by Hester Fox
“Is it really true that she was hanged during the witch hunts in Salem? I always supposed it a fancy of Catherine’s.”
Mother’s needle stops, and there’s a flicker of something like uncertainty in her eye. When she draws the thread through again, it’s a long, deliberate motion. “It’s the truth,” she says at last.
“Goodness,” I say. If I hadn’t met her ghost, seen her snapped neck for myself, I might have been surprised. “What did she do to draw that kind of attention to herself?” I’ve heard stories of the people of Salem, envious of their neighbors’ lands, casting accusations at people whom it would benefit them to see removed. Or perhaps she had simply been a woman who lived outside of convention in some way, earning herself the suspicions and animosity of her fellow townspeople.
Mother looks at me, her weary features taking on an expression of mild surprise. “What did she do?”
“Well, yes...what did she do to be found guilty of witchcraft?”
Mother presses her lips together. If I had thought asking Mother outright would have been hard, coming at my questions in this roundabout way is proving just as difficult. I’m about to try again, when something stops me.
A sound, coming from somewhere above us.
“Lydia? Lydia, what is it?”
I don’t tear my eyes away from the ceiling, where the faint thuds are coming from upstairs. “Do you hear that?” I ask in a whisper.
Mother glances between me and my line of sight, shaking her head. “I don’t hear anything.”
It’s an unnatural sort of sound. A quick succession of pattering feet, a lurching halt and then...is that laughter? My skin pimples with gooseflesh and I have to force myself to swallow. I put down my book and stand up.
“Emeline,” I whisper.
Mother’s face goes white. “What did you say?”
I ignore her, transfixed by the sound as I slowly make my way to the hallway. I mount the stairs to the second floor, pause and then continue to the third. The evening sun casts broody shadows across the long ballroom floor, obscuring the pianoforte and the doorway to the nursery.
There are no more footsteps, no more laughter, yet I can’t help feeling as if I’m not alone. It’s the same sensation that I used to have when I would play hide-and-seek with Emeline, and could feel her watching me from her hiding place. The air goes cold.
“Emeline?” I wait for her to appear, just like she did that night beside my bed.
How I want to see her again, just one more time. Yet something prickles uneasily inside of me as I recall Mary Preston’s words: You have consigned your sister to a living death. If that were really true, wouldn’t I have seen Emeline again by now?
But my held breath is in vain. The light softens, and the air warms again. If it was Emeline, then she is gone.
* * *
Three letters arrive the next day. Mother, Catherine and I are all in the library, various mending projects and embroidery hoops spread between us. I’ve been half-heartedly darning stockings, my hands working automatically while I think of different books to lend to Mr. Barrett. Too many of my favorites feature houses that burn down, heroines trapped behind heavy doors while smoke curls around the hero trying to reach her. Everything is different since Mrs. Tidewell told me about his past and the fire that shaped it; the world I thought I understood has shifted slightly, casting everything in a new light. I’m overcome with the urge to protect him in any small way possible from the specter of his past. There’s also a little niggling of worry in my stomach. What was it Mrs. Tidewell said? That she heard he was engaged already? Maybe he was only visiting out of pity after all. Is there someone else? But Catherine hasn’t mentioned anything about that, and she makes it her business to know everything.
Father wanders in, letters in hand, and passes an envelope to Mother. “I suppose the one from my sister is for you, my dear.”
Aunt Phillips is Father’s older sister and only sibling. She lives in Boston with her husband where they’re well-to-do society types thanks to a generous loan Father gave Uncle Phillips in the early days of his printing business. With no children of her own, Aunt Phillips always took an active interest in us girls, and many a visit to their neat brick house on Acorn Street was spent getting our cheeks pinched and our dresses fawned over. That is, until the rumors started swirling and the invitations dried up. Maybe now that we’ve been out of Boston awhile and things have quieted down we’re finally back in her good graces.
