The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  I look for some trace of Emeline’s nocturnal visit, but she has come and gone without leaving so much as a footprint or a disturbed branch. I wince. How could I have made such a weighty promise to her when I haven’t the slightest idea how I brought about her return in the first place?

  As I saw away at some of the woody stems of the rosemary—Ada makes a delectable stuffing with rosemary—I can’t help but think back to that summer day when I was weeding and Emeline stormed out, demanding that I let her come to the pond with us. It’s no more than the usual sort of regret that lurks around the corner of every memory every day since then, but that’s not what makes me suck in a sharp breath.

  The herb garden is every bit as lush and full as it was that day, over four months ago at the peak of summer.

  The growing season in Boston would already be winding down by now, but in New Oldbury it’s even shorter, given how close we are to the mountains. All but the hardiest of the plants should be shriveled and dead, burned by frost. Unease pricks at me, the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Everything else, from the grass to the trees at the edge of the woods are gray, brown. Dead. Everything except the verdant patch of herbs at my feet. I try to remember last night, if it had been this way when I saw Emeline, but it was dark and I hadn’t been paying attention to the plants.

  Well, there are a thousand reasons why my herbs have done so well. Aren’t there? But I grew lax about the weeding over the last couple of months, and despite an autumn of heavy rains, there hasn’t been much in the way of sun. It’s uncanny how well they’ve survived despite the unfavorable conditions. I don’t know what it means and I don’t want to know, so I push the thoughts from my mind.

  I’m about to stand when my gaze lands on the silvery-blue petals of my rue plants. I stop, rocking back on my heels. Rue. It’s one of my favorites with its rounded leaves that fan out into feathery, dipping branches. The last time I tried to introduce rue at the dinner table Father spat it out on his plate and asked if I was trying to kill him. I don’t mind the bitterness, but it’s not to everyone’s taste. Sometimes I like to press it between the pages of a heavy book, and then paste it onto white paper with flowers to create a botanical piece of art.

  An unbidden, terrible thought flits through my head: it also, when used correctly and taken at the right time, can be used to rid the womb of its unwanted fruit.

  The leaves flicker in the breeze. The idea wraps around my mind like a snake, squeezing and making its presence known. It would be so easy to snip off a few slender stalks and take them back to the kitchen. There wouldn’t be time for drying them. But you could cut them into fine slivers, steep them with a tea. As if far away from myself and not in control, I watch, helpless, as I poise my shears just under the flat plane of leaves and draw back to cut. That’s right, Lydia. See how easy it is?

  But I would never hurt Catherine’s baby, even knowing its origins and what it might do to my family...would I?

  I feel dizzy, my thoughts not my own, just like the day at the pond with Mr. Barrett. These words are not the gentle, persistent whispers of Mary Preston that come to me on the breeze or in my mirror, but the chiding of something older, something more sinister, the voice that led me to the water. And just like that night, I am helpless to disobey. It is the only way, Lydia. How easy it is, how simple a solution to all your problems. My hand falters. But then in one swift movement I cut them, the feathery branches falling to the ground. I hastily gather up my basket of rosemary and mint, thrusting the rue stems underneath as if someone might see them and make the connection. I run back to the house, my head pounding, my mouth dry. From far beyond my mind I see myself, as if I were watching another person. But I am like a dog with a command from its master, my vision narrowed only to completing my task.

  In the kitchen I glance around for Ada, but it’s empty. With shaking hands, I remove the mint and rosemary, placing them on the counter for Ada later. Then, with one more quick glance over my shoulder, I pull out the rue. I put some water on to boil, and then go about chopping the leaves up into tiny slivers, so thin that they are almost transparent. I don’t know how much I need, but my hands work automatically, as if they know, and I follow them. To mask the bitter flavor, I add in a good amount of honey as well as regular tea leaves.

  When the tea is made, I pour it into one of the dainty teacups with gilding around the edges and a delicate pattern of pink roses. My hands shake so hard that it spills down the side and I have to clean it up with the edge of my cloak. Then I carry it to Catherine’s room and knock on the door.

