, history, or religion. Long ago she used to crawl onto his lap in the evenings and pretend to read with him. Sometimes she would fall asleep and wake the next morning in her bed.

Ella might have considered him stuffy at first, but Walter Doyle wasn’t a snob. He enjoyed people well enough and he was innately curious. Whenever Heather or anyone else asked a question, he searched for the answer.

But her father liked the quiet more than conversation because it gave him an opportunity to think or read one of his treasured books. After a long day of helping people communicate by post, he rarely had energy left for casual communication, though whenever she wanted to talk, he always put down his books to listen. Or tell her a story.

She opened her leather handbag and pulled out the ring of keys the retirement village had mailed to her along with boxes of Dad’s books and clothing.

Sometimes the good memories were more difficult to process than the hard ones.

Ella tapped the sign. “What’s a
bothy
?”

Heather nodded toward the ivy-draped wall that stood about forty feet to their right. “A century ago, this place housed the gardeners who worked for the Croft family.”

Ella stretched up on her toes as if she might be able to see the property on the other side. “They must have had a big garden over there.”

“My mum said it was spectacular.” She tried two keys on the ring; the second one unlocked the front door.

Ella followed her into the musty-smelling sitting room with its formal couch and two chairs. Heather cranked open a window to let in fresh air and erase some of the remnants of time. A dark wood door to the right of the room looked as if it might lead to a secret cellar, but this house no longer conjured up mystery in her mind like it had when she was a child. Behind the wooden door were steps that led upstairs to two bedrooms where she and Ella would spend the night.

She was tempted to take a nap right now, but that would only prolong her jet lag. She and Ella needed to push through a few more hours, and then they could crash until morning.

Ella collapsed onto one of the stuffed chairs, and dust particles ballooned up around her face. She coughed, waving her hands.

“Oh no you don’t,” Heather said, reaching for one of her daughter’s arms. “You already slept in the car.”

“Just another quick nap.”

She tugged on Ella’s arm. “A
quick
nap will mean you’re up all night.”

Ella shook her arm free and crossed it over the other one. “Ten minutes.”

“I’ll take you down to the village right now for a proper pot of English tea.”

Her eyes closed, Ella leaned her head back. “I’m too old for you to tell me what to do and much too young to drink proper pots of tea.”

Heather rubbed her hands together. “Perhaps I can tempt you with some coffee and a sandwich.”

Ella opened up one eye. “A mocha?”

“No promises.”

She shut her eyes again. “I’m not getting back in the car.”

“We could bike instead.”

Ella sat back up. “Where will we get bicycles?”

“From the old stable.” At least she hoped the bikes were still there.

Ella stood slowly. “I’ll take a nap when we get back.”

“We’ll both be ready for bed then.”

The first key on her ring opened the door of the stable beside the house. The gardeners probably kept equipment instead of horses inside since a much larger stable had been built on the other side of Ladenbrooke. Her parents had turned the building into a bicycle and storage shed.

As she opened the door, sunlight flooded the dark room and the scent of old leather escaped into the light. Rakes, a broom, and a weed trimmer hung on rungs along the wall, and in the center of the floor were rows of plastic boxes, stacked six feet high. At least a hundred of them.

She groaned. Why had her father saved so much stuff?

“Did they keep everything?” Ella asked as she scanned the shed.

“Apparently.” On the other side of the boxes, Heather spotted her mother’s old bicycle against the far wall, next to the red bicycle she’d loved when she was a teenager.

Together she and Ella inched back between the narrow rows. Each box they passed was marked with an index card and number. The archives at the British Museum in London may be better protected than the Doyle family collection, but they couldn’t possibly be more organized.

Some of the boxes had the word
Rubbish
scribbled on the side with a black Sharpie, but Heather wasn’t quite ready to throw them away yet. At least not without glancing inside. Lifting one of the lids, she saw a neat row of labeled manila files, each one containing papers and newspaper articles. When she was younger, her father liked to clip out articles from different newspapers and magazines, but she’d never thought to ask what he was collecting.

She rolled her hands over the file tabs.

Walter’s Newspaper Articles, 1944

Her dad had been too young to fight as a soldier during World War II, but he’d fought in his own way—with words. Mum told her he’d written for newspapers for more than a decade, but he’d given up his writing when they moved to Bibury.

“This one has your name on it.”

Turning, she saw Ella pointing at a box. And she saw her maiden name.

Heather Noelle Doyle, 1969

Her parents named her Heather after the flowers her mum liked and Noelle because she’d been born two days before Christmas. A miracle baby, Mum had said. And a child of the ’60s by eight days.

“There are a bunch more boxes with your name,” Ella said, lifting one of the lids. “None of them marked for rubbish.”

