The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath, but I let it out now as he snatches his hat up. He stalks to the door, turning around and thrusting an accusing finger in my direction. “You’re a fool, Lydia. As if I would want anything to do with you or your sick family.” His look drips with contempt, but there’s a break in his voice, and I know that for the right price, he would change his tone in a heartbeat.

  * * *

  I can’t sleep that night. If I fall asleep the bad dreams will come again. Even when I’m awake there are footsteps, cold stares from invisible eyes, figures in the woods and in the garden. I’ve even hung a linen over the mirror, lest new words appear and stare back at me. I kick off the blankets and turn over trying to find a comfortable position, but no matter what I do my dry eyelids won’t stay shut. My skin is still crawling from where Cyrus touched me, and I can’t get his words out of my head. What other chances do you think you’ll have?

  I punch my pillow down to make it fluffier, but punching it feels good so I do it a few more times. I imagine that it’s Cyrus’s smug face, his aquiline nose crooked and bloody. Shameless little opportunist. But suddenly the dark hair shifts to amber, the sharp chin broadens and the face becomes John Barrett, his melancholy, clear eyes looking at me from beneath gold lashes. I stop my fist in the air and slump back. Unlike Cyrus, he’s a good person. I saw it in the way he spoke to Emeline as if she were an adult, his equal. I saw it when he crouched down beside me and took an interest in what I was reading, even though Catherine was right there, watching him. But most of all, it’s just a feeling I get, a warmth he exudes despite his serious, sad demeanor. And if he notices Catherine’s beauty and sparkle, well, I can hardly fault him for that, can I?

  When sleep finally comes, it’s hot and fitful. I drift between shallow dreams. An owl’s echoing question hangs on the night air. The footsteps and laughter of a child. Not Emeline’s carefree laugh, but that of a boy. The way Tommy Bishop used to laugh when he was pulling the wings off flies, mirthless and unsettling. I’m running, the laughter inescapable, following me at every turn. A chorus of You attract them! Are you ready? Prepare! Prepare! rings out. And then the willow from the pond comes, with its rustle of papery leaves, growing and growing until it’s a hurricane of swirling branches grabbing at me, pulling me down. I have no choice but to succumb to the blackness of its deafening roar.

  10

  “WHAT’S THE POINT of having a ballroom if we never use it?”

  Catherine is sprawled on the settee in dramatic repose, studying a chipped fingernail with a frown. I watch her from over the top of my book as I try to read. Emeline is cutting paper dolls out on the floor, and is still refusing to talk to me after the other day when I reprimanded her in front of Cyrus.

  “We’ve been here long enough now and people will be expecting some sort of formal introduction.”

  Emeline perks up. “A ball? Really? Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to a ball!”

  My mouth goes dry. A ball would mean opening up our home to strangers, opening ourselves up to their curious eyes and all their gossip. Mother will be too tired, too ambivalent to carry it off, and Father will think it a frivolous waste of time. Which means that it would fall to Catherine to plan, and me to help her. “You can’t be serious.”

  Catherine scowls at me. “Oh, yes I am. I think I’ll ask Mother.”

  “Cath, don’t. You know she doesn’t want to entertain and we’re barely settled as it is, never mind inviting dozens of people to tramp through the place.”

  “Mother isn’t some fragile bird to be kept cooped up.” She gives me a pitying look as if I had never even considered what was best for our mother. “A ball would be just the thing to keep her spirits up, give her something to be excited about.”

  A ball would also mean Cyrus, who presumably is still lurking about New Oldbury on his father’s behalf, would no doubt come. He might have given up in his half-hearted pursuit of my hand, but I doubt he would give up so easily on his father’s business interests and recouping his family’s fortune the honest way; a ball at Willow Hall would be too tempting with all its local businessmen in attendance.

  Catherine’s expression is one of carefully studied boredom, a favorite she uses to antagonize me. “If you weren’t so selfish you would see that it would be doing Mother a favor.”

