The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  4

  WHY COULDN’T MOTHER have gotten her a cat, I think as I set off into the thicket behind the old building, wiping rain from my eyes. Cats don’t go romping about in downpours. Cats stay warm and dry in front of a fire, just like I wish I was right now.

  Plunging farther into the woods, I give a half-hearted yell for Snip, followed by an indelicate word as my shoe catches against a slick root. There’s no time to stop myself as I go sprawling headfirst into the wet leaves and mud. A rock breaks my fall. My hand smarts, and when I struggle to my knees to inspect the damage, there’s an angry cut running down my palm. It’s no use trying to wipe the dirt from it on my soaking dress, so I gingerly heave myself up the rest of the way, only to step on my hem in the process. There’s a loud tearing noise. Just my luck. I curse again as I stumble forward, reaching for tree trunks to steady myself as I go.

  The rain isn’t as heavy here under the thick canopy of trees, but each severe plop still snakes its way down my clothes, vanquishing the last few dry spots on my body.

  More than once I stop in my tracks, frozen by the snap of a branch or a clump of leaves falling to the ground. My neck prickles, just like last night when we arrived to an audience of fireflies and forest creatures. I’m a city girl, an intruder, unused to the thousand little sounds of a close woods.

  “You’re lucky you have such a sweet little master,” I grumble to Snip, wherever he is. If it weren’t for the fact that Emeline will be heartbroken if I come back empty-handed, I’d be tempted to leave Snip out here to fend for himself.

  Something white flashes in the corner of my eye, but when I turn and look closer it’s gone. A shudder runs through my body. “Snip?”

  A moment later there’s a rustle behind me and I close my eyes, letting out a sigh of relief. Maybe the end of this unpleasant day is finally in sight. “Well, you certainly took your sweet time. I hope you’re happy with your—”

  I freeze at the sound of a heavier tread, my words dying in my throat. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I don’t have to turn around to know that it’s not Snip behind me.

  Do they have bears out here? Or maybe it’s a moose. I once saw a picture of a moose in a book. They’re taller than a man and they can toss you up into the air with their great antlers. But even as I curl my fingers into my skirts, preparing to turn around, I know that it’s not an animal.

  I take a deep breath and spin around.

  It doesn’t matter that I knew there would be someone there when I looked, I still almost jump out of my skin when my eyes land on the young man that has seemingly appeared out of thin air behind me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, taking a tentative step forward. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He must see my heart pounding in my throat, because he stops, and his lips twitch up at the corner. “I think I failed on that account.”

  My breath comes out in a hiss. “Yes, well, in the state I was in I think anything would have startled me.” I lean back against the wet bark of a tree and close my eyes, waiting for my heart to slow.

  I open my eyes. He doesn’t look dangerous. Despite the rain having its way with him, his clothes are fine, and there’s something warm and familiar about his face. I probably look a good deal more suspicious in my torn and muddy dress and bedraggled hair.

  He takes his hat off and rakes his fingers through his wet hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “Are you all right, miss? Are you lost?”

  “Quite all right,” I lie. I’m not used to anyone—let alone a handsome young man—talking to me as if I weren’t part of the most reviled family in Boston, or an unchaperoned woman wandering the woods in a torn and muddy dress for that matter. “And it’s my dog—or rather my sister’s dog—who is lost. I’m trying to find him.”

  “Ah.” He rocks back on his heels, hands in pockets. “A noble reason to be out in such conditions. Mine are much more foolish.”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to ask what his reasons might be, and he doesn’t elaborate before asking, “Perhaps I could be some assistance in your search? I’m quite familiar with these woods.”

  I should thank him and tell him that it’s not necessary. I should say good-day, turn around, and go find Catherine and Emeline. There is no good and proper reason for me to accept the company of a strange man I found wandering in the woods, even if the man in question looks like he just stumbled out of one of my novels with his fair good looks, a Lancelot. Yet when I open my mouth, the only words that come out are, “I think he went up that way.”