Father frowns, squinting at the next in the stack. “Can’t make out the hand on this one, and it’s only addressed to Miss Montrose.”
He looks between Catherine and me, but it’s Catherine who springs up to take it before retreating to the corner to tear it open. Mother had forbidden Catherine from corresponding with Charles, not wanting even the appearance of scandal, but of course as with all things, Catherine got her way. Now I realize that all those notes I saw her slipping Joe when we first came must have been to Charles. And as with all things too, Mother doesn’t have the energy to enforce her own rule.
Father raises a brow in surprise at the last latter. “Lydia,” he says, passing it to me.
With a frown, I take it from his hand. My shoulders slump when I see the handwriting. Cyrus.
This isn’t the first letter that Cyrus has sent me since he returned to Boston, and if the previous letters are any indication, this one will be full of clumsy declarations of love, followed by disdainful accounts of his reduced circumstances. I crumple it up and press it into the side of my skirts.
With a heavy grunt, Father lowers himself to the settee beside Mother and takes her small hand in his while he reads his paper. He’s in a rare good mood now that the land deal with Ezra Clarke has gone through and he can start construction on the new mill.
“Oh,” says Mother, her temple creasing in a little frown. “Aunt Phillips has had an accident.”
Father raises a brow but doesn’t say anything, already absorbed in his newspaper.
“It seems she took a tumble getting out of the carriage. The doctor thinks her ankle might be broken, and she’s confined to bed while it heals. Uncle Phillips is in New York, but they have that hired girl now who’s helping tend to her and see that she’s comfortable while she recovers.”
“Grace always was clumsy like that,” Father says, shaking his head. He goes back to his paper and Mother silently reads the rest of her letter.
Aunt Phillips always was a martyr to her gout, and I suspect that it wasn’t a tumble from a carriage so much as an eruption of her old condition that has left her bedridden.
It’s suspiciously quiet on the other side of the room where Catherine is hovering, her knuckles white as she clasps the back of a chair. Her eyes are feverishly scanning the lines, but as she does her smile fades and her face goes colorless. For a second I think she is going burst into tears, but then she hastily folds the letter back up and composes her face into a cool mask.
Mother sighs, folding up her own letter again. “What’s wrong, dear? Not more bad news I hope?”
“No, it’s nothing. Just a letter from an old friend.” Catherine hastily slips it into her pocket. “I think I’ll go read the rest of it in my room. Lydia?”
It takes me a moment to understand that she expects me to come with her. I don’t want to leave the library. It’s so nice for once to all be in the same room, Father, Mother, Catherine and me. It’s like having a normal family again, almost, and even if we’re all in our own worlds, I can pretend.
But there’s a desperate, pleading note in her voice, so with a sigh, I put aside my darning and leave the cozy fantasy behind.
No sooner does the door click behind us than Catherine thrusts the letter in my face. “How dare he! I knew him to be selfish and false but I still can’t believe he would have the nerve!”
I quickly take in the contents of the letter whil
e Catherine paces about the room ranting. It’s not from Charles, but Mr. Pierce. My mother has informed me of an unfortunate story circulating in Boston... Can’t attach myself to a family with such a reputation... Feel that you’ve misled me... Regret that I will no longer be able to...
I look up. “Oh, Catherine. I’m so—”
“It was his miserable mother who put the idea into his head, I just know it was!”
The letter says as much, and I’m only surprised that it took him so long to hear about the scandal. I bite my lip, trying to mask my own disappointment. What is there to say? “I’m sure he didn’t want to leave you, Cath. I’m really sorry.”
Ignoring my attempts at consolation, Catherine throws herself facedown on the bed, only coming up for air occasionally to curse her would-be groom and mother-in-law. So far “miserable” is the tamest description she has come up with.
“The old bat, pretending like she’s on the verge of death, and all the while her ears are open and her mouth is flapping that tired story all over Boston. I could wring her old neck. And August! Playing the dutiful son, all the while using his mother as an excuse to get away from me every chance he could.”