  She calls to come in, so I balance the cup in one hand and push the door open with my other. I don’t think. I just follow the dark path my mind is telling me to take. She glances up from her writing desk. “Yes?”

  “I brought you some tea.”

  Putting her pen down, she pushes her chair back and looks at me with a suspicious frown. “Why?”

  I swallow, trying to look casual and pleasant. “Why not? I was just having a cup and figured you might want one as well. It’s so chilly out and it’s seeping inside today.”

  I’m sure that I’m sweating under her gaze despite just telling her how cold it was. But she just gives a shrug and goes back to her writing. “I suppose it might be nice. You can leave it on the table there.”

  The teacup clatters in its saucer as I slowly bring it to the table. I didn’t think she would make it so easy.

  Just as I’m about to place it on the cluttered surface of ladies’ journals and old correspondences, a breeze blows in and with it whispers telling me: This isn’t you. You are a good person, Lydia. The whispering breeze wars with the dark thoughts and then my mind unfogs in a brief flash of clarity. What am I doing? How could I take this awful idea so far? The black snake that has been winding tight around my thoughts recoils and slithers away.

  Catherine’s back is to me, her head bent over her letters. In one swift movement I knock the cup from the table, spilling the vile tea and sending the gilded porcelain shattering.

  Catherine snaps around and looks between the wet pile of shards on the floor and me standing there frozen with my hand still in the air. “For goodness sake, what happened?”

  “I... It slipped from my hand. Sorry,” I mumble.

  She shakes her head. “Well I hope you’re planning to clean it up! I swear, Lydia, I didn’t even want tea and then you come barging in here and now you’ve made a mess. Mother is going to be cross as two sticks when she finds out you broke one of her rose cups.”

  “I’ll get something to wipe it up with,” I say weakly.

  “I should hope so,” she says, turning back to her letters.

  When I’m out of her room I pause in the hallway and lean against the wall, closing my eyes. My breath comes in shallow spurts. What came over me? How could I even consider such a thing? What is it about this place that drives my thoughts in such appalling directions?

  But I know that despite whatever darkness had me in its grip, that it was right. You almost did it because so long as that baby exists you aren’t safe. Mr. Barrett isn’t safe from Catherine’s plotting. Your family isn’t safe.

  Monday

  Mother comes into the parlor where Catherine and I are sitting on opposite sides of the room, Catherine at the little mahogany table and I in the chair near the fire with Snip dozing in my lap. A heavy, prickly tension has gathered around us since yesterday, like the calm before a storm. Even though Catherine doesn’t know my true purpose in bringing her up that cup of tea—and she never will—she must sense the growing animosity from me. We both know that there’s been a subtle shift between us, an understanding that there will be a winner and a loser. We want the same thing, and only one of us can have it. What Catherine seems to forget though is that it’s not a toy we’re quarreling over, but a grown man. A man with his own thoughts, motivations and desires.

  “I’m g
oing out to call on the widow Morton.” Mother looks between Catherine and me, as if able to read the invisible words flying between us. “I thought one of you might like to come.”

  Mother always loved making calls on those less fortunate than us, packing up baskets of food and blankets for widows and families fallen on hard times. I think it makes her feel better about our lot, especially since Emeline died. Or maybe it’s her way of feeling like she’s in control of something, that she can make a difference. Dealing with someone else’s problems is always easier than dealing with one’s own, it seems. I know we should go with her, but I also know that Catherine is just waiting for her chance to get rid of me so that she can see Mr. Barrett.

  Catherine folds the letter she was writing, and without looking up and says, “I would but I just have so much to do here. Lydia, maybe you’d like to?”

  “No,” I say, matching her tone in sweetness. “I have a bit of a headache. I think I’ll stay here.”

  Mother narrows her eyes, but as usual she doesn’t press the matter, and as her slender figure disappears down the hall, I have to swallow back a pang of guilt.

  * * *

  Not half an hour later Catherine is regretting staying behind.

  “If I don’t get out of this house I’m going to die of boredom.” She stands at the window looking out at the drive, as if willing someone to appear and whisk her away. “This house is dull, this town is dull, and if we ever had company they would be dull too.”

