“I miss him too.” Lady Wyndham reached for Libby’s hand, and for a moment, Heather felt like an outlier. Then Libby took her hand as well.
The three of them walked outside onto the patio and traversed down through the terraces together, under overgrown lime bowers and grape arbors, past acres of weedy flower beds, sleepy fountains, parched pools.
They walked through a copse of trees until they reached the riverbank where Libby told Lady Wyndham her story, to the best of her ability, of that night she’d found Oliver in the water.
Together they continued their walk, back to the cemetery tucked into the trees. There was a stack of old bouquets on Oliver’s grave, and next to him was the headstone of Lady Croft, the mother who’d accidently taken the life of her son.
The people of Bibury might think the Croft family never returned to Ladenbrooke, but it appeared they came back in the shadows.
LIBBY STARED AT THE ENTRANCE to the overgrown maze, her heart stirring within her, and for a moment, it felt as if it might explode.
The memories of Oliver were everywhere: Along the riverbank. Among the trees. And most of all, in the folly that loomed before her. She once thought she could be closer to Oliver here, when she’d thought she needed him to be whole.
Decades she’d spent running away from her memories, the ghosts that taunted her with their whispers saying she could have saved Oliver if she’d pulled him out of the water before Walter arrived.
If only she’d been stronger. Smarter.
But Sarah said there had been nothing she could do. The lady killed him. Not Libby.
She had loved Oliver and Oliver loved her. He’d told his entire family that he wanted to marry her.
When Sarah left this afternoon, she said that as long as the Crofts owned these gardens, Libby was welcome to roam freely wherever she liked. There’d be no lock on the wrought-iron gate anymore.
The last time she’d been in these gardens her heart had yearned to be free, but it was strange—this time, the familiar yearning was gone. Instead of wanting to run, Libby wanted to please the child she’d left behind. Help her understand why she’d had to go.
Still, she was afraid—afraid that Heather would be disappointed in her like so many other people had been. Except Walter. He’d stopped being disappointed in her that night they’d tried to save Oliver. And she’d stopped being disappointed in him.
On the days Walter came to her apartment, to write down the stories of her butterflies, he always prayed with her, that in their weaknesses—both his and hers—God would be strong. That she would rely on the Creator more than her own creation.
She needed that strength now to face her demons. To remember the good things about Oliver without so many of the regrets.
Before he went away, Walter said he was proud of her because she’d learned to be honest with him. Perhaps now she could make Heather proud as well.
She turned back and found Heather by the lily pond. “Do you want to see my—my special place?”
Heather hopped up from the bench. “Of course.”
Libby motioned toward the aging yew bushes. “It’s back here.”
She guided her through the narrow path that remained between the bushes, like she’d guided Heather home when she was a child, the path as familiar to her feet as her paintbrushes were to her fingers.
The old tower stood strong above the yews. Several of the shutters were broken, but the window glass was intact. Heather opened the door, and they climbed the steps together.
Animal droppings covered the wooden floor and it looked as if rodents had picked through the old clothing and blankets. Libby stared at the floor for a moment, and then began to back away. She’d wanted Heather to see this place, where her memories of Oliver were once clear, but the memories of him here had faded.
Heather walked among the rubbish as if she was looking for something, pushing aside the blankets and old sketchbooks, the pages mildewed and torn. Then she reached down and flipped back the lid of a picnic basket.
Libby remembered Oliver bringing the basket, filled with sweet fruit from the orchard. She’d used it years later to collect pears and apples during the summers she’d pretended Oliver was still coming back to her.
Heather lifted one of Libby’s sketchbooks out of the basket, and when she opened the cover, a soft gasp escaped from her lips. Stepping forward, Libby looked down at the first page in the book and then took it in her hands. It was wrinkled from moisture, and stained, but on it was a picture she’d sketched of Oliver, long ago.
When she saw his smiling face, distorted by the damage, her thoughts began to blur again, and her fingers twitched, longing to try to draw him one more time.
Heather reached out and took the picture from her. “I’ll clean it up,” she said simply as she placed it back in the basket.
Libby shook her head, fighting to regain clarity. “It’s ruined . . .”
This time when Heather spoke, confidence bolstered her voice. “I can still fix his smile.”
And in that moment, Libby realized that perhaps Heather could help her fix a lot of things. Perhaps, when God created her daughter, He’d created a pillar to help her stand.
They left the folly and maze behind and wandered up the pathway, to the sunlight in the rose garden.
“Do you know how to dance?” Libby asked.
“I haven’t danced in years.”
A butterfly flew past them, a vibrant indigo coloring its wings.
“I don’t want this to be a place of sadness anymore,” Libby said, watching the butterfly dip and then soar again.
Heather took her hand. “Then let’s dance.”
Before the sun rose, Heather took a quick shower and drank a cup of strong breakfast tea before hauling her old light table up from the basement. After replacing the bulb, she flipped on the switch.
Light illuminated the picture of Oliver, and she studied the wrinkles and stains on his face. He might have fathered her in the technical sense, but she’d never think of him as her dad. And in her heart, Libby would always be her sister.
