The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  Ada has already helped Emeline dress, leaving Catherine and me alone to finish our toilettes together.

  “Move over, Lydia. You’ve been fussing with your hair for almost an hour and I need the mirror.”

  I scooch the little stool over so Catherine can lean down to see herself. “What’s gotten into you anyway? You never do anything with your hair besides the same old drab bun.”

  I frown, trying to get my fine hair to hold some semblance of a curl. “That’s not true.”

  When it’s clear that the limp strands won’t cooperate, I give up and sweep them up and back under a simple band. Catherine expertly puts hers in a neat row of tight little curls. Her hair is a luminous shade of auburn, alive with gold and copper. My hair by comparison is mousy brown. A warm, light shade, but brown all the same. And of course my Emmy has the prettiest hair of all of us, even more golden and vibrant than Catherine’s.

  I watch as Catherine rubs color over her lips, then plucks a stray hair from her brow. She practices different expressions, first one of surprise, her mouth open in an inviting O, her brows arched, then one of wide-eyed innocence. She could have anyone—any man wrapped around her finger. I can’t help but be a little in awe of her, even if she is the vainest creature I’ve ever met. I always knew that she was different from me, above me somehow. As a child she shone so brightly, stealing the room with her perfect manners and charming smile while I struggled to keep up. She scowls when she catches me studying her.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Lyd.”

  “Like what?”

  She rolls her eyes. “With the disapproving, sanctimonious glower you always have.” She stands up, giving one last glance into the mirror and patting at her coif.

  “You’re up to something.”

  With a shrug, she grabs her shawl from the bed and heads for the door. “I know you’re up to something, Catherine!” I call after her. And I’m going to find out what it is, I add silently. This family has had enough of secrets.

  * * *

  Ada announces Mr. Barrett. He strides into the room, his face serious, looking like he’s come more on business than pleasure. He gives Mother a kiss on the cheek though, like an old friend, and Father a hearty handshake. He’s shined his boots, and his cravat is fresh and white, crisp. When we saw him in the rain the other day I didn’t appreciate what a fine figure he cuts, what quiet power he exudes with his serious eyes and strong jaw. Not at all the kind of person I thought we would find out here in the country. He turns to me and gives a short bow, and I mumble something inconsequential.

  “I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered from your soaking the other day,” he says. His tone isn’t cold exactly, but it’s formal and doesn’t invite anything more than a polite reply.

  I hardly notice the dark-haired young man in the doorway until Mr. Barrett turns to him and takes him by the shoulder. “Where are my manners? This is my good friend August Pierce. August is a bachelor too and I hope you don’t mind, but I thought he could do with a good home-cooked meal as well.”

  “Of course, of course. Glad to meet you, Mr. Pierce.” Father pumps his hand, grateful for more men with whom he can talk business.

  “I hope I’m not being a terrible intruder,” Mr. Pierce says with a crooked smile. Catherine all but jumps at the chance to assure him that he is no such thing, relinquishing her position next to Mr. Barrett, which she had only just taken up. I catch Mother’s eye.

  With lank chestnut hair, full lips quirked at the corners and penetrating hazel eyes, he’s the antithesis of serious Mr. Barrett. He turns his smile to Catherine, and Mr. Barrett is forgotten completely. What a fool she is.

  I take up Catherine’s abandoned position. “Have you lived in New Oldbury long?” I ask Mr. Barrett just as Ada creeps in to announce dinner is ready.

  “I’m sorry?” He doesn’t catch what I was saying, and then everyone is moving into the dining room. Before I can repeat myself, Emeline runs up and takes his hand, leading him to sit next to her.

  Catherine slips into the seat on his other side, and an extra chair is brought for Mr. Pierce. I’m between him and Mother on the opposite side of the table, Father at the head. I might as well be in the next town over.

  “Mr. Pierce,” Father says, sawing away at his loin roast, “are you in the milling business too, then? I don’t believe I’ve heard your name mentioned in that circuit.”

  “I’m afraid not. Barrett here is the man with a mind for business,” he says. “I’m rather useless at the moment. I finished at Harvard last spring, and now I’m something of a boat without an anchor, drifting about looking for some occupation.”