The way she says it I don’t doubt for a second that Catherine could indeed wring Mrs. Pierce’s old neck. I run a meaningless hand down her back, soothing and shushing, but my heart isn’t in it. It’s over. Catherine’s best chance for finding a husband and avoiding calamity have come to naught.
Suddenly Catherine sits up and wipes a careless sleeve under her red nose. “Maybe it really is all his mother, and not August at all.” Her face brightens and she sniffles back her slowing tears. “She probably made him write that letter and kept him in Boston, forbidding him from coming back to marry me. He could be trying to make his way back to me for all I know.”
“Catherine...” It’s false hope and I think even she must know that. A bedridden woman couldn’t keep her strapping young son hostage in the house, though she could cut off his inheritance, and for a dandy like Mr. Pierce that would be even worse.
“But why not?” The tears have dried and she’s pushing me aside, stumbling to her writing desk. “You could ask Mr. Barrett for me. You could give him a note to give to Mr. Pierce.” She’s already scribbling away, ink still wet as she thrusts the missive at me. “Please, Lydia.”
I sigh and take it from her expectant hand. Why would Mr. Barrett want anything to do with this? As much as it pains me to think about, he’s probably relieved that his friend has stepped aside. And Mr. Barrett’s a gentleman, a true one, not like Mr. Pierce. Our checkered past won’t deter him from pursuing Catherine.
“I don’t think we should be dragging Mr. Barrett into this or that he’ll want to help. He—”
“Of course he will. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’ll answer you anything, and he’ll straighten this whole mess out with August. Besides, he confided in me before, remember?” She gives me a sly look out of the corner of her eye. “He’ll want to help me.”
* * *
I could ask Joe to take me in the carriage to Barrett House, but hitching up the horses and then being jostled about for such a short trip hardly seems worth it. Besides, Mother might want to make calls and would need the carriage for that. I go find Ada, who’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she rolls out a piecrust. She looks up when I come in.
“Yes, miss?”
“I need go to Barrett House to deliver something, but you’re busy. It can wait.”
She wipes her floured hands on her apron. “Is Joe not about? I’m sure he would deliver it for you. No need to trouble yourself.”
“No,” I say quickly. “That is, I have to deliver it.”
She gives me a queer look, no doubt wondering why I don’t go with Mother as a chaperone if I’m bent on making a trip there. But she doesn’t question me and just says, “If you wait a few minutes until I tidy up I can go with you.”
I hate to trouble her when she’s busy, and while she’s brushing the flour off the table I start to wonder what would happen if I went on my own. Maybe I don’t need a chaperone at all. I could just slip the letter for Mr. Pierce under the door and be on my way. And if Mr. Barrett is home and happens to come out to see who’s at the door, why, I could hardly be blamed for that, could I?
My mind fixes on the idea. Why should Catherine be able to buck convention whenever she pleases? Why shouldn’t I be able to see Mr. Barrett during an innocent errand? I feel reckless and excited.
Ada is taking off her apron and rolling her sleeves back down. “On second thought, I think I’ll just go for a walk. I’ll have Joe deliver it later.”
I can hardly meet her eye as she frowns, studying the flush of color at my neck. “All right, miss. If you say so.”
Feeling more than a little guilty about lying to Ada, yet at the same time breathless and eager to be out on my own, I set off for Barrett House.
21
BEFORE I LEAVE, I tuck my weathered copy of The Italian under my arm. It’s one of my favorites, with lots of twists and turns, a dashing hero and luscious Italian scenery. It positively drips with romance. Most important, it has a happy ending.
I’ve never been to Barrett House before, and rather than taking the shorter, more direct route through the woods and around the pond, I set off down the looping, winding road. I don’t think I could stand to pass so close to the willow tree today, nor to see the flat rocks littered in freshly fallen leaves, a reminder that the world moves on from that fateful summer day.