  I scramble to reason with her, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. “You said it yourself, the first night we were here...we could hold all the balls we wanted and no one would come! Don’t you think people already know who we are here? Don’t you think it would just be drawing more attention to ourselves?”

  “That was before we met Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce,” she counters. “There might not be much polite society in New Oldbury, but what little there is we have a duty to keep up with.”

  “I thought you said this was for Mother’s benefit. Which is it, for Mother, or for keeping up with society?”

  “As if there can’t be more than one reason why it’s a good idea!”

  Emeline watches us volley insults and arguments. I know I should stop; more than likely Catherine will lose interest and forget about her scheme in a few days. But I’m hot and irritable after my poor night’s sleep, and the prospect of formally entertaining has me on edge. “And there are more reasons why it’s a bad idea!”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of being such a bore?”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of all your pompous conceit?”

  She’s losing her patience. Pushing herself up from her seat, Catherine crosses her arms and stares daggers at me. “Well if we just sit in this house like a bunch of invalids, afraid to step foot outside, then I’ll die of boredom.”

  “I wish you would!”

  No sooner so my words slip out than I regret them with a biting intensity. I cut too hard and too deep. “Cath, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

  Before I can apologize, Catherine shoots me a barbed look and slips out of the room.

  * * *

  As soon as Catherine leaves, Mother comes in with her basket and seats herself by the window, so it’s some time before I can escape upstairs to follow her.

  I pause in the hall outside Catherine’s room and tap at the door. “Catherine?”

  When there’s no answer, I gently turn the knob and open the door a crack. The curtains are drawn. Catherine is lying on her side in her shift, the silhouette of her body softened by the evening glow. She could be sleeping, but then I see the uneven rise and fall of her shoulders. A muffled sound comes from the depths of her pillows.

  I shouldn’t be here. Quietly, I close the door, hoping that she doesn’t hear the click of the latch. I’ve never seen Catherine cry before and it strikes me that I don’t know how to be a good sister to anyone besides Emeline.

  * * *

  Breakfast the next day is a subdued affair, even for us. Mother is tired and withdrawn, and Father hasn’t made his appearance yet. I slip into my chair and help myself to a plate of eggs and bacon, which promptly grows cold in front of me. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep well last night again.

  Catherine watches with disinterest. She doesn’t look much better, her face puffy and green. A piece of cold toast lies untouched on her plate. We haven’t spoken since our fight, and I get the impression that she’s feeling just as bad as me.

  Emeline is oblivious to the tension, playing with paper dolls in her lap, making them ask each other to dance and then tossing them up in the air and watching them flutter back down. She hasn’t stopped talking about dances and balls since yesterday, trailing behind me everywhere I go, listing off all the dresses she would wear and the dance steps she would debut in our ballroom.

  Just as I’m pondering how I might make amends with Catherine, Father barrels through the door in a search of some breakfast to take back to his study. He drops a distracted kiss on the top of Mother’s head before
taking a plate and piling it with toast and bacon.

  “I’ll be late at the mill today,” he says, surprising exactly nobody. “That Ezra Clarke still won’t be reasonable about the price for his land. Barrett suggested a town meeting where we can address his concerns and hopefully get some more of the townspeople on our side, but of course the church is still undergoing repairs from all the water damage.” He adds an angry spoonful of eggs to his plate with a grunt. “I want this deal done soon,” he says more to himself than to us.

  It comes to me in a flash. I clear my throat delicately, putting aside my plate. “Why don’t we hold it here, in the ballroom?”

  Father looks up sharply, glancing between Mother and me like he accidentally wandered into the wrong room with the wrong family in it. He opens his mouth but before he can say anything I hurry on.