  “I’ve been showing August the ropes at the mill, but I’m not sure it’s exciting enough for him,” Mr. Barrett says with a smile.

  They’re so comfortable together. I can’t help but be jealous of their companionship. It’s Mr. Pierce I’m jealous of, really, to be able to talk with Mr. Barrett like that. I imagine them together, sitting relaxed in an office, Pierce with his boots up on the desk, fiddling with a pen and recounting some funny story. John—I can call him John, it’s my castle in the air after all—standing by the window, running his hand absently through that thick wave of amber-gold hair as he cracks a smile.

  Mr. Pierce grins, lopsided and boyish. “Nonsense. If excitement was what I was after, I wouldn’t be in New Oldbury.”

  “And what did you study at Harvard, Mr. Pierce?” Catherine is still playing her ridiculous role of gentle lady, speaking with downcast lashes and a demure tone that is anything but natural for her.

  “Law. It’s the family business. My father passed away some years ago and my uncle runs the firm now. It only took me a month to know that it wasn’t for me. Too many documents and days spent in a stuffy office. Not for me,” he repeats with a wink in Catherine’s direction. “In any case, there wasn’t much to keep me in Boston. My mother is bedridden since a fever took the use of her legs some years ago.”

  If Mr. Pierce is from Boston I wonder that he hasn’t heard the rumors. But he’s good-humored and warm, and doesn’t seem to have any inkling that he’s seated among the most notorious family in Boston. Perhaps Harvard kept him too occupied to engage in gossip.

  Mother puts down her fork and tries to offer her sympathy, but he stops her with a casual wave of his knife. “Don’t fret on her account. Mother has thrown herself into the occupation of invalid with her characteristic vigor and dedication. She has the whole household on pins and needles. It quite suits her. So you see, when John mentioned he might show me the mill business, I jumped at the opportunity.”

  “Well,” Catherine says with a coquettish smile, “how lucky for us that you did.”

  Father, ever late to pick up on the social cues around him, is finally catching on to Catherine’s game. He colors slightly and hurries to steer the conversation to safer ground. Standing to pour more wine he adds, “Well, there’s value in a good lawyer, I would say.”

  Mr. Barrett raises his glass in a toast, graciously saying that the law has lost a fine son in August. Catherine hangs on their every word, laughing a little too loudly when someone makes a light remark, smiling a little too eagerly when Mr. Pierce’s hazel eyes flicker in her direction.

  Emeline, who had begged Mother not to make her eat with Ada in the kitchen tonight, looks as if she’s regretting winning that fight. Her eyes are heavy and she’s in danger of falling asleep in her plate. I give her a nudge under the table and she jerks back up.

  “I think we’ll start seeing more mills sprouting up along the river now that the power looms have proved such a success in Waltham,” Mr. Barrett says. He cuts his meat briskly into even pieces. “As we speak, Chelmsford is expanding and breaking ground on a new venture. I see no reason why New Oldbury shouldn’t be any different. We have the unique advantage of a river unspoiled by nearby cities after all.”

 
; Father leans back in his chair, hands resting comfortably on his paunch. “Do you see?” he asks of no one in particular. “That war with the Brits had some benefits. They blocked up our coast and inhibited the cotton trade, so by God we got to work and made our own cotton. Necessity is the mother of all invention, and nothing breeds necessity like the trials of war. It’s bright young minds like Barrett’s here that are going to ensure we continue industrialization and become a power to be reckoned with.”

  Mr. Barrett colors slightly, but reaches for his wineglass and raises a brow in acknowledgment of Father’s words. Otherwise the praise rolls off his back.

  “Hear, hear,” agrees Mr. Pierce.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Father says, plowing on. “We’re going to have to buy out some of those farmers with parcels that abut the river. Take Ezra Clarke for example. He’s got the fastest cut of river running through his land, and he’s squandering it, letting that sickly handful of cattle nibble away at the field. A man ought to put his land to best use or give it up, that’s what I think.”

