Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

by Melanie Dobson

  Libby refused to see Walter, and he wouldn’t cross the threshold into her room. It broke Maggie’s heart to see the people she loved at such odds, but she and Walter couldn’t quit now because Libby was having a child. They must put aside their animosity to save Libby’s child.

  Their grandchild.

  She was only thirty-five years old and about to become a grandmother. No one in their village suspected that Walter wasn’t Libby’s biological father so whether he liked it or not, he was about to become a grandfather.

  He stepped into the sitting room. “How long do we have?”

  Maggie didn’t know when the baby would arrive. Libby refused to talk about Oliver, but the Croft family left for London in August so Libby would be at least four or five months along. “Maybe April?”

  “You need to get some sleep,” he said.

  “I’m not tired.”

  “I wish you would be honest with me, Maggie.”

  She rested one arm on the back of a chair. Her secrets, she feared, were one of the reasons the wall remained up between all of them. “I suppose I am tired.” She pressed her fingers together. “I’m just trying to figure out what we’re going to do with a baby.”

  Walter crossed his arms. “If she won’t tell us about the father, then there is only one thing we can do.”

  She had no clue as to what that one thing might be—her head was clouded with the possibilities. And responsibilities. “What is it?” she asked.

  “We’ll find a good family to care for him.”

  Her sharp intake of air almost choked her. “You’d give Libby’s child away?”

  “She can’t care for a baby,” he said, sounding shocked that she’d consider another option.

  “This is our grandchild!”

  He shook his head. “It’s not my grandchild.”

  The same old argument except this time it was about Libby’s baby.

  Maggie folded her arms over her chest. She hadn’t expected to be a grandmother at such a young age, but the idea began to take hold. Perhaps a baby was exactly what their family needed to bring them closer together.

  “I don’t know if she’ll give up the baby,” Maggie said.

  “She may not have a choice.”

  Maggie sat down in the chair. She would never press Libby to give her baby up for adoption. Quite the opposite. “Of course she has a choice.”

  “People will ostracize her,” Walter said. “Just like back in Clevedon—”

  “People already ostracize her.”

  “We will send her to stay at a home,” Walter said. “Just until the baby is born.”

  “And then we separate them?”

  “I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t know what the right answer is.”

  She rubbed her arms, her voice small. “I’m afraid there is no right answer.”

  He sighed. “Then we must make a choice. Right or wrong.”

  “At least we don’t have to choose now.”

  “Mummy?” Libby called out from her room upstairs.

  Maggie slipped quickly up the steps, into Libby’s bedroom. “What is it?”

  She moaned quietly. “My stomach hurts.”

  “What do you mean it hurts?”

  Libby moaned again, and Maggie’s chest felt as if it might implode.

  She reached for her daughter’s hand. “How often is it hurting?”

  “All the time.”

  Maggie sat on the bedcovers beside her. “Does it come and go?”

  Libby didn’t say anything.

  “Up and down.” Maggie gently lifted her hand. “Like the wings of a butterfly.”

  “Butterflies don’t hurt.”

  Maggie leaned over and kissed her forehead, tasting the salt from her sweat. “I know, honey.”

  “But babies do.”

  “Yes, sweetheart.” Maggie’s heart turned. “Sometimes they hurt a lot.”

  Libby groaned, and more than anything, Maggie wished she could take away her daughter’s pain one more time.

  Walter stepped into the room. After glancing at Libby, he turned toward Maggie. “I thought you said the baby would come in April.”

  Maggie looked up at him. “I was approximating. I don’t know when the baby was conceived.”

  His face blanched. “I don’t want to talk about the conception.”

  “Maybe the baby is early,” she said, releasing Libby’s hand.

  “Just like—” He stopped himself. Sometimes he seemed to forget that the baby he thought to be early was actually full-term. “I’ll get Doctor Upton,” he said.

  Maggie shook her head. “That man can’t keep a secret.”

  “I thought you didn’t care what people thought.”

  Libby groaned again, and her mind raced. There was only one person who might do this for them. One person who could take care of Libby and their secret as well.

  “We don’t want anyone to know quite yet.” She kissed Libby again. “I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

  Libby reached out and grabbed her. “Where are you going?”

  “To get Daphne.”

  Libby let go of her arm.

  LIBBY DIDN’T SCREAM LIKE MOST women Daphne had helped through childbirth. At least, not until the very end. Clutching her mum’s hand, Libby pushed when Daphne commanded her to, waited when Daphne told her to stop. Then she let out one long, horrible wail that shook the glass on the window.

  And a little girl was born.

  The baby was tiny but perfectly and wonderfully made. As Daphne sponged olive oil on the girl’s wrinkled skin, Maggie prepared a hot water bottle.

  Last year she’d stepped down from the midwife training when she found out she was expecting, but she knew enough about midwifery from her nursing classes, not to mention the birth of her son four months ago.

  There were no complications with Libby’s delivery, but Daphne felt as if she were reeling from a bit of shock, as one child brought another into the world. Even as she tried to stay focused on her work, Daphne felt sad for the girl she’d befriended long ago. The girl who’d never wanted to grow up.

  How strange that she and Libby had both become mothers the very same year.