  “It’s criminal that we have such a beautiful ballroom and never use it.” Looking at his blank face I realize I need to appeal to his business sense, so I add, “And the sooner the meeting is held, the sooner the mill can be built and that’s good for business, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but...” Father absently stuffs a piece of toast into his mouth and chews slowly. He’s still standing by the sideboard, plate in hand. When he swallows he looks thoughtful. “It’s not a terrible idea.”

  I steal a sidelong look at Catherine who is staring listlessly off into space. “And afterward there could be refreshments and maybe even dancing.”

  Mother stares at me, mouth ajar as the egg slides off her knife. Catherine looks up sharply to see if I’m joking. I plunge on.

  “Isn’t that the way these country functions usually go? There’s always cider and entertainment afterward. All the townspeople will come to hear what you have to say if they know there will be dancing. Besides, it will give us something to look forward to.”

  This last point is a lie. I will dread this meeting and all the small talk and dancing and smiling faces that go along with it, but I know that Catherine will not, and I owe it to her to at least try to be a good sister; otherwise, I have no one to blame but myself for our relationship. It won’t be as formal as a ball, but it will be a compromise, something Mother can handle, and, God willing, me as well.

  Emeline’s gaze darts between Father, Mother and me, her eyes shining with hope. At the very least, I can take comfort in the fact that I’ll be making Emeline happy.

  Father turns to Mother. “What do you say, Martha? Do you think you can shine up the ballroom and act the hostess?”

  “Yes, of course,” she says without enthusiasm. “We should hold the meeting here.”

  “Excellent.” Father licks some jam off his finger and gathers up his newspaper. “I’ll leave you ladies to the planning then.”

  By now, Catherine is sitting up straight, face bright and eyes shining. “I’ll plan it all,” she quickly offers. “You won’t need to lift a finger, Mother. We’ll have to invite Mr. Pierce. And of course Mr. Barrett will be coming,” she adds, catching my eye.

  My body tightens. Of course Mr. Barrett will come. I hadn’t even considered that when I was hatching my plan to make amends with Catherine. Just his name makes my heart pump harder. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of the way our hands touched at the pond at least several times a day, the jolt of warmth we shared playing over and over again in my mind. But what could I possibly say to him?

  Emeline is practically vibrating out of her seat. “A ball! Here!” she squeals as she pushes her chair from the table, too excited to sit a moment longer.

  I give her a weak smile, my thoughts racing. And what about Cyrus? In a small town like this, he’s bound to catch wind of the meeting and invite himself. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. What was I thinking?

  “Are you all right?” Catherine stands up, pushing in her chair. “You went as pale as a sheet.”

  “Yes,” I say, with forced cheeriness. I muster up a smile for her, but she’s already tripping out of the room, humming a little tune under her breath.

  11

  “MOTHER, WHAT ON earth are you doing?”

  I find her in the ballroom on hands and knees, scrubbing away at the shiny hardwood floor. Despite Catherine’s pledge to take care of all the preparations, the past two weeks have seen Mother in a flurry of activity, doing everything from beating out already clean carpets to polishing silver while Ada helplessly looks on.

  She doesn’t look up. “We can’t have a filthy house when everyone arrives tonight. Everything must be clean.”

  The ballroom is pristine. I crouch beside Mother, putting a light hand on her shoulder. She gives me a quick, anxious glance, but doesn’t stop what she’s doing. With a sigh, I stand back up. “Where’s Catherine?”

  Mother’s face darkens. “In her room, trying on gowns.”

  I watch her narrow back, stretching and shrinking as she throws herself into the long, jerking motion of the rag. What happened to my rosy mother who used to sing while she floated around the house, always so quick to smile, so generous with her kisses?

  “Please don’t strain yourself,” I say uselessly to her back.

  My footsteps and Mother’s scrubbing fill the echoing space. I try to imagine it filled instead with dancing, sweaty bodies tonight and my stomach plummets at the thought. Devoid of any furniture save the pianoforte and some chairs, I’ve rarely found reason to come up to this room before. Mother occasionally uses it for a large quilting project, and more than once we’ve had to make Emeline stop playing boisterous games of chase with Snip. Other than that it’s a sad room. I can’t imagine it ever being one of grandeur.