Even if the boxes weren’t marked for the landfill, she couldn’t keep this stuff if she was going to sell the cottage nor could she bring it all back to Portland with her. Nick would tell her to call a disposal company this afternoon and be done with it. They could haul it all away without her even opening a box. But he would be just as curious as she was to see if there were any treasures hidden here. These boxes were all she had left of her parents and perhaps her understanding of them. They may not have wanted to talk much about the past, but perhaps there were a few answers in what they’d stored.

Ella rapped her knuckles on the top of a box. “We’ll never get through this stuff in a week.”

Ella was right—it might take her an entire month to sort through it all. “Perhaps I can talk you into staying longer?”

“I can’t,” Ella replied with a shake of her head. “My boss balked at seven days.”

“And I suppose Matthew would have my head if I kept you here for two weeks.”

Ella grinned like always at the mention of Matthew’s name. He’d already texted his wife dozens of times, it seemed, since she’d landed in England.

Heather remembered well when she and Christopher used to be goofy like that. There hadn’t been any texting in the mid-80s, but he would write her notes, telephone her, and sneak over to visit, sometimes way too late at night.

Another wave of regret flushed through her, and she steadied herself on the box.

Ella’s smile faded to concern. “You okay?”

“The jet lag is hitting me,” she said, rolling her shoulders back. Then she directed Ella through the narrow corridor of boxes, to the two bicycles in the back. As they worked together to widen the path between the boxes, Heather began to hum the teamwork song they used to sing when her daughter was about five.

Ella groaned. “You’re insane.”

“Only on weekends,” she said with a smile.

Together they maneuvered the bikes through the boxes and out the door.

The wicker basket on Mum’s bicycle was streaked with mud, the tires flat, and when Ella rang the rusty bell, it sounded more like the muffled croak of a frog. The chain was dangling on the red bicycle but Heather rethreaded it over the sprockets while Ella found the tire pump and inflated all four tires. Then Ella pushed her grandmother’s bike onto the driveway.

Heather laughed as she climbed onto her old bicycle and began to pedal.

It had been a long time since she’d laughed. Much too long.

“Race you to the village.”

Ella leaned over the handlebars, motivated by the prospect of coffee in her near future. “I’ll race you there and back again.”

ELLA TOULSON LOOKED JUST LIKE
her mother. And her grandmother.

Or at least that’s what Mrs. Westcott thought as she watched her and Heather pedal down the lane on the rickety bicycles.

In an instant, her memories flashed back to Heather decades ago, riding in the infant seat behind Maggie. When Heather was old enough to bike on her own, she and Christopher would ride around the village, the two of them laughing together wherever they went.

Mrs. Westcott edged the curtains back a few more inches and watched the two women until they disappeared from sight.

Turning away from the window, she glanced down at the telephone on the end table. She’d stopped meddling years ago because, in spite of her good intentions, her interference often had unforeseen and sometimes rather unfortunate consequences. Now she only intervened when absolutely necessary.

Before her husband passed away, he made her swear off meddling altogether when it came to their oldest son. Still, she believed Christopher would want to know Heather had returned. It wouldn’t be meddling. She’d be more like a messenger, delivering the information. Christopher could decide what to do with it.

Mrs. Westcott began to dial her son’s number, but then she stopped and hung the phone back up on the receiver. She collapsed into her favorite chair, looking back out at the street and the flowers on their small front lawn.

It was her fault—hers and Maggie’s—that Christopher and Heather were avoiding each other. And with Maggie gone, she was the only one who could remedy it.

Eying her phone again, fresh regret seeped through her. She would honor the memory of her husband by not meddling
per se
. Instead she would try and put a few of the broken pieces back together. If she was careful, perhaps she could even mend some of what she’d helped tear apart. After all this time, she wouldn’t point fingers, but there was healing to be had.

The lies had become a foundation for reality, albeit a shaky one, but how could she bring to light the truth without hurting people she loved dearly in the process? There must be some way she could undo the past and still protect those she loved today.

The telephone rang, and it was the husband of one of her patients on the line. His words were muffled, but she understood enough of what he was saying. His wife was about to deliver their baby boy.

She quickly hung up the phone and reached for her black bag of supplies.

There was no more time now to wallow in her regrets. Today she would focus on bringing a new life into the world.

Tomorrow, perhaps, she would remember again a life that was lost.

MAY 1955, CLEVEDON, ENGLAND

M
aggie blinked twice as she gazed into the window of Severn Jewellers, confused at first and then horrified at the face she saw in the reflection. Elliot was standing across the market street, staring back at her.

Her pulse racing, she pretended to admire a pair of diamond earrings in the display case, as if Elliot might not have seen her, but when she dared a glance over her shoulder, a smile slipped easily across his lips. She tipped back the bulky pram and swiveled it around, her hands trembling as she pushed Libby away from the town center, toward the safety of their new flat. If she hurried, she could be home in five minutes tops.