  I gesture up the bank and the man’s gaze fixes on my hand. “You’re hurt.”

  It isn’t a question so much as an accusation, as if I should have told this stranger the moment I set eyes on him that I had a small scrape on my palm. I open my mouth to protest, but he closes the small distance between us in three long strides.

  “May I?” Before I know what’s happening, he’s taking my hand in his gloves, gently wiping away the dirt from the cut. His movements are deft and quick. “You’ll have to wash it when you get home, but this will at least keep any more dirt from it.” He takes his cravat off and I watch him wind the white linen round and round my hand until I can barely flex my fingers.

  “There now, that’s better,” he says with a smile as fast and brilliant as the lightning. When he’s done he ties it off neatly. My hand lingers in his for a moment, relishing the warmth, before I remember myself and pull away.

  “Thank you,” I mumble.

  Perhaps realizing just how close we’re standing, the man steps back with a brisk nod. “If we’re going to find your dog we should do it now while we have a break in the rain.”

  I’d hardly noticed that the rain has lightened to nothing more than a misty drizzle while his strong fingers held my hand. “Do you think you can manage...?” He trails off, looking discreetly at the ground. The cool breeze on my ankles reminds me that between my dress and the cut on my hand, I probably look like I’ve been mauled by wolves.

  I tug at my bodice and adjust Catherine’s shawl in a vain attempt at modesty. “Perfectly fine,” I assure him, and, as if accepting a challenge, add, “I love a good walk in the woods.”

  He inclines his head, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and we set off.

  We crest the little embankment, the man shortening his strides so that I don’t have to run to keep up with his long legs. I chance a sidelong glance at my knight, wondering what on earth brought him to the woods in a storm at the same time as me.

  “He can’t have gotten far. The river cuts through over there, and if he has any sense he’ll have stayed put on this side.”

  “I’m not sure sensibility is Snip’s strong point. Chasing his tail, maybe. Or barking at shadows.”

  The man’s eyes—arresting eyes, which are somehow blue and green at the same time—settle on me and he flashes me a grin before putting a light hand on my elbow and guiding me up the bank.

  I’ve nearly forgotten about my sodden shoes and the stinging from my cut. The fresh, resinous smell of the woods fills me with renewed energy. We’re Lancelot and Guinevere, fleeing through the forest from a jealous King Arthur. Any moment we’ll come upon a white steed and Lancelot will swing me up upon its jeweled saddle and we’ll gallop off together.

  “There!”

  My dream comes to a halt as I follow Lancelot’s pointing finger down to the edge of the water. It’s not a white steed, but a muddy Snip. He’s gnawing on something, a piece of rotted wood it looks like, as we slowly approach.

  Snip eyes the man suspiciously as he slowly advances with one outstretched arm, but doesn’t make any move, just pants contentedly with his tongue lolling out. “I suppose he’s had enough adventure for one day,” Lancelot says as he scoops up the unprotesting Snip and hands him to me.

  I almost wish Snip did have some chase left in him so that I could prolong my advent
ure with this handsome stranger. But he just wriggles around in my arms and plants me with a sloppy kiss, and we head back to the old building.

  * * *

  “There you are! I was just about to...” Catherine’s words trail off as the man steps into the little porch behind me. Her mouth falls open as her gaze swings up to him, then narrows suspiciously on me.

  “Snip!” Emeline is up in a flash, arms outstretched, receiving her wayward pet among a tangle of dirty paws and frantic licks.

  “Remember your manners,” I say as I try to brush off Snip’s dirt from my already ruined dress. “Thank Mr....” I flush. The man bandaged up my hand, helped me find our dog, and escorted me back to my sisters and I never even thought to ask his name.

  “Barrett,” he says with a small inclination of the head. “John Barrett.”

  The name is familiar, but I can’t place it. Before I can ask him why I might know it, Catherine is sliding off her crate, her gaze fixed on Mr. Barrett. She’s regained her composure and is twirling a damp lock of hair around her finger. “Catherine,” she says with an unnecessarily deep curtsy. “We’re indebted to you for returning Lydia to us in one piece.” The sharp look she throws my way and tight tone suggest otherwise.

