by Hester Fox
6
IT MIGHT BE the heat, or that I can’t get the image of Mr. Barrett’s sad eyes gazing at me unstuck from my head, but I can’t sleep that night. When I can’t stand the scratchy feel of my eyelids anymore or the sheets sticking to the backs of my thighs, I get up from bed and pour myself a glass of water from the ewer in the corner. Opening the window, I slowly drink my water, hoping for a scrap of a breeze blowing in from the yard. But the night is still and unyielding.
I’m just about to turn from the window and go back to bed, when a movement in the yard below catches the corner of my eye.
At first it looks like a bird taking wing into the night, a pale splash of movement. But when I look harder I see that’s not a bird, but a person. A woman. I’m still drowsy, so it doesn’t seem so ridiculous that perhaps it’s Ada out in the garden, though doing what I can’t imagine. But then the clock in the hall strikes three. What on earth would she be doing out there at this time of the morning?
I put down my glass and press myself against the edge of the window frame, peering out from the side so that I can’t be seen from below. Maybe it’s a vagrant, hungry and in search of food. But the garden is barren, and they’ll find no food there. Or perhaps it’s someone with more sinister motives, here to rob us.
But the woman seems no more interested in the house than the contents of the garden. She’s wearing a billowy, pale dress, which floats about her as she slowly moves one way, then turns and moves the next. Up and down the length of the garden she goes, but every time she turns, it’s with her face away from me so that I can’t tell if she’s young or old, a stranger or someone I might know.
The longer I study her, standing there with a hand curled around the windowsill, the more something doesn’t seem right about the way she’s moving. It takes me a few more moments to place it, and when I do, I catch my breath.
She’s gliding.
She moves as if she were walking on air. It’s not a natural movement, and my skin prickles. The shopkeeper’s sensational warning about ghosts suddenly doesn’t seem so silly or impossible.
I watch her another few moments, holding my breath. That’s all she does, glides back and forth, back and forth, the pale silk of her dress billowing out behind her despite the lack of breeze.
My legs are jelly and my heart pounding, but I won’t be able to go back to bed and sleep a wink so long as I know she’s out there. I have to go out and set my mind at ease.
Silently, I tiptoe through the house and to the back door. I take a deep breath before pushing the door open. Tentatively, I step outside and peer into the thick night air.
There’s nothing there. The garden, just visible in the moonlight, with its thirsty shrubs and prickly flower stalks sits benignly in the yard, returning my vacant stare in equal measure. But there’s no woman.
My knees go weak with relief and I have to brace myself against the door. I could laugh. It was someone snooping about, and they heard me coming and fled. In the morning I’ll have to let Joe know that we might need a guard dog, or at the very least, a fence. I go back upstairs, climb into my bed and, with a body made weary with relief, drift off to sleep.
* * *
I don’t know who’s more excited to hear Mr. Barrett’s light knock at the door the next day. Snip howls in delight and skids through the hall, circling Ada’s heels as she tries to open the door, Emeline trotting close behind with her half-braided hair falling out of its ribbon.
Catherine lays aside the limp roses and lilies she’s been arranging and passes a light hand over her curls. Sitting up a little straighter, I put my book down. I wish Mother had asked me to do the flowers. I always make a mess of them, but at least it would be me looking flushed and pretty when Mr. Barrett is shown in, a white rose stem in my hand. As it is, I’m bone tired from my bad dream last night. Because that’s what it was, I’ve decided—a dream. Somewhere in that hazy margin between sleep and wakefulness, I must have thought I saw something. In the light of day and now that Mr. Barrett is here, it all seems faraway and unimportant.
He’s not hugely tall, but when Mr. Barrett walks in it feels as if the walls and ceiling fall away around him. He fills the room with his quiet force, as electrifying and still as the moment before a storm breaks. Even Snip feels it, for he stops his nervous circling and sits patiently beside Mr. Barrett’s leg, looking up and waiting to be petted.
