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
Maggie 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.
Her legs felt as if they might collapse under her, but she couldn’t allow her fear to cripple her now. If she did, Elliot might find out—
She moved faster.
He could never find out she’d had a baby.
“Mags!” he called out as she turned the corner up Moor Lane.
She ignored him, continuing to goad the pram forward even as she slid the black canopy toward her to hide Libby’s face.
Her indifference didn’t seem to deter Elliot. He was beside her in seconds, grinning down with his slick smile and all the cockiness that once seemed attractive. “Are you toying with me?”
She glanced back at the busy market street and saw Mrs. Bishop and several ladies from church watching her. Had they heard Elliot shout her name? They would wonder who he was. And why Maggie was trying to ignore him.
“This isn’t a game,” she whispered.
His gaze fell swiftly to the carriage, and his smile disappeared. “You have a kid?”
“My friend—” she started and then stumbled over her words before trying again. “He’s my friend’s baby,” she said with the slightest of shrugs, but her breath was shallow as she tried to calm her nerves. “I’m watching him this morning.”
He stepped closer, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Meet me at the cavern tonight.”
She held her head a bit higher, trying to be confident. Aloof. “I’m no longer fond of caves.”
Stepping back, he studied her face with the dark-green eyes that once captivated her. “I’ve missed you,” he said slowly. “I thought you might have been missing me too.”
Behind him, Mrs. Bishop and two of her aunt’s friends huddled together, glancing toward her and Elliot. Maggie stepped away from him and pointed toward an alleyway between the shops on the opposite side of the street. “We can talk over there,” she said. By tonight, perhaps, the women would forget about her brief encounter with a French sailor.
He wrapped his fingers around the handle of the pram as if he would push it for her, but she quickly reclaimed it. “I’ll go first,” she said quietly but firmly. “Wait three or four minutes before following me.”
Her head high, she pushed Libby toward the alley, praying her daughter would fall asleep. No matter what happened, even if Libby demanded Maggie’s attention with her tears, she wouldn’t let Elliot see her.
The man didn’t wait like she’d asked. He followed her immediately into the alley, and she stepped in front of the pram, a barrier between him and Libby. Her initial shock over his return turned into anger. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Traveling the world,” he replied, nonchalant. “Norway. Russia. A week in the New York harbor. I brought you the prettiest bracelet—”
She balled her fingers into fists. While her life was falling apart, he’d been touring New York. “You should have written.”
“Darling, you know I’m not much for writing.”
She tucked her fists under her arms, hugging them close to her chest. “Don’t call me darling.”
His eyebrows climbed in a way she once thought clever, but it sickened her now.
“You told me you would return by Christmas. You told me . . .” Her voice trailed off. The promises he’d made didn’t matter anymore.
He grinned again. “You did miss me, didn’t you?”
She slumped back against the brick wall, her gaze on the narrow entrance of the alley behind him, the people passing by as they shopped. All it would take was one person to light the fuse.
Somehow she would have to convince Elliot that there was nothing left between them. And no reason for him to either stay or return. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”
He rested his hand over her head, against the wall. “I promised you I would.”
“More than a year ago . . .”
His face was inches from her, but she refused to look up at him. His clothes smelled like salt water and rotten fish, and she thought she might vomit, both from the stench and the thought of being close to him again. He was no longer a romantic pirate. He was the man who’d abandoned her and then laughed about it.
Her heart screamed a warning, urging her to flee.
Elliot eyed the pram again, as if he wanted to see the baby inside, and she knew well that he was not one to be deterred. If she managed to get around him, back out onto the market street, he would continue following her all the way home.
She glanced at her watch. “I must return to my friend’s house before she gets worried.”
“Meet me at the cave,” he repeated, his voice the same seductive tone that used to entangle her.
“I can’t.”
He cocked his head. “You’ve found someone else, haven’t you?”
“I have,” she said as she smoothed her hand over the canvas top of the pram. “Right after you left.”
His breath was on her ear as he backed her toward the carriage. “Just one last time,” he whispered. “Then I’ll leave for good.”
The pram shook when she bumped into it. Libby gurgled, but it was more of a song than a cry. Elliot ignored the child as he reached for Maggie’s hand, grasping it in his. Stunned, she looked at his hand and then back up at him with disgust.
