The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  I swallow hard. “It’s fine, Mother.”

  She casts an apprehensive glance between us. “I’ll have Ada make up the parlor and bring some tea.”

  It’s taken me three days just to work up the nerve to open the window, and seeing Mr. Barrett so suddenly has thrown my new little world into chaos. I’m not sure I have the energy to make my way downstairs. Anyway, he’s already seen me in all my desolation. “I’d just as soon stay here.”

  For the first time since barging into my room, Mr. Barrett looks a little less self-assured, finally noticing the precarious stacks of books on every surface, the dirty linens piled in the corner, the plate of untouched ham and toast that Ada left this morning. “This is a bad time...” he says, dipping his head and rubbing the back of his neck.

  “No,” I say quickly. Seeing Catherine has given me some courage, and I must face Mr. Barrett sometime. It might as well be now. “No, it’s not a bad time.”

  Mother tightens her lips and I know that I’m toeing the line of decency. But she doesn’t press the matter, just crosses the room to draw the curtains closed around the bed as if to eliminate any possible temptations. If circumstances were different I might laugh that she’s even concerned of the possibility of seduction. Then she takes a blanket out of the trunk and leaves it on the settee Joe optimistically brought in so that I could entertain visitors in my room while I recovered. Mr. Barrett and I both follow her with our eyes until she’s made up a proper seating arrangement. Normally I might be embarrassed by all of this, but I suppose it’s a promising sign that she’s taking an interest in me at all.

  “I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything,” she says with a lingering look of doubt.

  Mr. Barrett nods, a little flustered at finding himself granted an audience after all, and in my bedchamber no less. I should be too, but I’m too on edge, wary of what he might be here to say. Mother leaves the door conspicuously open when she leaves.

  He takes a tentative step farther into the room. “I... Would you have a seat?” His body is so still, only a slight tremor in his voice belying that he isn’t in full possession of himself either.

  It’s ridiculous, him in my bedroom inviting me to have a seat, but I don’t know what else to do except nod and tuck myself up under the quilt. At least this way he won’t see how crumpled and dingy my dress is. Self-consciously I run a hand over my hair, wishing that I’d done just a little bit more to try to look presentable.

  Mr. Barrett scrapes up a chair beside me and sits with folded hands. Snip has all but forgotten about me, curling up by Mr. Barrett’s feet, promptly falling asleep and snoring softly. Besides that and the faint patter of rain outside, the room is as silent as a tomb. The familiar muscle in Mr. Barrett’s jaw is twitching, something that I would usually take to mean that he wishes he were elsewhere, but that I now get the impression might be a levee holding back a flood of words.

  I try to look anywhere but the injuries on his face, studying instead the slightly scuffed toe of his left boot, the light feathering of golden hairs on his wrist. His clothes always look as if they were made for his body, elegant without being fussy, stylish without looking belabored. Not at all like Cyrus. Mr. Barrett leans forward slightly and I close my eyes, steeling myself against the things he has every right to say.

  But he doesn’t say anything, he simply reaches past me for Lenore, picking up the tented book and flipping through the pages. The slim volume looks small and fragile in his hands, his reverent fingers tracing over the gilded title. “Is this one as good The Monk?”

  It takes me a moment to find my tongue. “You...you remember that?”

  The little lines around the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. “It’s not every day that I get such an animated book recommendation. Or any, for that matter.”

  I hold out my hand for the book, his fingers brushing mine as he hands it back. “No, it’s not as good,” I say. “I like happy endings and this one doesn’t have one. The heroine dies.”

  The lines around his eyes smooth out and there’s an almost imperceptible shift of the light in them. I can’t help but feel I’ve said the wrong thing, and we fall into an immediate, strained silence.

  We begin to speak at the same time.

  “Lydia, I need to—”

  “Mr. Barrett, I feel that I’ve acted—”

  I give a strained half laugh, and Mr. Barrett relaxes a little in the chair, disrupting Snip as he leans back and crosses his boots. “Please,” he says, lacing his hands casually across his stomach. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Call me John.”

  I hesitate, wishing that I’d let him go first. “Yes,” I say faintly. “Of course. Friends.”

  He gives me an encouraging nod. His posture may be relaxed, but his gaze is as intense as ever and I have to look away lest I lose my nerve.

  “John,” I say slowly, unused to speaking out loud what has come to feel like my secret, special word. “I’m so sorry.”

  He looks surprised, his brows rising slightly. “Good God, for what?”

  I gesture to my face, touching my lip where his is split, my cheek where his is bruised. Saying sorry doesn’t even come close to expressing how terrible I feel. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  A tiny smile quirks at the edge of his lips. “I would hate to see what you were capable of if you were trying, then.”

  I blanch, and his smile evaporates. He awkwardly clears his throat. “You needn’t apologize for that,” he says quickly. “Only hurts a bit to shave.”

  This doesn’t make me feel any better, and now I’m also picturing him at home with his shirt open and beautiful, high cheekbones lathered in soap. I take a deep breath. “Still, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he says. “That’s why I came. And to see how you were doing,” he adds.