Emeline is already prattling on about the pond and mermaids and even faeries, which are a new interest. He nods down at her politely, not saying anything.
“Emeline, for goodness sake, take a breath. Didn’t Mother ask you to help her with the blackberries in the kitchen?”
This morning I had wanted to talk to Emeline about her tantrum the night before with the slamming doors, but when it came down to it I couldn’t figure out what I was trying to say. So I settled with, “Emeline, have you been feeling quite all right lately? You like it here?”
She had looked at me as if I was asking her if the sky was blue. “Yes. I love it here, don’t you?”
I had agreed that I did, and let the subject drop. No one else has brought it up, and so even though it makes me feel uneasy every time I think of the doors slamming shut in unison with her stomping foot, I’ve pushed it to the back of my mind. Like my bad dream, it melts away in my excitement to see Mr. Barrett.
But now, at the prospect of being sent away from Mr. Barrett, Emeline pouts, looking like she might break into tears, and that’s when I realize that all of us Montrose girls are smitten with John Barrett. For a moment I’m even afraid that we might have a repeat of the other night. But the tears hold, and she shoots Catherine a reproachful look before dragging her feet back out of the parlor. Usually I would tell Catherine not to talk to her like that, except Mr. Barrett is right there, and I’m inwardly grateful that Emeline can’t monopolize his attention now.
“I’m sorry to barge in here like this,” Mr. Barrett says, “but I had a meeting with your father and it seems he’s not quite ready for me yet.”
“Oh, you aren’t barging—”
“Mr. Barrett, you are doing no such thing.” Catherine sweeps to her feet and links her arm in his. “Please, sit down and do us the favor of entertaining us while you wait.”
As he obediently seats himself Catherine arches a triumphant brow at me. The battle lines have been drawn. Let her play her game. And that’s all it is to her. She can’t possibly be interested in Mr. Barrett, not seriously. Not after the way she dropped him like a hot coal last night when she saw Mr. Pierce.
They chat a little, Catherine commenting on the weather and Mr. Barrett agreeing that the heat has been unbearable lately. If he’s suffering he doesn’t look it; his collar is crisp and his clothes pristine. I feel rumpled and stale in my dress, the straggling hair at my neck damp and unpleasant. A couple of times he directs a comment in my direction, but Catherine is quick, reeling him back in to her with a little laugh or foolish question. I arrange my book in my lap so that I can sneak a few sentences at a time; if I’m not to be included in their conversation then what’s the harm in doing a little reading?
“Miss Montrose?”
When I look up, Mr. Barrett is crouching beside my chair and I nearly drop my book in surprise. I hadn’t meant to get lost in the story and lose track of time. I dart a glance at Catherine who is scowling, but also making a great show of drawing her needle in long pulls through her embroidery.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “That must be quite the book.”
“Oh, yes.” I don’t know where to look. Certainly not directly in his eyes because then I wouldn’t be able to think straight.
Unperturbed by my ghastly manners, Mr. Barrett tips his head to see the title. “The Monk.”
The book is well-worn with little slivers of paper marking some of my favorite passages, and the spine is as creased as a bellows. “Yes,
” I say again, even though he wasn’t asking anything.
“I’m not familiar with it.”
A loud sigh escapes Catherine from the other side of the room.
“You’ve really never heard of it?”
“I confess I haven’t,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “Will you enlighten me?”
There’s a warmth in his eyes that I haven’t seen before, bolstering my confidence, and I’m relieved to have the opportunity to smooth over my careless comments from dinner last night. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m giving him a detailed summary in a breathless rush, going back when I forget certain parts, and miming the best scenes. When I finally realize how long I’ve been talking I clamp my mouth shut, the blood rushing to my face.
I think he’s going to laugh—I’m certain I heard Catherine snickering once or twice—and my cheeks burn as I study the gilded cover. But when Mr. Barrett speaks there’s no hint of ridicule in his voice, and to his credit he looks only slightly overwhelmed.
