Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor (12 page)

Some people, when they discover the terrible things that happened in their past, drape that knowledge around them like a cloak of bitterness. They may even dig deep and wallow in it for a season. Or a lifetime.

Libby wasn’t like other children, but I’ve learned now that no two children are alike. Every child struggles in some way and excels in another. I just didn’t appreciate Libby’s strengths as much as I criticized what I thought were weaknesses.

I tried to bury my anger when she was young, but it seeped through as bitterness at first; then resigned itself into apathy. I had wanted children, many of them. Instead I was given one child who wasn’t my own. One who didn’t seem to want me as her father.

I thought I knew all about God back then, but I relied only on myself. And I failed both myself and those I loved miserably. In my misery, I brought others down to wallow with me, and I learned that wallowing can be a messy business.

The ugliness of my anger replaced the beauty in life, and Libby craved beauty more than anything. Beauty and freedom.

Perhaps the past should be used more like the frame of eyeglasses as we look forward, the mirrors of a periscope to help reflect what lies ahead instead of a magnifying glass to analyze every detail behind us. For it’s not just what we learn about the past that’s important. What we discover changes how we view the past, and then we can choose—quite deliberately—to change our future.

Instead of wallowing, I should have protected Libby. Given her the desires of her heart inside a perimeter of love and care. Like the Father above wants to do with each of His children.

I thought Libby needed me, but really I needed her and the gifts she had to offer our family.

God gave me a daughter, the desire of my heart, but in order to succeed as a father, I had to rely on Him. And show Libby how to rely on Him as well.

Perhaps this is why God often gives us our desires in a different way than we expect. Perhaps it’s because He knows exactly what we need.

JULY 1959, LADENBROOKE MANOR

F
orest stretched from the edge of the gardens behind Ladenbrooke Manor, down to the banks of the swift River Coln. The water rushed over branches and stones as it swept past the boundaries of the Croft property and then plunged down a hill that separated British nobility from the commoners.

On the hillside above the river and trees, Ladenbrooke Manor stood as a grand monument to the prominent Croft family, aristocrats whose bloodline stretched centuries back to the Norman Conquest.

The manor house was built in the eighteenth century, and its walls were a weathered, gray stone with three towers that rose above the slate roof—two towers facing the stone gatehouse in front of the house and one overlooking the terraced gardens in the back. Glass from dozens of windows glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, and the tall windows along the dining hall reflected the fountain on the patio terrace.

A stone curtain enclosed the house and forest, the Croft gardens and fruit orchards, forging a distinct line between Ladenbrooke and the outside world. The main gate into Ladenbrooke was used only by the Crofts and their guests; employees and those delivering packages used the gate along the wall nearest to the village. On the opposite wall, there was a much smaller gate—this one wrought iron and used originally by the team of gardeners employed before the Great War.

There were a dozen buildings on the estate—a stable, nuttery, old kitchen house, dovecote, icehouse, and several follies built among the gardens for decor. Outside the wall the Croft property included farmland, barns, and several cottages where their servants and farmers resided.

The war with Germany had knocked many of the aristocratic families down a notch or two, their grand homes crumbling from neglect and decay, but the Croft family clung to their status and property like the wisteria clung to the stone towers on their house.

The hill between the manor and forest displayed layers of Lady Croft’s prized gardens. Paved pathways wove through a formal Italian garden, rose garden, water garden, lily pond, and a tulip garden built around Roman ruins.

Maggie stood beside a statue of the goddess Hemera and a row of yew bushes that had been neatly pruned into a wall to form the perimeter of the Croft family maze. Walter sat nearby on a picnic blanket as she scanned the hillside above the maze to see if she could find Libby’s copper-streaked hair among the immaculate gardens and all the people dressed in their finest for this entree into Ladenbrooke’s gardens.

The Croft family opened the front gate to the public once each summer. Hundreds of people from around the Cotswolds came to peruse Lady Croft’s magnificent displays—the golden heather, purple dahlias, peach lilies floating on the pond. Some of them might hope to catch a glimpse of one of the elusive Croft family members or visit the rooms inside, but the Croft family always fled to their home near London before the locals descended.

Thousands of Londoners visited this area during their summer holiday, but only the people from Bibury and surrounding villages knew about this annual event. It was one of the many secrets the local population kept to themselves. And Maggie had a deep appreciation for people who knew how to keep secrets.

Walter had found work as a postmaster soon after they’d arrived in Bibury, four years ago, and a year later, she’d begun working as a housekeeper at Ladenbrooke. Walter tolerated his work, and her position allowed her to bring Libby to work each day. She doubted Lady Croft would let her bring Libby if she was a lively child, but the Crofts employed a quite capable nanny who watched Libby along with Sarah and Oliver, the Croft’s young children.

Libby sat in the nursery with the Croft children on rainy days and quietly colored or cut shapes out of paper; on sunny days, Lady Croft allowed her to play in the gardens. Oliver and his sister fought over toys, and sometimes even fought over who would play with Libby, but according to the nanny, Libby wasn’t interested in playing with either child.

On the other side of the yew bushes, children laughed and called to one another as they traversed the winding maze toward one of the follies—a stone tower built to look like one of the towers on the manor house. The head housekeeper at the estate told Maggie the tower was built by a former Lord Croft, an aristocrat back in the 1700s who had more money than sense about him. The current Lord Croft, she said, was particular about his finances and even more particular about his family.