  Daphne weighed the baby on the scale that Walter brought into the room along with the cot Libby used fifteen years ago. He placed the baby cot beside Libby and then retreated back into the hallway.

  “She’s too small,” Maggie said, standing over Daphne’s shoulder.

  “She’s five pounds.”

  “That’s how big Libby was when she was born.”

  “Was she premature?” Daphne asked.

  Maggie shook her head.

  Daphne wrapped Libby’s daughter in a blanket and spooned droplets of sugar water into her mouth. The winter sun had awakened outside the window, casting a dull sheen across the snow, and the pains of exhaustion were wearing on her. She’d been up most of the previous night night comforting her son.

  She looked up at Maggie as she fed the baby girl. “You’ll need to get a birth certificate.”

  “Not yet,” Maggie said. “We need some time before we tell anyone about her.”

  Libby’s eyes were closed as she rested on the pillows, and Daphne wished Maggie could sleep as well. Her friend’s eyes were swollen, her skin blotched, and the worry creasing her face frightened Daphne.

  She hated keeping secrets, but she’d do just about anything for Maggie and Libby. And now for Libby’s daughter as well. “We can discuss it later.”

  Daphne placed the baby in the cot alongside a hot water bottle to warm her little body. Then she slid her fetoscope back into her bag.

  Maggie escorted her down the steps, into the sitting room. “Thank you for doing this.”

  Daphne nodded. “I’m glad she’s healthy.”

  “A miracle,” Maggie said, holding out Daphne’s wool coat.

  “Who will notify the father?” she asked as she buttoned her coat.

  “Libby won’t tell us his name.”

 
Daphne moved toward the door. It was her job to care for people’s well-being, not to judge or search out facts they wanted to hide, but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering about the man who’d been with Libby. “It’s not my business to pry—”

  Maggie stopped her. “She said she loves him, whoever he is.”

  “He’ll want to know he has a daughter.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I’m not so certain.”

  Daphne slipped on her Wellingtons. While her husband would try to console their son while she was gone, her own breasts were crying for relief. “I’ll check back on her later today.”

  Maggie nodded. “Thank you.”

  Daphne stepped out into the slushy snow. Her house was a short walk away from the Doyle’s home, and she prayed no one would see her in this early-morning hour.

  She would do her best to protect Libby and her family, but it would be impossible to hide a baby from the entire village for long.

  Shivering, she hurried through the cold.

  Some things, she supposed, she’d never find out, but in her heart, she suspected that Maggie knew exactly who fathered Libby’s child.

  MAY 1970, WILLOW COTTAGE

  Maggie rocked the baby as Libby sketched on the floor beside them, singing quietly in the space of their sitting room. Heather had given them a scare in those early days, but at five months, her lungs were strong now, and she wasn’t afraid to use them.

  Maggie never thought she would be so happy to hear a baby cry.

  Sometimes she worried the milkman or a neighbor might hear the cries, but so far no one except Daphne knew about her birth. Maggie realized they couldn’t keep their secret forever, but for now she savored it. Peace had finally come to their house with this little one.

  Libby seemed to be adjusting to her role as a young mother. She named the girl Heather after the magenta-and-white blossoms in Ladenbrooke’s gardens. Butterflies loved the heather, she’d said, and the plants thrived even in the winter.

  Maggie loved the baby by the same name. With all her heart.

  Heather squirmed and cried again. “I think she’s hungry,” Maggie said.

  Libby looked up, seeming to hear her daughter’s cries for the first time. Then she glanced back and forth between her colored pencils and the baby. “Should I feed it?”

  “Yes, you should.”

  Maggie stood, and Libby switched places with her in the rocking chair. Maggie helped her situate Heather against her bosom, and her cries stopped as she ate, contented at her mother’s breast. Libby seemed distracted however, her gaze wandering to the window. To her knowledge, Libby hadn’t been out to the cottage gardens since Heather’s birth.

  “Do you want to go outside when you’re finished?” she asked.

  Libby looked back at her, her toes shoving off the rug with a steady, soothing pulse. “Are the flowers blooming?”

  Maggie nodded as she collected Libby’s drawings into a neat pile beside her.

  Libby’s eyes returned to the baby in her arms. “I don’t know—”

  “You can love her and the flowers at the same time.”

  Libby nodded, but Maggie saw the doubt in her eyes. She wished her daughter could reconcile the conflicting emotions inside her, the dual tugging on her heart.

  She’d been so proud of Libby during these months. Maggie had never thought a baby could bring so much healing into their home, but Heather had done that. Her birth brought a sort of normalcy into Libby’s life. Consistency that her daughter needed. Libby may not be as old or as doting as other mothers, but she’d been faithful with her responsibilities.

  Perhaps Libby had simply needed to grow up.

  She wished, of course, that there had been another way for Libby to grow into womanhood, but for the first time, Maggie felt a glimmer of hope for her daughter’s future.

  She had taken a leave of absence from the beauty shop, and Libby had stayed hidden in the cottage for the remainder of the winter and then the spring. The rector and a few friends had telephoned, but no one except Daphne and the milkman knocked on the door. And she never let the milkman step inside.