  Blood creeps up my neck and I bite the inside of my cheek. I thought he would ask me what I was doing at the pond, or admonish me for being careless with my life. An apology is the last thing I was expecting.

  He looks down at Snip, rubbing under the dog’s ears and eliciting a sleepy whimper of contentment. “There are things I should have told you before now, and maybe if I hadn’t been so cold and shut you out, maybe you wouldn’t have tried to... I can’t help but feel responsible.”

  “Mr. Barrett, I mean John, you—”

  He stops me with a shake of his head. “No, I haven’t acted well. I told you that this wasn’t a good place for a family, and I only meant... There have been tragedies here in the past and...” He trails off, struggling to finish his thoughts. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.” I don’t dare ask him what sort of tragedies; if he wanted to tell me, he would. “I expect you’re angry at me,” he says quietly, “and you have every right to be. I acted badly at the dance, and again at Emeline’s burial.” His voice drops so low that it’s little more than a murmur. “And... I think about that night a hundred times a day, wishing I could have saved her.”

  My heart stops in my chest. I have to look away, inspecting where the wallpaper seams meet, the gaudy chrysanthemums overlapping in the wrong places. How desperate I was to hear those words before, and now that I have heard them, I realize how little they actually change anything. I hastily wipe a stray tear away before turning my attention back to him.

  He stares at his hands as he knits them together, watching each knuckle whiten and relax in turn. “There’s something else.” He takes a breath. “I know about Boston,” he says, his tone soft and apologetic.

  “Oh,” I say, as if he was telling me that he knew my hair is brown, or that the sun rises in the east. I should be ashamed, wary, defensive, something, but instead I just feel vaguely relieved. He’s known this whole time and he’s still Father’s business partner, he still visits our house. He’s still here. “Why are you telling me this now?” I ask in a whisper.


  “Because I want to be honest with you. I don’t want you taking unfounded notions into your head and making rash decisions based on them.”

  What would he think of us if he knew that they weren’t rumors? But I nod. I can’t tell him that, and I can’t tell him that Catherine’s attention to him and his friend are because of the testament of the truth she carries in her belly.

  “Are you angry? For not telling you that I knew, for what happened at the pond?” His voice is soft, barely a whisper, but there’s a hard, urgent edge and when I look up to meet his gaze, his eyes are searching.

  I let out a breath. “Of course not.”

  Mr. Barrett slumps back in his chair, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opens them again his face is washed in relief, his blue-green eyes clearer than I’ve ever seen them. “Good,” he finally says. “I’m glad.”

  Outside dark clouds are rolling in and the breeze picks up. The lace curtains swell and billow into the room, knocking over the vase of flowers. The rain comes down harder, but Mr. Barrett is lost in some private thought and makes no movement to close the window. Silence fills the room.

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” he says, coming back to himself. “Anything.”

  “The other night... What were you doing there?”

  The chair creaks as Mr. Barrett shifts his weight, measuring his words before he answers. A daring bird trills and calls despite the steady rain. “I was walking.”

  “Were you following me?”

  It’s a moment before he responds, his answer dropping heavy and defiant into the stillness of the room. “Yes, I was.”

  “Why?”

  A hint of exasperation creeps into his voice. “Why do you think?”

  I shake my head, unable to explain the quick, almost painful racing of my heartbeat. My body flushes with heat.

  Mr. Barrett holds my gaze a little longer, as if there are two paths in front of him, and my face alone can tell him which to go down. He nods, more to himself than me, having apparently decided.

  “I felt bad for how Catherine was acting. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t taken it to heart. I couldn’t find you, but when I went outside, I found these instead.” He produces my gloves from his waistcoat. They’re neatly folded and he handles them as if they were made out of spun-gold silk.

  I hold out a shaking hand, jealous of the soiled and crumpled gloves. I wish he would keep them forever. As soon as he gives them back a little link that I didn’t even know existed between us will be broken.

  There’s so much I want to say to him. It’s like he’s pushed a door open a crack, and now I want to throw it the rest of the way open, spilling out everything that’s inside of me. Thank you for caring enough to come looking for me. Thank you for following me and being a good, decent person. Thank you for ignoring what I thought I knew was best for me.

  But I don’t. It’s the same as with Catherine; just because he wants me safe doesn’t mean that he wants anything beyond that. I carefully close the door again, tired of being the only one who seems to want so much more from the other. “Thank you,” I say, accepting the gloves.

  Thunder rolls in the distance and the rain pelts into the room at a slant. My books will get wet if the windows aren’t closed. I’m about to push off the quilt and shut the window, but when I see Mr. Barrett, I freeze. He’s cradling his forehead in his hands, elbows on his knees. For a moment I think he might be crying, but his back is still. Taking a slow, ragged breath, he draws his hand down his face and sits back up. It’s a weary gesture, as if he has lost a fight and is gathering the energy to go on. When he sees me, he follows my gaze to the books, and slowly crosses the room to shut the window. The rain throws itself angrily against the glass.

  Mr. Barrett stands immobile, hands jammed into his coat pockets, gaze focused on the runny landscape. His voice is hoarse and low when he speaks.