Today dozens of children from the village played in the gardens and trees below the manor house, but neither Sarah nor Oliver Croft were playing among them. Both Lord and Lady Croft thought the children of Bibury might somehow taint their offspring.

A child hung out of one of the windows on the folly, waving to someone on the ground below. Other parents might worry that it was their child dangling over the maze, but Libby wasn’t like the other kids.

Her daughter was five now, old enough to attend primary school this autumn, but Maggie was terrified for her. Instead of joining in the games with other children, Libby preferred wandering off on her own to stare at the pages in one of her picture books or creating her own world on the pages of her sketchbook. Her daughter seemed to empathize deeply with the loneliness of a blank page. Color, in her young mind, was the cure for everything.

Maggie didn’t particularly care what Libby was passionate about as long as she was passionate about something. In her first years, Libby failed to thrive, and Maggie was concerned that her daughter would never awaken to life. The local doctor said the abnormal growth of her adenoids was causing her lethargy, and he removed them when she was three. The surgery didn’t seem to help immediately, but Libby’s energy increased in the next two years. Still, she was much more interested in stopping to appreciate beauty than participate in games.

Maggie understood her daughter’s need to be alone, but whenever Libby isolated herself from the other kids, Walter insisted she join them. Each time, Libby would balk at his intrusion. She hated the sound of the children squealing even when the noise was laughter—almost as if she couldn’t differentiate between the sounds of sadness and glee. And it didn’t particularly matter if the children were happy or sad. Both emotions overwhelmed her.

Maggie moved back to the edge of the forest, to the blanket where Walter was sitting with Albert Garland and his wife, Rebecca, a couple he’d met at the post office. Rebecca was nice enough, but Maggie wished she had a good friend in Bibury. A woman who understood why her heart ached.

She sat down beside Walter. “I can’t find Libby.”

“I’m sure she’s playing with the other kids,” he said, patting her hand, even though he knew perfectly well that Libby wasn’t among them. “Rebecca was asking what it’s like to work for Lady Croft.”

Maggie tried to focus on the woman in front of her, tried to act as if her daughter was indeed with the other children. “I don’t see Lady Croft very often.”

“I hear she acts all hoity-toity,” Rebecca said. “Like she’s royalty or something when she grew up working class.”

“She’s nice enough,” Maggie replied even though Lady Croft had definitely acquired an aristocratic air. Often she reminded Maggie of Mrs. Bishop back in Clevedon—and sometimes Aunt Priscilla—but she would never say that to the Garlands or anyone else. The work at Ladenbrooke was hard, but she didn’t want to lose her job or the lease on their home next door.

Albert changed the topic, talking about the recent deployment of British warships to Iceland, and Maggie’s gaze traveled back up the hill, to the gray house looming near the top. When she didn’t see Libby on the hillside, she turned toward the forest. She wasn’t worried about the river—Libby had inherited Maggie’s fear of water—but sometimes Libby got lost when she wandered off.

She stood again, brushing the wrinkles out of her linen skirt. “I’m going to find Libby.”

Rebecca nodded toward the maze, where her three children were presumably playing quite happily together. “Why don’t I send Patrick to retrieve her?”

She couldn’t tell Rebecca that Libby might run screaming if the Garland’s oldest son attempted to corral her back. The woman had no idea what it was like to have a child who not only isolated herself but seemed to like the isolation. All three of Rebecca’s children were what society deemed normal. With a capital
N
.

“There’s no need to interrupt his play,” Maggie said, trying to be polite. “I’ll check in the forest.”

Walter stood beside her. “I’ll go with you.”

The two of them walked side by side into the trees, the silence awkward between them.

Three years ago, they had called something of a truce. They focused on their individual work, and when they were home, they were civil to each other. They’d even tried to conceive a child together. Maggie had hoped another baby, their own child, might help heal the rift in their marriage, but she’d yet to become pregnant. Walter didn’t say it outright, but she knew he thought her tryst with Elliot had somehow inhibited their ability to have children.

It had certainly infected their relationship.

She’d shattered the idol he had made of her long ago, but from the day they married, she had been faithful to him, and she intended to continue being as faithful to their vows as he was.

Safety and remoteness—the very reasons they’d chosen this place to make their home—also meant that Walter had to give up his writing career. There were no shipwrecks in the quiet Cotswolds or discoveries of mines left over from the war. There was no theft to speak of and when a death occurred, it was either from natural causes or an accident, neither of which interested the editor at the
Standard
. As far as she knew, Walter hadn’t written anything of significance since they left Clevedon, and it saddened her.

“You worry too much about Libby,” he said. “She’ll never grow up if—”

She stiffened. “If what?”

“If you don’t help her face her fears.”

Maggie plucked a leaf off a tree, scrunching it up in her hand. By the time Maggie was five, she was living in a strange house far from her home, caring for herself and her brother. “I don’t want Libby to grow up before she’s ready. I want her to enjoy her childhood.”

Walter lifted a branch so Maggie could walk under it. “You’re going to have to start letting go soon, Maggie, or you might not be able to let go at all.”

“She’s only five. . . .”

“She needs to be coaxed instead of coddled.”

Maggie crossed her arms to help calm her mind, capture her muddled thoughts. “I’m not coddling her.”

No parent should ever let go of their child—not completely—but Walter could never understand. His parents hadn’t sent him away during the war to live with a family they’d never met. Even though his father was gone, Walter’s mother still telephoned every Sunday to speak with him. She didn’t cling to him, but she hadn’t let go either.