  Mr. Barrett makes a polite noise of demurral, but adds nothing else.

  I think of the dilapidated mill where we met Mr. Barrett, and seize my opportunity to join in the conversation, grasping at the only thing I know about him. “Is that why your father’s mill isn’t active any longer? He started fresh with the new technology and built the new mill upriver?”

  Mr. Barrett pauses, his wineglass half raised to his lips. His face darkens. “No,” he says shortly. “My father went bankrupt, and the wool mill was forced to close.”

  Catherine shoots me daggers, and Mother gives me a warning look. Undeterred, I blunder on. “Well,” I say, “he’s lucky to have a son who knows so much about the cotton industry. I daresay he must be happy with your new venture.”

  An unmistakable tension thickens the air and I realize I’ve somehow misstepped, said the wrong thing. Father is boiling up the color of lobster and Mr. Pierce opens his mouth to say something, but Mr. Barrett quickly silences them both.

  “My father is dead, Miss Montrose,” he says without meeting my eye. “I’d like to think the advancements I’ve put in place would have made him proud though.”

  “I’m sure they would,” coos Catherine. She says something about how he must take us on a tour of the mill sometime, and then moves the conversation to the subject of printed cotton in fashion this year. I don’t hear what they say as I push my food around on my plate. Mr. Barrett is equally silent. The rest of dinner drags on for an eternity, and I can’t even begrudge Catherine her winning the night; after all, she saved me from further embarrassment.

  * * *

  After dinner, we retire to the parlor where Ada brings in coffee and little bowls of frothy syllabub, Emeline’s favorite dessert. It’s so unbearably hot, and it’s all I can do to sit still without wiping at my brow constantly. Even Emeline, usually full of energy, is subdued, hanging over the arm of her chair, looking as if she’s about to melt away into the carpet.

  Myself, I try to disappear into the corner. Everyone seems to have overlooked, or at least forgotten, my blunder at dinner. I’m making too much out of it. How was I to know that his father was dead? I couldn’t have, yet my stomach is still in knots over the way his eyes clouded when I mentioned his father, the change that passed over his face. I wish I could take it back, not for me, but to save him from any heartache and discomfort.

  Catherine brushes by me and whispers, “His mother is dead too, you ought to know. Mr. Pierce told me.”

  I start to say something but clamp my mouth back shut. What’s the use? I sit in penitent silence as Catherine takes up with Mr. Pierce across the room. My coffee grows tepid and undrinkable. When I look up I find that Mr. Barrett’s studying me out of the corner of his eye. I color and quickly look away. He must be wondering what to make of me, how one sister can be so charming and polite, and the other such an utter dolt.

  “It’s too hot for coffee,” Emeline announces suddenly, even though she’s not allowed to have a sip of the beverage. “It’s too hot for dresses and shoes and hair and fingernails. It’s too hot for stockings and feathers and fur.”

  Mr. Barrett and Father break off their conversation, and silence falls over the parlor. Mother shoots our guests an apologetic look and then a pleading one at Emeline. “I’m so sorry. It’s past her bedtime and she’s getting tired.”

  But Emeline isn’t done. She’s goes over to Mr. Barrett and looks up at him. “It’s too hot,” she repeats. “And I’m not tired at all. There’s a pond behind the house, did you know? I want to go to the pond and see the mermaids.”

  I should take her upstairs to bed, but I don’t move. Mr. Barrett is looking down at her with a queer expression, a crease between his brows. She takes his hand in hers. His aren’t tapered and elegant like Cyrus’s; Mr. Barrett’s hands are capable, strong, and Emeline’s hand completely disappears in his. “Please, let’s go to the pond where it’s cool and we can swim with the mermaids. I want to go play with the little boy at the pond.”

  “What little boy? What on earth are you talking about, Emmy?” But Emeline ignores Mother’s question and her lip begins to tremble when it becomes clear that she isn’t going to get her way.

  By this time even Catherine and Mr. Pierce have paused in their giggles and whispers and both are staring. Crimson spreads over Catherine’s face. “Really, Emeline. Leave poor Mr. Barrett alone.”