  Most of their friends had stopped phoning. Maggie told those who did ring that Libby had returned home after Christmas, and she was attending to her daughter’s health. Walter said the same thing when people inquired after her at the post office.

  Daphne still came once a week to check on both Heather and Libby. She had no more concerns about Heather beyond her lack of a birth certificate—something which Maggie intended to remedy soon—but she had some concerns about Libby’s despondency. Maggie thought her daughter might have a bit of the “baby blues.” In time, her sadness would fade.

  Maggie slipped into the kitchen to stir the vegetable soup she’d made for dinner to go along with the egg and watercress sandwiches Libby liked to eat.

  When she walked back into the sitting room, Heather was finished eating, but Libby wasn’t drawing or singing to her baby. She was staring back out the window.

  “Go see the flowers,” Maggie said.

  “It’s the butterflies I miss.”

  The familiar ache pressed against Maggie’s heart, her desire for Libby to have real friends, the kind who wanted to talk about dances or clothes or even art. Now that she had a baby, there was little hope that Libby would ever have friends her age, but at least she had her family. And her butterflies.

  “Go then,” Maggie urged. Sitting inside, pining for butterflies, wouldn’t do her any good.

  Libby put Heather into her little cot, but the moment she walked outside, Maggie picked Heather up, singing softly to the infant. Her arrival into the world may have been unconventional, but she would have the most conventional life, the happiest childhood, possible.

  Walter walked through the door, fifteen minutes earlier than normal.

  He glanced at Heather in Maggie’s arms as he hung his cap on the rack. “Where’s Libby?”

  Maggie nodded toward the back window. “Out in the garden.”

  In his eyes, she saw the same doubt she’d seen in Libby, but he didn’t say anything to criticize. Instead he lifted Heather into his arms and sat down in the rocker, holding her tight.

  Maggie leaned back against the doorframe and watched them, wondering if he’d ever let go of her again.

  THE CREAMY VANILLA SCENT OF clematis breathed life into Libby’s lungs. She trailed the vines along the wall, down the hill behind her parents’ home and through the path in the forest. At the river’s edge, she sat on a rock and dipped her big toe into the current, watching the water swirl around it. The river didn’t seem nearly as frightening as it once had. For she had a new fear now, one even more daunting than the water.

  How was she supposed to care for a baby?

  She had nothing to offer it except milk, and sometimes that wouldn’t even console it. The baby’s crying frightened her, and she often felt as if her head might explode if she didn’t get outside, away from the noise.

  Then Mummy would come alongside her and say that it was tired or needed a new nappy or that Libby’s hands were squeezing too tight.

  Her aching breasts reminded her when it needed to eat, but Mummy said the milk wouldn’t last forever. Sometimes when she was younger, in the frantic pace of drawing and dreaming, she forgot to eat or even drink. How was she going to remember to feed another person?

  She took a deep breath.

  The smell of the flowers was supposed to quench her fears, but all she smelled this time was mud and moss.

  Summer was almost here, bringing back the tulips, butterflies, and the promise of Oliver Croft on its warm breeze.

  Butterflies needed flowers to survive, just like she needed Oliver Croft. And Oliver needed her more than the baby did.

  Baby needed someone like Mummy to care for her.

  The manager at the grocery market in Cirencester said Edith Lane was working today but not until after lunch. Heather checked her watch and asked for directions to the local library.

/>   Although there was no newspaper in Bibury, the librarian at the main desk said the Wilts and Gloucestershire Standard covered the entire region in 1970. They kept all the editions on microfilm, but the librarian had never operated the reader on the back wall. Heather hadn’t operated one since she’d attended college in Portland. Between the two of them, they managed to get the reel on the spindle and the film threaded through the glass, rotating forward instead of back.

  Her parents had said Libby died before Heather was born, so she scanned through the obituaries in the late 1960s. When she didn’t find any mention of Libby, she started foraging for information about Oliver Croft’s death.

  The first headline about Oliver was published on June 4, 1970. It was quite similar to the one Ella had sent, saying the police found Oliver’s body in the River Coln, and they suspected foul play.

  She studied the grainy photo beside the article. Oliver Croft was a handsome young man, and in his eyes, she saw a bit of the recklessness she’d once admired in Christopher. Had her sister loved this man as she’d once loved Christopher?

  The next article on Oliver was published a month later. The police, it seemed, had no suspects in the case.

  She scanned the obituaries and articles for the rest of the year. There was only one more mention of the Croft family. One of the November papers reported that their daughter, Sarah Croft, was engaged to marry a man from London.

  If Oliver Croft, the son of a lord, had been murdered, it seemed there would have been a massive search for the person who had killed him.

  Perhaps Brie was right. Perhaps there’d been no foul play.

  Did the Croft family ever return to Ladenbrooke after Oliver’s death? The Crofts and her parents were neighbors, and her mum once worked for Lord and Lady Croft. Did they mourn the deaths of their children together? Or did the wall that separated them remain intact, even in their sorrow?

  She turned off the machine and sat back in her chair, sadness looming over her. She had returned to England to close the doors to her past, but new doors kept opening, more questions with fleeting answers.