  “I won’t ask you why, because I know all too well what drew you there. But I will ask, no, I will demand that you not do it again. I can’t...” He trails off, choking on his words. “Do not do it again.”

  My own voice is small and tight. “I... I won’t,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.

  He nods absently, not looking at me. The moment stretches out between us. Then he takes a deep breath that shudders through his shoulders to his chest. I’m still frozen, afraid that he has more to say, that he’s come to his senses and decided to have it out at me after all. But he only takes out his pocket watch, and says lightly, with apology, “I’m afraid I must be off.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say a little too eagerly, loath to let him know how desperately I wish he could stay.

  He turns to leave, then hesitates with his hand on the door frame. “By the by, I spoke to your sister on the way in.”

  Good lord, Catherine is fast. “Oh?”

  “She says that you haven’t left your room in three days.”

  I don’t say anything.

  He nods, taking my silence as affirmation, and frowning into the messy room. “Well,” he says, “I’d like to visit you again. That is, if it would be all right with you.”

  Even though I’m sitting down my legs go wobbly, and I have to bite my cheek from smiling too much. “I’d like that.”

  Mr. Barrett doesn’t have any such inhibitions, and his smile is slow and dazzling. “Good.” His eyes hold mine. “Good,” he says again, this time briskly, returning to his old, businesslike self. “I expect that the next time I see you it will be in the library, or the parlor, or the garden—anywhere else but your room—and that you will have a new book recommendation for me. Hopefully something with a happy ending this time.”

  17

  I’M DRIFTING BETWEEN wakefulness and sleep, my head hopelessly full of Mr. Barrett’s smile, of the willow tree, of Catherine’s rounded stomach, when Emeline comes to me.

  I sit up slowly, blinking away the haze of sleep, hardly daring to breathe.

  She pads through the darkness to my bed, leaving little puddles of water in her wake. She moves with purpose, though there’s something sluggish, something halting in her gait, as if with every step she’s pulling away from some invisible force dragging at her ankles. Her face is as pale and glowing as the moon and there’s a sunken darkness around her eyes, but as sure as the wind blows, it’s my little sister.

  I let out a long, shaky breath. How I have dreamed of this moment, desperately willing the universe to bend its laws and allow me to see her just one more time. I knew that my eyes had not deceived me at the pond, knew it as surely as I know the beat of my own heart.

  Emeline stops when she reaches the bed. Her face is bloated, her lips blue and her lovely auburn hair is tangled with pondweeds. She doesn’t just look like she did when Mr. Barrett pulled her from the pond, but worse. As she studies me from solemn eyes so like hers in life yet so different, I shiver, trying not to inhale the wet smell of decay.

  “Emeline,” I whisper through the darkness. Is she like the pale lady who will disappear as soon as she senses I’m watching her? It doesn’t matter. I am not scared of her. How could I fear my own sister?

  “Hello, Lydia.” She comes right up to the edge of the bed, her intentions unmistakable.

  Before I can move over to make room for her, she climbs up beside me as she has done so many times in the past when she came seeking refuge from the dark.

  “Oh, Emmy,” I whisper. I’m too relieved to be frightened, too desperate for her touch to recoil. “Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing here?”

  She snuggles in beside me. She’s so cold. Colder than after Mr. Barrett pulled her out of the water, colder even than the last time I touched her lying in her coffin. I put my arm around her tiny, translucent shoulders, breathlessly wondering how it is that she can really be here next to me after so many aching days and weeks of unansw
ered prayers. Is she just one of so many other spirits who seem to haunt Willow Hall now?

  It’s unnatural, I know that. But, as if she were a small, skittish bird, I don’t want to frighten her by letting my apprehension show, so I pull her closer, relishing the familiar yet somehow different feel of her against my body.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell her. “I’ve missed you more than you can know.”

  “I don’t like that hill,” she says. “It’s cold and dark, and I would rather be with you.” Her voice is watery, and though she has the same high, light tone that she always did, there’s something harder around the edges of it now. Something adult and knowing.

  I hesitate. “But how, Emeline? How did you come here?”

  “Didn’t you want me to come? Isn’t that why you gave me this?”

  She holds something out in her damp little palm. I reach out, and then catch my breath. It’s the lock of hair, tied in a faded red ribbon.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask in a whisper.

  She gives me a queer look. “You gave it to me.”

  “I...” I did give it to her, when she died. “I saw it in your trunk.”

  “Sometimes I keep things there.” She regards the hair gravely. “But sometimes I like to take them out and carry them.”

  How long has she been lingering at Willow Hall? How long has she shared the same halls, the same rooms as me since she died and I haven’t known?

  The candle flickers across her pale little face, her skin dewy as a rose petal. The air is suddenly thick with all the things I have wanted to tell her, to ask her, since she left. I measure my words, cautious that saying the wrong thing might make her disappear as suddenly as she came.

  “Why did you go away? Why did you leave me here? You knew that it was always supposed to be you and me, together.”

  My arms are wrapped around her, but rather than making her warmer, she’s making me colder, and I let out an involuntary shiver. A hurt look comes over her face.