  For some reason I color deeper when Catherine tells him my name. “And the young lady who’s so busy playing with her dog is Emeline,” I hastily pipe up to divert attention away from my flaming cheeks.

  Emeline looks up from scratching Snip’s muddy belly. “We got stuck in the storm.”

  “Well, I can’t say you’ve chosen the most hospitable of places to seek shelter.” He gestures to the little porch, hat in hand. “This was my father’s mill, and as you can see it’s fallen into disrepair some time ago.”

  “A mill!” Catherine exclaims. “How very exciting. We’ve just come from Boston and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a proper mill before.”

  Mr. Barrett raises a brow at Catherine’s enthusiasm for mills. “And what brings you to New Oldbury?”

  Catherine clamps her mouth shut, so I answer. “Our father has just invested in the cotton mill here.” It’s not a lie, I’m just omitting the other reason. All the same I feel a little stab of guilt.

  “You don’t mean...” His smile fades. “You’re Samuel Montrose’s daughters? And he’s brought you here?” He isn’t asking me, he’s talking to himself. “Mr. Montrose never told me that he was planning on bringing a family with him,” he says, his voice roughening at the edges.

  He knows. Despite my best efforts at hemming the truth, he already knows who we are and about the scandal.

  “Willow Hall was just to be a summer home,” Catherine chimes in, “but we’ll be living here permanently now.” Her voice is light and she’s twirling that damp lock of hair between her fingers like an idiot again.

  “You’re to live at Willow Hall permanently,” he echoes, as if hardly processing the words.

  “If you’re going to tell us it’s haunted, you’re too late,” Catherine says with a little laugh. “We quite got all the gossip on that score from the shopkeeper.”

  Mr. Barrett gives her a sharp look. “What did he say?”

  Before Catherine has a chance to answer, something clicks into place in my mind and I know where I’ve heard his name before. “You’re our father’s new business partner.”

  He gives a tight nod. “I am.” The mood has shifted in the little porch, and the only one among us oblivious to the tension in the air is Emeline who is singing to Snip while she tries to clean the mud from his ears.

  “Ghosts live in our house,” Emeline says, pausing from her ministrations to look up at Mr. Barrett with solemn eyes. “The whole place is full of ghosts. And goblins. You can’t throw a rock but hit a ghost there.”

  “Emeline! He never said that.” I give Mr. Barrett an apologetic look. “She likes to embroider the truth.” Emeline starts to protest but I hush her.

  But he hardly hears me anyway, and I dare not say anything else. He stands awkwardly in the silence, taking out a soaked handkerchief from his pocket and then putting it back in again. He runs a hand through his thick hair, shaking out some of the lingering wetness. It’s the same color as the golden fields of shimmering hay, which we passed yesterday on our journey.

  “Well, I must go, but you’re welcome to stay and dry off as long as you need. Good day.”

  “Wait!” Mr. Barrett stops at my cry, looking at me expectantly. “Your cravat,” I say, raising my bandaged hand as if he would possibly want it back, dirty and bloody as it is now.

  He opens his mouth, hesitates and then says shortly, “Keep it.” He gives a brief dip of the head, and then he’s gone.

  Catherine and I sit in stunned silence. “John Barrett,” she murmurs. “Why wouldn’t Father have mentioned bringing his family to New Oldbury?”

  Why indeed? Father was never much for home life, and that was before the scandal. Now he probably wishes he weren’t burdened with us. No, what’s stranger to me is that Mr. Barrett should look so troubled at our arrival. It would be one thing if it had to do with the scandal, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s not that. He was surprised to learn that our father had a family at all, and that he brought us here. If he had already known about us, then it would follow that he knew about the scandal.

  “Well,” says Catherine standing and briskly shaking out her damp skirts, “I can’t believe Father could be so shortsighted. He might have mentioned that his new business partner was young. And handsome.”