“Well,” he says at last, “I can see why it has so captured your attention.”
I want to insist that he borrow it. How it would thrill me to know that his eyes passed over the same lines of text as me, to know that his soul is stirred as mine is by the passionate love of Alphonso and Agnes.
“Are you a reader, Mr. Barrett?”
“I’m confess I’m not much for books,” he says.
Catherine seizes her chance. “Of course not, you’re much too busy running the mill, I expect.”
“Business does have a large claim on my time, yes.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed that I’ve lost a chance to make a connection with him, my imaginings of shared stories quickly destroyed. “Of course.”
“In my spare time I do rather enjoy birds though,” he adds.
“Ah,” says Catherine, pleased. “You shoot then.”
“I enjoy the study of birds, I mean.” He turns his attention back to me. “I’m afraid most of the books you would find in my library would be on that subject.”
A naturalist at heart! And I’ve just had the nerve to think him a bore. We could take walks through the woods, Mr. Barrett guiding Emmy and me, pointing out the different songbirds of New Oldbury. Emeline would love that. Afterward he would take us back to his house, spreading out his volumes of richly illustrated books, quizzing Emmy on the birds we’d just seen. He would smile at me over her head while she puzzled out the answers, a secret smile just between him and me.
“I think,” he says, his voice low, hesitant, “I think that, Miss Montrose, you are something of a lover of nature too? I seem to recall you mentioning the day we met that you enjoyed a good stroll through the woods.”
It’s the first time he’s referenced that day, and I can’t believe he remembered so small a detail that I had all but forgotten myself. My heart beats faster as I think of the way he smiled at me then, an unguarded, genuine smile. Perhaps he isn’t so disgusted with our family. Perhaps there’s a chance he’ll smile at me again like that.
But before I can say anything, Father wanders into the room, spectacles jammed up to his eyes, a stack of ledgers in his arms.
“Ah, John, my boy. Forgive me for keeping you waiting.” He looks up long enough to glance at Catherine and then me. “I hope my daughters weren’t being a bother.”
Mr. Barrett unfolds himself and stands up, disturbing the air next to me with his clean scent of soap and something deeper, something woodsy. “No. On the contrary, I was intruding upon their time and they graciously thought to keep me occupied.”
Father doesn’t look convinced, narrowing his eyes at my burning cheeks, but business is calling and he hasn’t the fortitude to get involved in our womanly affairs.
Before Mr. Barrett disappears through the door, he turns and gives us a nod. Father would have to be blind not to see the way Catherine looks at Mr. Barrett now. “Thank you, ladies, and again, I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.”
I’m too flustered to say anything, but Catherine has no problem assuring him again that it wasn’t the case. She gives him a breezy smile, and as he turns to leave, that’s when I see it. I don’t know why a sour lump in my throat rises, or why I suddenly want to flee the room, but when I see the single white rose bloom tucked into his buttonhole, I feel sick.
* * *
“I hate baths.”
Emeline is standing wrapped in a towel, glaring at the tub that Ada has filled with steaming water. She’s still mad at me about being sent away this morning when Mr. Barrett was here.
“I know you do,” I say, “but you’re filthy and haven’t had a proper bath in too long.” The longer she stalls, the cooler it will become, and by the time it’s my turn I’ll be bathing in tepid water.
Emeline is unmoved, refusing even to look at the tub.
“You can pretend you’re a mermaid,” I offer, my voice rising in desperation.
She considers this, and, finding it acceptable, puts out her hand so that I may help her in. She’s just settling into the water and complaining that it’s too hot when Catherine pauses at the doorway to frown in at us.
I’ve successfully avoided Catherine since Mr. Barrett left, unable to look her in the eye after her triumph. But as the day has worn on, the effort at being mad at her has become too much, and I’m willing to extend an olive branch. “Do you want a bath? If you go change, you can go after me.” Good graces or not, I’m not giving up position as second in line for the hot water.