Why had she given herself to this man? Instead of waiting for Elliot, she should have accepted Walter’s proposal the first time he’d asked.
She tried to pull her hand away from him. “Let me go.”
Instead of releasing her, he leered down, his eyes bloated with desire. “We have to say good-bye.”
Her stomach clenched at the thought, but perhaps if she agreed to meet him at the cave, he would leave her alone right now. She and Libby could hide in their flat until the Illmité left the harbor.
“One last time,” she said, the words bitter on her lips.
His smile returned as his fingers caressed her hand.
“Maggie?”
Her stomach clenched again, but this time it wasn’t because of Elliot’s touch. It was because her husband had stepped into the alleyway.
Walter’s eyes were focused on her as he walked up the alley. And his voice was steady—too steady. “Why are you here?”
She yanked her hand away from Elliot’s clutch. “I’m trying to get away from this man.”
Walter reached for Maggie’s trembling hand, and she clung to him. Then he met Elliot’s gaze. “Don’t touch her again.”
Elliot crossed his arms. “Who are you?”
Instead of answering him, Walter looked back at her. “Mrs. Bishop said this man was following you.”
Elliot leaned his shoulder against the wall, seeming to enjoy the drama unfolding before him. “Maggie asked me to meet her here.”
That much was true, but it didn’t sound right. She’d said those words to get rid of him.
Her mind whirled, and she couldn’t sort it all out with both men watching her. “I will explain—later.”
Elliot smirked. “It seems she has a lot to explain.”
“I’m Maggie’s husband,” Walter said as he stepped between her and Elliot.
Elliot’s eyes widened for a split second. Then they narrowed. He looked down at the pram, his arm crossed, before looking back at her. “Funny, you never mentioned you were married.”
“You never gave me the opportunity.”
Walter released her hand. “You know this man?”
“From a long time ago.”
“Not so long—” Elliot insisted.
She tugged at Walter’s elbow. “Can we please discuss this at home?”
Her husband ignored her, speaking to the man before him instead. “What’s your name?”
“Baron Bonheur,” he replied smugly. “But your wife calls me Elliot.”
Walter’s fist flung out so fast that Maggie gasped. Stunned. Blood streamed from Elliot’s lip, and Maggie thought he would surely beat Walter to a pulp, but instead he wiped off the blood with the back of his hand and snickered. Then he winked at her. “Don’t worry, Mags. I’ll come vi
sit again, next time I’m in Clevedon.”
Maggie reached for Walter’s hand, holding it steady in hers so he wouldn’t hit Elliot a second time.
Elliot strutted back down the alley, whistling as if he hadn’t a care. Then she and Walter stood side by side in a dreadful silence. She owed him some sort of explanation, quickly, but she could think of no story to explain away Elliot.
Silently Walter stepped toward the pram and pushed back the canopy. Instead of reaching for Libby, he stared down into her face as if he’d never seen her before. As if she was a venomous snake or one of the blue sharks that trolled out in the channel. Then he backed away from the carriage, recoiling as if the girl he once thought to be his daughter might poison him.
When he looked back up at Maggie, she saw scorn flaring in his eyes. The shattering of his love into a million pieces.
Instead of anger, pain laced his voice. “You said his name.”
“What do you mean?”
He raked his fingers through his short hair. “In the maternity home, you asked for Elliot.”
She cringed. “I knew him a long time ago, before we married—”
Walter interrupted her. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You knew him well,” he said, more to himself than to her.
She wasn’t certain how to respond. “I thought I loved him, but I didn’t.”
“Before we were married . . .” The anger in his eyes welled again with the realization. “You were expecting before our wedding.”
“No—”
This time he didn’t listen to her protest. “That’s why the baby came early.”
“The baby’s name is Libby.”
He ignored her. “You were never planning to tell me . . .”
She glanced back down at her beautiful girl, resigned to the truth. “It wouldn’t have done any good.”
“But it would be the truth, Maggie.”
She snorted. The man before her might be obsessed with gathering facts, uncovering the truth, but that didn’t mean the truth should always be unearthed. This was her story to tell, and she’d known already that the truth didn’t always make things better. Sometimes it destroyed things that were good.
Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor Page 6