Walter and Maggie Doyle had loved her as their daughter. They’d cared for her and protected her. They’d parented her in every sense of the word.
Last night, she and Libby laughed in the gardens over at Ladenbrooke as the moon chased away the sunlight. They’d laughed and they’d danced in the shadows. When the light was gone, Libby hadn’t wanted to go back through the gate. She’d wanted to wade through the river.
And so they had done it. Holding hands in the same river where Libby had found Oliver, they gained back some of what they had lost.
Then Libby had stayed up late, painting more pictures of Emerald Dawn before falling asleep in her old bedroom upstairs. Heather was glad she’d agreed to spend the night. In a way, Libby reminded her of Ella—sometimes scattered but full of love and laughter. This old cottage needed a good dose of both.
While Libby slept, Heather examined the picture of Oliver. It would take some work to fix it—like all good artwork took time to restore.
Oliver and Libby’s love could never be restored in this life, nor could Heather tell her father how much she loved him. But perhaps it wasn’t too late to restore all the broken relationships along with Oliver’s smile.
It wasn’t too late for Christopher and Ella.
Or Christopher and her.
Someone knocked on the door, and she slipped off her stool. Pushing back the curtain, she saw Daphne Westcott on the stoop and her heart somersaulted when she saw Mrs. Westcott’s son standing behind her.
Quickly she twisted her wet hair back into a knot before opening the door, but with all the emotions churning inside her, she didn’t dare look up at Christopher.
Mrs. Westcott’s eyes were swollen, as if she’d been crying, and her hands were clutched to her chest. “I’m sorry we’re so early,” the woman said, though she didn’t sound sorry at all. “We waited until the sun came up.”
“I’ve been up f
or awhile,” Heather said, her gaze fixed on Christopher’s mother.
“Did you really bring Libby home?”
“I did.”
“Maggie would be so glad.” Tears sprang fresh in Mrs. Westcott’s eyes, and she dabbed at them with her handkerchief. “Is she awake?”
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Westcott glanced over at the doorway that led to the stairs. “When we were younger, I used to come play with Libby while Maggie worked. I’d have to wake her up in the morning.”
“Would you like to wake her up now?” Heather asked.
“I suppose I do,” Mrs. Westcott said as she scooted around her, though she paused before she walked upstairs. “My son needs to speak with you while Libby and I are visiting.”
“Mum—”
“He has something important to say.”
Christopher crossed his arms. “You told me you weren’t going to meddle anymore.”
“It’s not meddling if you’re speaking the truth.”
Heather finally glanced up and saw him smiling back her.
THE MORNING SKY WAS STREAKED with a hundred shades of pink and yellow, the morning grass glimmering with dew. They were the colors of renewal. New life.
Libby’s Emerald Dawn.
Christopher took Heather’s hand and led her back into the garden where he’d proposed all those years ago. Instead of sitting on the bench, he sat on a rock across from her. “Heather, I . . .” His voice drifted off.
“What is it?”
Standing up, he paced to the edge of the garden, his hands in his pockets. Then he turned back to her. “I was hoping you might want to stay in England.”
Heather didn’t reply, not quite knowing what to say. She’d been living in the United States for more than twenty years now, and while Ella no longer lived in Oregon, she had a solid job in Portland and the city was laden with memories of Ella’s childhood.
But then again, Ella seemed to love England, and there was plenty of art to be restored here.
And possibly art for her to create as well.
Perhaps it was time for her to put the memories behind her, from both Oregon and England. Perhaps it was time to embrace the next season of life as a sister to Libby and grandmother to Matthew and Ella’s child and even—dare she hope—as a wife to the man before her.
“It might take me longer than I expected . . .” she said. “To prepare the cottage.”
He sat down next to her on the bench. “Are you certain you want to sell it?”
“Yes.”
He inched a bit closer to her, smiling. “You know what I think.”
She wasn’t completely certain she wanted to know, but he kept talking.
“I think my mum should buy the cottage from you. Libby can live with her here, and you can come to Oxford with me.”
“Christopher—”
“Please, Heather,” he begged. “I want to do it right this time.”
Then he knelt on one knee in the grass, just like he’d done when they were younger and didn’t have a clue what life would offer them. Now they were all too aware about the realities of life as they’d both stumbled and fallen. And got back up again.
But there was hope even in their failings. New beginnings.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a brass ring with an opal, the same one he’d given her in 1988.
She smiled at him. “You kept it?”
“It was lost and then found up in our attic.”
“I’m glad you found it.”
“I’m going to buy you a diamond ring.”
“I don’t want a diamond,” she said as she slowly held out her hand. “I want this one.”
“You’ll marry me?” he asked as if he’d almost forgotten his question.
“I will.”
His kiss traversed deep through her veins, into the corners of her heart that needed to be restored, a kiss to heal the tears and stains.
And he didn’t stop kissing her until her cell phone rang out, the loud drumbeat from Ella’s call pulsing through the garden. Still, she didn’t want him to let her go.
