Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor (6 page)

It was a strange season, having her daughter married and off working in another state now. Ella used to say they were
two peas in a pod
, traveling, playing, and even studying together when Heather returned to college to finish her degree. They were still two peas, just no longer in the same pod. Ella had a husband and a career, and Heather treasured these rare mother-daughter moments.

“Tell me everything that’s happening at home,” Ella said, but when Heather started talking about her latest restoration projects, her daughter yawned.

Some moms sang their children to sleep when they were young. Others read a book or told a story. All Heather had to do was start talking about the details of her work, and her daughter would be asleep in minutes. Ella was as curious as her grandfather about the world, but she had little tolerance for details or order.

For a while, Heather thought none of the efficient, orderly genes from the Doyle side of the family had passed down into her daughter’s life, but about five years ago, Ella suddenly realized she needed to develop a somewhat orderly schedule to maintain a job. Fortunately, she didn’t need to sit still for long in her position with the marketing firm.

“Surely you’ve been doing something other than working,” Ella said.

“There’s not much time for anything else,” Heather replied, drumming her fingers as she drove.

Ella eyed the steering wheel. “Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Perhaps there are some friends in Bibury you’ll want to see.”

“Most everyone has moved away.” Glancing over, she saw Ella studying her face. “What?”

“I wonder if one of your old boyfriends still lives here.”

Heather managed a grin. Ella, in her four months of marriage, now thought herself an expert on relationships and she was determined to help her mother find love again. But there were no relationships Heather wanted to discuss. As long as Ella didn’t find out about Christopher, everything would be fine. “Maybe,” she finally said with a shrug.

Ella clapped her hands. “Is he still single?”

“Probably not.”

Ella sighed. “Then I guess you’ll have no choice but to stick with Nick.”

“I’m not sticking with anyone—” She stopped herself, glancing back over at her daughter. “What’s wrong with Nick?”

“He’s a bit stuffy and . . .”

Her eyebrows climbed. “And what?”

“You need to be with someone who’s not like you!”

“You’re saying I’m stuffy?” she asked as she pulled down the sun visor.

Ella tilted her head. “A bit.”

“You’re getting quite bold in your older years.”

“Matthew says I need to practice transparency.”

“Don’t feel compelled to be so transparent with me.”

When Ella laughed, Heather’s heart flooded with joy. Matthew’s tenacity combined with his responsibility and honesty was good for her daughter. And Ella’s love of spontaneity, adventure, and all things beautiful was good for him.

They turned off the main highway and drove back through the grassy hills in the Cotswolds. “I only want you to meet someone who will—” Ella started.

“Who will what?”

“Who will make you smile.”

“I can smile just fine on my own.” Heather flashed her a grin to prove it.

Ella rolled her eyes. “It’s so much better to smile with someone else, isn’t it?”

Of course it was, but she didn’t tell her daughter that.

Ella closed her eyes, her short curly hair forming a sort of halo around her head as she leaned back against the seat. A couple minutes later, her breathing deepened into the steady pace of peaceful slumber.

Heather glanced over at Ella’s unblemished skin and button nose. She looked like Mum, but their personalities were different. Maggie Doyle had been wary of most people and their motivations, but Heather adored her, even during her teenage years when it felt as if her mum interrogated her almost every night about where she had been and with whom.

In hindsight, she should have listened more instead of balking—and ultimately all out rebelling—against both her mum and dad.

Ella woke again as they entered the picturesque village of Bibury. A stone bridge arched over the placid River Coln, and Ella craned her neck to watch a swan and its fuzzy, brown cygnets floating alongside beds of watercress and the boggy watermeadow called Rack Isle.

Ella lifted her phone and snapped a picture. “It’s like someone cued them.”

“I called ahead.” They drove past a row of sandstone cottages with colorful gardens, and in the center of town, Heather pointed out the ancient Saxon church. “St. Mary’s was on a Christmas stamp a few decades back.”

Ella rolled down her window to take another picture. “It’s all so—so perfect.”

Sometimes it felt a little too perfect, Heather thought, on the outside at least. For better or worse, one thing she liked about Portland was that no one seemed to be afraid of their imperfections.

As they climbed the hill above the village, Heather sped past the large country home on her left, averting her eyes from the Westcott family residence. But she slowed the car as they neared the Croft family property.

Ella took off her sunglasses to examine the massive iron gates and gray stone wall. “What’s behind that?”

“An old manor house called Ladenbrooke.”

“How far away is our cottage?” Ella asked, her gaze still on the formidable wall.

“Right next door.” She hadn’t thought about Ladenbrooke in such a long time, not until Nick had brought that painting to her studio.

Ella looked back at her and grinned. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to our neighbors.”

She tapped the gas. “The Crofts moved a long time ago, and as far as I know, they’ve never returned.”

“But you haven’t been here in eons!”

“No, but—” She slowed again before turning into the driveway for the cottage. “Their son Oliver died the year after I was born, and the family moved over near London. I don’t think they ever returned.”

Ella unbuckled her seatbelt. “How did he die?”

“He drowned in the River Coln.”

“The same river that goes through town?” she asked skeptically.

“The very one,” Heather said as their car bumped over the gravel. “The current travels fairly fast down the hill, but I used to wonder as well how a teenage boy could drown in it.”

Ella opened her door, but she didn’t step outside. “Did you ask your parents?”

She nodded. “I asked my mum, but she said no one can explain a tragedy.”

“Surely she knew something—”

Heather shrugged. “She hated talking about sad things like that.”