  Mother gets up slowly, and I can tell she doesn’t have the energy for this. “It’s dark out, Emmy. And Mr. Pierce and Mr. Barrett have business to discuss with your father.” She reaches out to take her hand, but Emeline dives out of her grasp.

  I’m mortified. I understand Emeline, but Mr. Barrett will never return to our house if she behaves like this. I try to catch her attention, but she misses the cautioning look.

  “I don’t want to go to bed!” I’ve never seen Emeline in such a pout before. She must be tired beyond reason, and the heat certainly isn’t helping. Hands clenched at her sides, she looks as if she’s on the verge of bursting into tears. But instead she just stomps her little foot.

  But just as her foot comes down on the carpet, the doors slam shut with a great bang.

  Mother jumps, Catherine lets out a little cry and Father’s eyebrows look as if they are about to fly off his face. The room goes silent, the only movement the residual wobbling of a vase on the table.

  We all look at each other. Even Emeline looks surprised, because if we didn’t know better, it was almost as if she caused the doors to fly shut with her foot.

  Father is the first to speak. He clears his throat and glances around. “Must be the wind,” he mumbles. “You think you have a house built new and it wouldn’t be full of drafts and loose doors, but I suppose there’s no such thing as peace of mind in New England construction.”

  Mother is quick to agree with him, and Mr. Pierce gives a dubious nod. But we all know that there was no breeze, that it’s been so still that a feather would have hardly quivered, let alone two doors slamming. No one wants to say so though at the risk of frightening Emeline.

  Then, without warning, Mr. Barrett goes to Emeline and, dropping to his knee, puts his hands on her shoulders. He peers at her curiously, and when he speaks, it’s slow and gentle, so soft that I have to strain to hear him. “Your mother’s right, Miss Montrose. It’s late and I’m sure that it’s almost my bedtime as well. But perhaps you’ll be so kind to invite August and myself back soon, and then we could have the pleasure of being escorted around the grounds by yourself. And your sisters,” he adds, glancing at me. His blue-green eyes still hold a note of sadness, but there’s no trace of anger or bitterness. With Emeline’s outburst, my blunder must have been forgotten, or at the very least, forgiven.

  I catch my breath. Emeline looks unsure, her bottom lip trembling. But ultimately she nods, even going so far as to brush his ch
eek with a kiss. He gives her a faint smile in return before standing and passing her off to Mother, who ushers her out of the parlor to Ada.

  Despite Father’s assurance that it must have been the breeze, an uncomfortable pall hangs over the rest of the evening. There are a few false starts in conversation as we struggle to fill the void, but it’s eventually Father, who has looked exceedingly uncomfortable throughout this whole exchange, who picks up the conversation with Mr. Barrett again as if nothing happened. He has found a great friend in Mr. Barrett, who can rattle off figures and calculate the profit in a spool of wool or a cord of lumber just as easily as he. They’re engrossed in a debate about the merits of some new kind of waterwheel, so neither notices the very friendly tête-à-tête that has resumed in the corner.

  The lamplight illuminates Catherine’s hair, giving her something of a halo. She’s laughing behind her hand, eyes sparkling. She hangs on Mr. Pierce’s every word as if he’s the most interesting person she’s ever met. I suppose it doesn’t matter if it’s Mr. Barrett or Mr. Pierce that’s paying her attention, so long as someone is.

  And August Pierce is very handsome, I’ll give Catherine that. He must know he is too, judging by the way he’s always smiling, almost smirking, at nothing in particular. I doubt he takes anything very seriously in life, including himself.

  I’m not the only one watching Catherine. Mother is feigning interest in her syllabub, pushing it around with her spoon, but I see her studying her eldest daughter. Why doesn’t she say something? Catherine’s behavior is bordering on the improper, and the last thing we need is more fuel for rumors and gossip. But then Mother catches my eye. I’ve never seen that expression on her before, one of trepidation, cautious optimism and, most of all, relief. Then it dawns on me: Mother thinks that perhaps Catherine might be married after all.

  And if Catherine could be married, then I could as well.