  I roll my eyes, and the little chill that had settled in my spine dissipates. The sun is inexplicably burning through the clouds, and the air is heavy with humidity. Steam rises from the road and the prospect of walking back in the stickiness is even more daunting than walking back in the rain. Despite that, there’s a nagging tug in my chest, a rough edge that won’t be smoothed down.

  5

  CATHERINE BOLTS UPSTAIRS to change, and I send Emeline up after her. I hardly care that my dress is torn, that my hand needs to be cleaned; I’m still back at the old mill, lost in the unsettling gaze of Mr. Barrett. I wander through the house, over the wood floors gleaming amber in the afternoon sun, the oriental carpets still crisp in color and soft beneath my feet. Everything is new and expectant, waiting for memories to be made, for stories to be layered down like dust.

  When I come to the back hall, I find Mother on hands and knees, a soapy bucket of water beside her. She’s scrubbing the tiles over and over in vicious circles. “Snip had a romp through the house with muddy paws,” she says without looking up.

  “Ada will get it.” I help her to her feet. There isn’t a trace of mud remaining, but she casts a remorseful look at the white tiles. Her hands are raw.

  I install her in the parlor and fetch her workbasket and she finally notices my dress and hand. “Where on earth have you been? I was worried sick when Joe was gone so long with the carriage.”

  Catherine breezes into the room, Emeline behind her, just as I’m explaining our misadventure in town and chance meeting with John Barrett.

  “Mother,” I say slowly, not quite sure what I’m asking, “do you know any reason why Father’s new business partner should be unhappy to learn that he had a family, or that he had brought us here?”

  “Unhappy?” Mother echoes the question, picking up her embroidery. “What makes you say that?”

  “We really must invite Mr. Barrett over for dinner,” Catherine cuts in, throwing herself down on the yellow-and-pink settee. “Especially if he and Father are business partners.”

  Mother watches her with wary eyes over the rim of her embroidery hoop, stabbing the needle through the linen.

  “I like him. He helped bring back Snip,” Emeline adds solemnly.

  I hold my breath, waiting for Mother’s answer. We used to entertain all the time in Boston. That was one of the hard
est parts of the scandal, the way everyone stopped coming around. Cyrus was the last of them. I try not to think about that awful meeting with the man who would have been my husband in the front parlor of our trim brick house. The way time stood still despite the persistent ticking of the clock, him standing not more than a few feet in front of me, but separated by miles. The way he raked his fingers through his dark curls and couldn’t meet my eye. “I’m sorry, Lydia,” he said. “You know that I am. But you have to see it from my perspective, from my family’s.” All the blood rushing up to my head, my knees weak and insides hollow. “I... I wish you the best.” And then he was gone, the coward, striding out the door without so much as a backward glance. Good riddance.

  “Well, yes, I suppose Mr. Barrett must come over for dinner,” Mother says.

  Something like relief washes over Catherine, and I can’t figure her out. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that she should have an eye for Mr. Barrett; after all, it would be a good sign for our family if she were to become interested in someone. And her inner character notwithstanding, she’s beautiful. The man would be a fool not to notice her.

  It’s agreed that an invitation will be sent out to Mr. Barrett for next week, and Mother sends for Joe to deliver it. Just as Joe is leaving, Catherine takes something from her pocket and slips it into his hand with a finger to her lips. Mother is bent over her embroidery, and Emeline is busy giving Snip a stern lecture on running away. It all happens in the space of a second, and then Catherine demurely folds her hands, smiling out the window at nothing in particular.

  * * *

  It’s a rare evening that Father joins us for dinner, but since we’re entertaining his business partner he’s made an exception from taking his meal in his office. In Boston we all dined together, but that was when Charles was still there, and we women outnumbered the men only four to two. Now that Charles is gone, Father doesn’t find much to draw him to our table anymore, preferring to lose himself in the safety of his ledgers where everything adds up in tidy little columns.