Christopher moved away from her, his smile warm. “Good timing, I think.”
She sighed. “Welcome to parenthood,” she said before she answered the phone.
EPILOGUE
A long line began forming outside Bridget’s Bookshop before dawn, little noses smudging the window as a host of girls tried to glimpse inside. The line wrapped its way around the city block as hundreds of kids and their bedraggled parents waited on a Saturday morning to get one of the first copies of Emerald Dawn, personally signed by the elusive L.D. Walters.
Heather sat beside Libby at a table decorated with a bright blue cloth and dozens of butterflies.
Libby finally acknowledged illustrating all of the Butterfly Princess books, but she refused to reveal the wordsmith behind the stories. She told the reporter from The Telegraph last month that she wanted to honor an author who wished to remain anonymous—and Libby honestly didn’t know, nor did she seem to care, who had taken over Walter’s role.
Behind the table, Christopher bounced their grandson Oliver on his knee in the children’s section. Oliver was barely a year old, but Christopher kept insisting that he was ready to read.
Heather thought their grandson was much more interested in the pictures.
Ella shuffled into the room with a cardboard box filled with coffee cups and lids, a vibrant-red scarf knotted around her neck. She was far too chipper for the hour as she delivered an orange mocha to Libby and black tea to everyone else.
“Do you need anything else, Aunt Libby?” she asked.
Libby took a long sip of her drink. “Wings.”
Ella winked at her. “You’re not allowed to fly away until after lunch.”
Libby smiled up at Ella, and Heather loved how her daughter seemed to lift Libby’s anxiety away with her laughter.
“All you need to do is sign your name,” Ella instructed. “My mum will do all the talking.”
“Mom—” Heather muttered, but Ella was off through the back door to distribute hot tea to those who’d been waiting for hours. Ever since Ella had discovered both of her birth parents were British, she’d been calling Heather “Mum” and reading all sorts of British-born literature to Oliver.
Before her and Christopher’s wedding last year, Heather had told her daughter the entire story—about Libby and Oliver, and Maggie and Elliot. About the courage and compassion of Walter Doyle.
Ella was thrilled to discover Libby was not only alive but also wanted to be an aunt to her. Others might think Libby was different, but Ella didn’t seem to think she was the least bit odd. The first time they met, Ella told Libby that she’d researched her name and discovered it meant “God’s Promise.” After that, they’d quickly knitted together a friendship, and Libby even seemed to enjoy playing with little Oliver.
Somehow Mrs. Westcott—Heather’s newly installed mother-in-law—had convinced Libby to live in Willow Cottage with her. The two of them seemed content in their new rhythm, Libby in her wandering and Mrs. Westcott in her renewed work escorting life into the world.
Libby eyed the front door again. “I still want to fly away.”
“Where would you go?” Heather asked.
Conflict reigned in her eyes. “I don’t know.”
Heather glanced back at Christopher and Oliver then nodded at the window. “Because there are a whole lot of people who want you right here.”
Libby nodded, her fingers twitching until Heather pulled a sketchbook out of her handbag. As Libby began to draw, her shoulders relaxed, and she started humming.
Heather opened the book on top of the stack to be signed, reading the first lines one more time, her heart full.
Heather turned back to smile at her husband, but he was much too enthralled with his grandson to see the throngs of children waiting to read his story about the real treasures in life.
Bridget pulled back the curtain on the fron
t window before turning toward her guest. “Are you ready?”
At Libby’s slow nod, Bridget unlocked the door, and Ella helped her prop it open. In seconds, the room flooded with wide-eyed girls wanting to meet the artist of the butterfly stories.
Stories about healing and redemption. Love and friendship.
Stories about shifting shadows and an armory full of color to drive the darkness away.
Emerald Dawn rises early before her sisters wake. With her smile, she charms the sun and chases clouds away. Diamonds hide among the silvery dew. Rubies shimmer in the roses. And she tiptoes through the castle garden to find their hiding spaces.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Every shadow needs light, and this novel was my own exploration of God’s light shining through the shadows of life along with the beauty and power of His restoration through generations.
Libby Doyle was a character that emerged deep from within my heart as a mom of two beautiful girls who love beautiful things. Libby isn’t diagnosed in this story, but if she were born today, I believe her diagnosis would fall someplace under the umbrella of the “autism spectrum.” In the 1950s and ’60s, many doctors and psychologists believed autism was caused by emotionally distant mothers whose children then struggled socially as a result. Even if she loved her children, a mother of an autistic child was often condemned as a “refrigerator mom.”
Heartbreaking for both mother and child.
Our family has both friends and loved ones on this spectrum, and we are grateful for the medical advances and education about autism today. However, even with more understanding, children with autism, Asperger’s, or sensory processing issues are still sometimes rejected by adults and other children. The children on this spectrum are often incredibly bright and creative kids who look “normal” but struggle to communicate well or become easily frustrated or awkward in social settings.
Even with a diagnosis, guilt haunts many parents who are raising a child like Libby, and my desire through this story is to encourage moms and dads who are doing everything they can to love and instruct their children.
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