Catherine crosses her arms. “I’m not sharing water with you two. If I want a bath I’ll have Ada draw one for me later.”
I give her a dubious look. With this unbearably hot and humid weather, we would all benefit from a bath, her included. Catherine is usually the first among us to whine that Mother doesn’t let us have enough water for hot baths, and demand that a tub be filled whenever the whim strikes her.
“You’d make Ada heat more water and carry it all the way upstairs again? Don’t be silly, just wait a few minutes and have one now.”
Something like fear flickers across Catherine’s face. But in the time it takes me to blink, she’s scowling again, and turning on her heel back to her room.
I don’t have the energy or the inclination to persuade her, so after Emeline is done with her bath and tucked upstairs in bed, I slip into the tub and luxuriate, taking as much time as I want.
I close my eyes, letting the warm water loosen my knotted muscles and wash away my tension from the past few days.
But just as my shoulders are starting to sink beneath the surface, the air around me turns frigid. I shiver, my teeth chattering despite the warm bath. The lamp gutters as a gusty breeze kicks through the window.
Cursing the sudden change in the weather, I hoist myself out of the tub and reach for the towel I left draped on my vanity. That’s when I see it.
My heart stops in my chest and my arms break into gooseflesh.
“Catherine?” I yell over my shoulder, unable to tear my gaze from the mirror on my vanity. “Catherine, get in here!”
Catherine appears in the doorway, brow puckered and lips in a pout. “What do you want? You can’t just call me from across the house like a dog and—”
I don’t let her finish. “Did you do this?” My voice is shaking.
She heaves a sigh, but comes into the room and looks around. “Did I do what? What are you talking about?”
I gesture to the mirror, my throat too narrow to choke out even a word.
Catherine cranes her neck past me to see the mirror and gives an impatient huff. “Is this some sort of game? Don’t you think I have better things to do than drop everything and come look at your mirror for some whim of yours?”
Angry, I spin around and point at the mirror, ready to chastise Catherine for being willfully obtuse. But I drop my hand. The words that were
just there, written as clear as day in the steam, are gone.
My mouth opens and closes, unable to produce any words while my mind sluggishly works to comprehend what I’m seeing. Then, “No! I don’t understand. I... There was writing on the fog on the mirror. It was just here...”
Catherine flicks her glance to the tub. “The water isn’t even steaming...how on earth could the mirror be fogged?” She shakes her head. “You need to get some sleep. You’re seeing things.”
But I know what I saw. The only thing I don’t know is what it meant.
With one last suspicious look at me, Catherine leaves me dripping there, the image of the fogged words burned into my mind.
You attract them. Some mean you harm. Prepare for what lies ahead.
7
MY HANDS ARE stained and scratched, my back aching, but when I stand to stretch from weeding I feel better than I have in a long time about our new life in the middle of nowhere. The garden at Willow Hall is small, a scorched vegetable patch that hasn’t yielded much except a handful of misshapen tomatoes and some resilient squashes, but I’m determined to see it productive and beautiful. I wonder if my dream about the pale lady the other night wasn’t my mind’s way of telling me that I ought to pay more attention to the garden. I haven’t dared breathe a word about it to Emeline because I don’t want to scare her, or to Catherine because she would just laugh at me. It’s bad enough that Catherine saw me flustered and in a panic about the words in the mirror. The more I thought about it as I lay in bed last night, the more I’m convinced that, like the pale lady who has not reappeared, the words were nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Otherwise, how do I explain it?
Our flower garden with the lilacs used to be Mother’s pride and joy, but here she hasn’t shown any interest in the plot behind the house. When I told her I wanted to clean it up and start an herb garden—something she had forbidden in Boston—she had looked pained and told me she didn’t think it was a good idea, but in the end, she had not fought it.