“I’ll do a little digging,” Ella said, looking past Heather at the stone wall that wrapped around the Ladenbrooke property, separating the cottage from the manor house. “Perhaps we can figure out what happened to Oliver Croft.”

“If the answers are still around, I have no doubt you’ll find them.” Instead of looking toward Ladenbrooke, Heather stared at the old stone cottage ahead of her—the home for Ladenbrooke’s gardeners, decades before Oliver died.

For all she knew, someone had bought the Croft house and renovated it. The old manor deserved to be cared for, yet a small part of her also wished they’d leave it alone. The world changed so fast, those close to you were gone sometimes before you were able to say good-bye.

She wanted everything—well, almost everything—in Bibury to remain the same.

JULY 1954, CLEVEDON, ENGLAND

W
alter held his sleeping daughter in his arms, his eyes intent on her face as if she might fly away if he dared blink. She had blue eyes like Maggie, tiny toes that flailed when she cried, and a nose that reminded him of his mother. With her halo of blonde hair, she was beautiful, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and—in spite of her early birth—she was absolutely perfect.

When the midwife first handed him his daughter, he’d been terrified that he might hurt her. She was so small—only five pounds, eight ounces—but Sally said it was a healthy weight. No need to even call the doctor. While Maggie slept off the pethidine, Sally showed him how to hold the baby properly, and he’d taken great care to follow her instructions with precision.

Now he glanced over at his wife tucked under the sheets of the narrow bed in the maternity home. Asleep. Maggie was still groggy from the medication, but Sally told him not to worry and not to rush in waking her. So he sat in a small chair beside Maggie’s bed and tried to feed their daughter from the glass bottle their midwife brought him.

July 27, 1954

The date that would forever be inscribed in his heart.

At first he’d been terrified when Maggie began having contractions, ten weeks before their baby was due. He didn’t know much about babies, and he’d spent almost seven hours pacing up and down the block outside the maternity home, praying while his wife labored. Sally had finally given Maggie the pethidine to ease her pain, and after the birth, she said Maggie was recovering well. With that news, he’d breathed deep with relief and thanked the One above for answering his pleas.

He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost Maggie or their baby.

Things had been strained between he and Maggie this past month, ever since she’d asked him to leave Clevedon. The morning after their dispute, she’d even said she doubted his love, and her words cut him deeply.

How could she ever doubt his love for her?

The summer he’d met her, two years ago, he wanted to ask her to marry him. She had gone out on a few dates with him, like she had with several other boys in Clevedon, but she hadn’t reciprocated any of his interest. Even when he got up the nerve to propose the first time, she kindly but soundly turned him down.

But everything changed that night of the storm, when the wind almost carried Maggie away. She’d later told him that she hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d stepped so close to the railing. Thank God he’d come before it was too late. He couldn’t bear to think what might have happened if he hadn’t seen her.

Of course, it was almost impossible that he wouldn’t see her. Every night for months, whether or not his work was done for the day, he’d taken a walk along the harbor because he knew Maggie would be sitting on that bench. She always looked so intent, her eyes focused on the pier and estuary beyond them. He never spoke with her on his walks, hadn’t wanted to intrude.

The night he finally intruded, he discovered that she did love him after all. He understood why she’d waited to reciprocate—she was almost seven years younger than he was—but he didn’t understand why she’d then questioned his love.

He’d wrestled with her words, her accusation that he didn’t really love her, for weeks. Now that their baby had come, he was certain Maggie would agree they must stay in Clevedon. How could he give up his newspaper—work he enjoyed—to move away when decent work was so hard to find? The income was nominal, but between the newspaper and his freelance work at the
Standard
, it was enough to provide for his family. Few men in this area actually liked their work, but he thrived when he had a pen and paper in hand.

His daughter stirred, and he picked up the milk again. Nudging the blanket away from her face, he watched her suckle the bottle. It was even more critical now to provide the best he could for his family. Maggie needed to be at home with their baby for as long as possible.

It would be a tall challenge to father well, with all the changes happening in their country, but he wanted to protect both Maggie and their children and give them the gift of hope for their future. He wanted his daughter to look up to him as he had done with his father before he was killed in the war.

Maggie groaned, and he put down the bottle and scooted closer to her side.

“She’s stunning,” he whispered, pushing back the hair that had stuck to his wife’s forehead.

Maggie’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again. “Elliot?”

Confused, he nudged her arm. “No, it’s Walter.”

This time her eyes shot open, and she stared at him before her gaze fell to the white bundle in his arms. He lifted the baby up so she could see her. “It’s our daughter.”

“Is she well?”

He nodded. “And she looks just like you.”

“I hope that’s good,” she said, her smile creased with concern.

Walter laughed, hoping to ease the worry on her face. “It’s very good. I’d hate to think of how she’d look if she took after me.”

Still, her smile looked forced.

“You did a splendid job, Maggie.” He readjusted the pillow behind her and kissed her forehead. “Sally said she’s healthy.”

Her gaze remained on the baby. “I’m glad.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she reopened them, he gently placed their daughter in her arms. She nuzzled the child with her nose and then leaned back against the pillow again to study her as if she weren’t certain the baby was real. “She’s so pretty.”

“Of course.” He eyed their daughter again. “But I think we must find a new name for her.”

Worry crept into Maggie’s eyes again. “Why?”

“She doesn’t look like an Eliza or Caroline.” He tapped his foot on the floor, crossing his arms. Maggie still didn’t want to name their daughter Margaret so he ticked through the names of past and present relatives, but none of them seemed right.