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.
When Walter stopped walking, Maggie glimpsed over to see Libby sitting under one of the giant trees that overlooked the river, her copy of J.M. Barre’s Peter Pan clutched in her lap. She took a deep breath, relieved that Libby hadn’t wandered too far this time.
She’d read Peter Pan to Libby at least a hundred times. Libby couldn’t read yet, but she knew sections of the book by heart—the parts about Wendy’s love and Peter’s shadow, the fact that fairies were so small they only had room for one feeling at a time.
But even more than the story, Libby liked to immerse herself in the pictures. The magic. Sometimes it seemed as if the book world became Libby’s reality. Maggie didn’t understand Libby’s need to escape; her real life was good and safe. But Maggie loved her daughter with all her heart, and even though Walter could be stern, Maggie knew he cared about her too. If these pictures made Libby happy, then Maggie wanted to embrace them with her.
“Libby,” Walter called as he stepped forward to retrieve her.
She didn’t respond.
“Please,” Maggie said, resolute. “Let her be.”
If Walter tried to force her into the throngs of children, Libby’s contentment would unravel. Then she would wail, embarrassing all of them like she had last month when Walter tried to force her to swing at the park.
He studied Libby, sitting above the riverbank. “She needs to exercise.”
“She’s exercising her brain.”
“She must learn to play with the others—”
“But not today,” Maggie said, tugging on his sleeve. “I fear—”
He shook his head. “We can’t keep living in fear.”
“I’ll tell her we’re leaving soon.”
“Maggie—”
“Please,”
she begged.
“She’ll never learn if we don’t help her,” he said.
She shook her head. “This isn’t the way to help.”
He rubbed his temples, his forehead creased with frustration. But he relented, sighing before he retreated back through the trees. Maggie turned and watched Libby for another moment.
On one hand, she thought they should learn to appreciate Libby’s uniqueness—there was nothing wrong with playing quietly by oneself. On the other hand, she wanted Libby to have the childhood the Nazis had stolen away from her and her brother. She wanted Libby to have friends, a host of them, who would come for tea parties and to play dolls and whatever else girls did these days. Maggie had spent most of her childhood—most of her life—afraid, but Libby and the other children in this village had nothing to fear. They didn’t have to worry about bombs crashing into their home or being shipped off to strangers who lived far away or losing their parents to war.
Her books said mothering came naturally to women, but sometimes it didn’t feel natural to her at all. If only her mother had lived. She could have taught Maggie the proper way to care for a child.
As Maggie sat down by her daughter, Libby pointed to a picture speckled with pixie dust. “It’s magic,” she said.
“Indeed,” Maggie agreed. “Beautiful magic.”
She turned the page to a colorful illustration of Peter Pan with Tinker Bell fluttering at his side. “Mummy?”
Maggie glanced over and met her daughter’s earnest gaze.
“Tinker Bell can fly,” Libby whispered as if it were a grand secret.
“Yes, she can.”
“Someday I’m going to fly.”
Maggie whispered back. “One day, I think you just might.”
IN THE FIRST MONTH AFTER Libby started primary school, her teacher telephoned three times, demanding that Maggie come down to her classroom. When Mrs. Hoffman called this afternoon, she said Libby was inconsolable. That she was screaming and flailing and acting like a two-year-old. Again.
Maggie cringed at the disdain in the teacher’s voice.
She rushed out of the head housekeeper’s office in Ladenbrooke, past a gallery of marble busts and family portraits, then through the pantry and kitchen until she reached the servant’s door. Outside she hurried through the gardens and the wrought-iron gate hinged between the manor and her cottage.
Her bicycle was in the cottage shed, and she quickly retrieved it before speeding down the long hill into Bibury.
The school was located next to St. Mary’s Church, and as Maggie leaned her bicycle against the ivy-covered building, she heard laughter from one of the classrooms. But Libby wasn’t laughing. She found her daughter on the sticky tile floor of the dining hall, chunks of macaroni clumped in her hair and beans mashed around her feet. Libby was clenched up in a ball, her blouse soaked. Mrs. Hoffman sat primly on the bench across from her with her hands neatly folded on the lines of her long, brown skirt.
As Maggie knelt on the floor, she saw a bruise on her daughter’s arm. Fury twisted in her stomach. Who had done this? And why wasn’t the teacher caring for her?
“Libby,” Maggie whispered gently beside her.
Instead of responding, Libby rocked back and forth, murmuring something to herself as she clutched one of her legs. Maggie leaned close to her daughter’s lips to hear her words.
“Stop,” Libby moaned as she rocked. “Stop—”
“They’ve stopped, sweetheart.” Maggie put her hand on Libby’s shoulder, trying to reassure her, but Libby flinched. Maggie placed her hand back in her lap. “Mummy is here.”
Maggie looked at Mrs. Hoffman and saw contempt instead of compassion on the woman’s face. She had so hoped Libby’s teacher would understand. “What happened?” Maggie demanded.
“Libby threw her lunch and several of the children reciprocated.” Mrs. Hoffman didn’t show an ounce of emotion.
Maggie struggled to contain herself. “Libby’s hurt.”
“She’s angry, Mrs. Doyle. Not hurt.”