  I’m turning to leave when Mother’s voice stops me. “We’re expecting nearly forty guests,” she says without pausing in her scrubbing. “I don’t want Emeline getting underfoot or causing a scene like...” She trails off, but I know she’s thinking of the night in the parlor with the slamming doors. “Besides, the dancing won’t start ’til well after her bedtime.”

  “But she’s been looking forward to this for weeks,” I tell her. “She’ll be crestfallen.”

  “She can watch the guests arrive, but then it’s into bed for her.”

  I’m ready to argue with her, but she’s wound tight as a coil, and with Mr. Barrett and even maybe even Cyrus coming, perhaps it is for the best if Emeline isn’t there.

  With a sigh, I leave Mother to her cleaning, hoping that she’ll stop before exhaustion takes over. I make sure I knock extra loudly on Catherine’s door before entering.

  “Oh, Ada, thank goodness. I—” Catherine stops when she sees me. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  She hesitates a moment and then pulls me into the room. “I needed Ada to help with my laces, but I suppose you can do it.”

  “What an honor.”

  Catherine gives me a cool look but turns around all the same and lifts her long hair out of the way. I tug at the laces and she winces.

  “Do you want them tight or not?”

  “I do,” she whines. “Just don’t be such a beast about it.”

  When I’m done I sit on the bed and watch her ease into her dress. Despite the tight laces she struggles to get it on, and she’s in peril of spilling out the top again. I don’t say anything but she gives me a sidelong glance and huffs. “It’s the food here. Ada has gotten in the habit of cooking like a country housewife. All that lard and beef.”

  I don’t point out that the rest of us haven’t suffered for Ada’s cooking. Our relationship is a strained bridge, both of us making an effort, but one careless word and the whole thing will crumble down.

  “Have you picked out what you’re going to wear?” she asks me without turning around.

  “I was going to wear the white one.”

  She turns, looking at me blankly. “Which white one?”

  My wardrobe is a rainbow of dress
es with shades starting at ivory and ending with beige. “I don’t know...it has the darts in the bodice and the little lacy things at the sleeves and hem.”

  “You’re hopeless, but I know which one you’re talking about. Good choice,” she adds grudgingly.

  We lull into silence as she tries on more dresses, a mountain of silk and calico growing on the bed. I wonder if Mr. Barrett will come, and if he does, what he will wear. Even though he’s not interested in me, I can’t help the mounting sense of excitement as the hour for the dance draws near.

  Catherine clears her throat and I snap out of my thoughts. “What?”

  “I asked you to pass me those pins over there.”

  I follow her pointing finger and hand her the jar full of pearl pins.

  “I’ll help you do something with that hopeless hair of yours, if you want.” She gives a practiced flick of her wrist, jabbing a pin into her tight swirl of curls.

  I don’t really want or need her help. I don’t care how I look tonight since I’ll just be watching from the side. I can’t imagine anyone will ask me to dance. But she’s watching me impatiently from the mirror and it’s not worth a fight. I give in and let her dress me up and fuss me until I pass for decent in her book.

  “You want to look nice for Mr. Barrett, don’t you?” she demands with a small smile as she gives my hairpin a final, wrenching twist.

  I wince. “Why should I care what he thinks?”

  “Oh, please. You turn wide-eyed and trembling whenever he’s nearby.” She shrugs, as if it’s no concern of hers. “I can see why you like him...he’s just as quiet and sullen as you are.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  I know this game. She pretends to be interested and I inadvertently let something slip, and confide in her, give her something she can use against me later. I’ve fallen prey to it more times than I care to admit. And while we might be on better terms right now, I don’t for a moment believe she has my best interest at heart. I won’t make the mistake of giving her ammunition she can use against me later.