Twice I nearly turn back, talking myself out of it. I’m supposed to be the good one, the dutiful daughter. What am I doing walking alone to meet a man at his house? What if Father found out? And what if I get there, showing up alone and unannounced and Mr. Barrett is put off by my forwardness?
He hasn’t come by since that day in my room. I pause on the dirt road. He’s probably busy, with the land deal and drafting plans for the new mill. Again I think of Mrs. Tidewell and what she said about an engagement, and I can’t squash the little niggling voice in my head that says, He was just being nice. He pitied you, that’s all.
But whatever my excuse for making my way to him, the promise of seeing him is too great, and as I start walking again a thousand little thoughts of him send tremors through my body. Like the place where his starched white collar meets the narrow, tender strip of lightly tanned skin of his neck. Him absently caressing Snip’s ears in my room. The calmness that surrounds him, belied only by the smallest fidget in his fingers when he is deep in thought. All those little things that make my heart beat faster and my stomach fluttery are just around the next bend of the road. I walk a little faster.
When I finally come upon the house, I stop in my tracks. This can’t be the right place. The neat little white home tucked under the generous shade of an elm tree is nothing like the shabby house that Mrs. Tidewell described. An equally neat white fence hems the property, broken only by an arbor arching over the front path. In the spring it must be beautiful, with trailing roses and clematis, and even in the drab, late days of autumn it’s cozy and welcoming.
So this was the home that Mr. Barrett’s father built after the tragedy where Willow Hall stands. I was expecting peeling paint and broken shutters, signs of the senior Mr. Barrett’s anger and hatred imprinted in the house. But there’s nothing sinister about the curl of smoke coming from the chimney, nor the late-blooming asters that cluster around the path. The tightness in my jaw softens, and I relax. John lives here, how could I have thought it anything but completely charming?
I climb the steps to knock on the front door, but it’s already pushed halfway open.
“Hello?” I call softly into the front hall, hoping that a maid will intercept me and tell me that Mr. Barrett is out and that I better just go home after all. I call again and no one comes.
With equal parts relief and disappo
intment, I turn to go, when the low murmur of a voice stops me. I freeze, my hand on the open door. It’s too quiet to hear the words, but it’s a man’s voice. Maybe Mr. Pierce is still here. The thought of confronting him on Catherine’s behalf makes my stomach drop. But I promised her, and I have a vested interest in the answer, so against my better judgment I slip into the hall.
The voice grows louder, carrying through the first door on the left, which is just cracked open. I should knock loudly, make myself known. Instead I creep up to the door, putting my ear against the crack.
It’s Mr. Barrett, but he’s not talking to another man, certainly not Mr. Pierce. He’s speaking softly, lovingly. The way a man speaks to a woman.
I shouldn’t be here. Mr. Barrett is with a woman and it’s none of my business. But just as I’m turning to go, the floor under my foot lets out a long, protesting creak. His voice breaks off. My elbow brushes the door the rest of the way open and I have no choice but to stand my ground like the spy that I am.
But when I look up, it’s not a woman in Mr. Barrett’s arms.
He’s holding a big, sleek white cat, cradling it like a baby. His head snaps up, and he looks every bit as guilty as if I had just caught him in an amorous embrace. The cat impatiently flicks its tail, glaring at me with drowsy yellow eyes.
Seeing him standing there, his big arms enfolding the cat, his head bent low whispering the silly things one says to a pet, compiled with a deep, overwhelming sense of relief that he wasn’t with a woman after all, leaves me light-headed and tipsy. I take a few deep breaths, but it’s no use. Laughter starts to bubble up deep in my throat.
It’s the kind of laugh that makes your eyes water and your whole body shake. The cat, stoic dignity insulted, twists its way violently out of Mr. Barrett’s arm, tearing his shirtsleeve down the middle in the process.
Mr. Barrett lets out a yelp. “Goddamn it! The devil take you and those wretched claws!” Humiliated, the cat streaks past my legs and out of the room.