Anger surged through her, the same anger perhaps that Walter felt when he slammed his fist into Elliot’s face. She wanted to slap every inch of condescension off the teacher’s face, but she clutched her hands together instead. Her gaze fell back to her daughter’s face, the lips pressed together in fear, eyes clenched shut as if she could block out the world. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Mrs. Hoffman.”
“Some of the other children were irritated as well—”
“Irritated?” Maggie’s voice climbed, and she struggled to keep from screaming at the woman in front of her. “My daughter is a little more than irritated.”
Mrs. Hoffman stood. “There are better ways for her to get attention.”
Maggie gently rubbed her daughter’s arm. Libby cringed again, but then she began to relax. “She isn’t trying to get attention.”
The teacher didn’t seem to hear her. “Libby doesn’t just need love, Mrs. Doyle, she needs some discipline. Starting at home.”
The woman’s words burned, as if she’d branded her. Failure. For the past five years, Maggie had studied and searched for the right ways to care for her daughter, discipline her even on the rare times she deemed it necessary, but clearly she was still doing something wrong.
Her stomach turned again.
Or maybe there was nothing she could do. Perhaps in that moment when she’d leaned over the railing in Clevedon, she had cursed Libby for life. If only she’d known the future—she never would have contemplated harming her beautiful girl. Libby was her child, and she would fight for her as long and hard as she must.
Mrs. Hoffman towered over them, her hands on her hips. “She hit another student, on her head.”
Maggie’s anger flared again. “Was that student throwing food at her?”
“Libby started the fight,” Mrs. Hoffman said, stepping back. “And I will expect an apology tomorrow.”
Maggie rubbed both of Libby’s arms and her daughter slowly melted into her, hiding her face in Maggie’s shoulder. “And I will expect the child who did this to her to apologize as well.”
“I can’t promise—”
“Then Libby will not be apologizing for hitting someone when she clearly asked her to stop.”
“The other child’s parents will be upset.”
Maggie scanned the cafeteria. “I don’t see the other child curled up in fear.”
“No, Libby is the only one who seems to have a flair for drama.”
Maggie tightened her grip around her daughter. “The other child’s parents aren’t my responsibility, Mrs. Hoffman. God has only given me one child, and I am responsible before Him to protect her from harm.”
The disdain on the teacher’s face dissolved into something more like pity, but the pity angered Maggie even more. They didn’t need to pity her. She and Libby would be fine. And one day her daughter would learn to be stronger.
Maggie sat straighter. “I need a towel.”
Minutes after Mrs. Hoffman left, one of her pupils returned with a washcloth, and Maggie gently sponged off Libby’s face while the other student looked on with curiosity. “You can return to your classroom,” she told him.
“Mrs. Hoffman said to wait until you’re finished.”
She tossed the washcloth to him, then she lifted Libby and carried her frail body outside. Dark clouds clung to the sky above Bibury, preparing to soak them both if they dared walk back up the hill. She took Libby down the street, toward the post office that shared space with the village store, but before they reached it, the window of sky opened. Libby dug her face into Maggie’s sleeve as the icy rain drenched them.
Maggie had never felt so alone.
A small car pulled to the curb beside them, and in the driver’s seat, she recognized Daphne, one of the Sunday school teachers at the parish church they attended outside of town. A teacher who seemed to like Libby.
Daphne stepped out of her car, her hazel eyes burdened with concern. “Can I take you ho
me?”
Maggie glanced over at the post office and then nodded. She had to get Libby out of the rain.
As Daphne drove up the hill, Maggie held Libby in her lap, and when they reached the cottage, she quickly carried her daughter inside. As she helped Libby change into dry clothes, she saw not only a bruise on Libby’s arm but also one on the back of her leg.
Her heart felt as if it might rip in two. Sometimes Libby couldn’t seem to remember what happened when she lost control, but the only time her daughter had harmed someone was when she’d felt threatened.
What had the other children been doing to her?
Downstairs, Daphne had started a fire in the sitting room. Maggie placed Libby on the couch before she collapsed onto one of the chairs, blinking back her tears as rain pelted the windows. Libby stared at the embers like the bruises hadn’t happened. Like she couldn’t feel pain.
Maggie felt plenty of it for both of them.
Daphne slipped The Tale of Peter Rabbit off the bookshelf. “Do you mind if I read to her?”
Maggie shook her head slowly, and the young woman sat down beside her daughter and began to read the words of wise Mrs. Rabbit: “You may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden.”
As Daphne told the story of the good bunnies—Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail—Libby looked at the pictures. Maggie silently begged God to take out His wrath on her and not her daughter. She’d never seen Libby provoke a fight, but if one of the other children had teased her—
She would never send Libby to a mental home, but she wished they could afford to send her to one of the independent schools. Right away. And she wished for a friend she could be honest with about herself and her daughter.
Quietly she slipped into the kitchen to make tea for her and Daphne.
Every morning for the past three years, she’d faithfully made the Croft family beds and polished brass and completed every other task the head housekeeper assigned her. And when the Crofts were in town, she did her best to stay out of sight.
Part of her wanted to pack up the car and run again, but the cottage was a good home for their family, and even if neither she nor Walter particularly liked their work, no one here knew about their past. Walter often worked late at his job though sometimes she wondered if his late nights were more about avoiding the realities at home than the comings and goings of mail in Bibury.
Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor Page 9