  “Maybe you should have gone out with Mother then.”

  Scowling, the glass fogs and Catherine wipes it with an impatient hand. “And leave you alone? Never.”

  I shrug, going back to my book. I have to stop reading every few pages because I can’t stop wondering if Mr. Barrett has started The Italian yet, and if he has, what part he’s up to and what he thinks of it.

  Catherine doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I assume she’s gone back to her letters. But when I glance up, she’s looking thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk.”

  “You hate walking.”

  But she’s already up, pulling on her gloves and tucking her letters into her reticule. “That’s not true.” She pauses, as if considering something. “I’ve never walked all the way toward Barrett House, maybe I’ll head in that direction.”

  I’m up quick as lightning, sending Snip tumbling to the floor. “I’ll come with you.”

  * * *

  Catherine is bundled up looking more like she’s going on an arctic expedition than a walk down the road, but I only grab a light spencer and forgo a hat completely. I want to feel the cold air prick my skin, I want to invite the dampness to settle in my bones. Something, I just want to feel something more than the endless, stale hours of waiting for Friday to come.

  I don’t think we’ll actually go to Barrett House, because what on earth could we say showing up there? Instead we play a game of mutual feigned disinterest, neither of us wanting to admit that we’re here to keep an eye on the other.

  The road is deserted save for a crow who eyes us suspiciously as he drags away some rancid piece of meat. The wind and rain of yesterday have left the trees bare, and the skeleton branches feather out across a colorless sky. Sometimes it feels as if my whole world has shrunk down to this place, this little town in the middle of nowhere, walled in by the hills on one side and the river on the other.

  We’ve barely walked five minutes when Catherine complains of a stitch. I ignore her, setting a brisk pace, savoring the crisp air and the illusion of freedom.

  “Do you have to walk so fast?” She struggles to keep up, her hand on her side.

  “I’m not,” I say, even though my breath is starting to come quicker. I’m tired of always accommodating Catherine and her sense of delicacy. “If you can’t keep up I’ll go on ahead and meet you back at the house.”

  She falters, her voice uncharacteristically small. “I... There’s something about the woods here. Please, don’t leave me alone.”

  I slow my pace a little and I can feel her relief as she falls into step beside me. Behind the trees the weak November sun is dipping lower, and my skin prickles as the temperature drops with it. Even with Catherine beside me I can’t shake the sensation that we’re being watched, that if I turned my head just fast enough I might catch a fleeting glimpse of someone in the brush. Knowing that Catherine feels the same way about the woods here doesn’t help. I had hoped that it was a foolish fancy of mine, but she feels it too. I shiver.

  Catherine moans, playing up the stitch in her side for effect.

  “Why did you come if all you’re going to do is complain?”

  She stops, doubling over. “I have to go back.”

  “Well I’m not ready to go back yet,” I say stubbornly. I don’t want to go back home and sit there, listening to the clock tick away and dwelling on Catherine’s schemes to steal Mr. Barrett.

  “Please, Lydia,” she says.

  The quiet strain of her words stops me. “Catherine?”

  Her face blanches white and I follow her horrified gaze down to her feet. I suck in my breath. Blood pools around her shoes, seeping through the front of her dress.

  She lets out another moan, pain laced with fear.

  “Catherine?” I ask again, panic rising in my throat. “What’s happening?”

  When she looks up at me, her eyes are wide and afraid. “The baby,” she whispers.

  * * *

  I’ll never know how we manage to get back home. The wind picks up out of nowhere, buffeting us against every step as Catherine leans into me, whimpering and gasping. I’ve never been so glad to see the large, gaping windows of Willow Hall as I am when we round the drive.

  Catherine stops me, gripping my arm so hard that I’ll probably have bruises come tomorrow. “The back door...we have to go round the back. Mother can’t know.”

  I glance at the growing stain on her dress. “It’s too far.” Mother is probably still out anyway. As for Father, it doesn’t matter if he’s home or not. We could fall through the front door with the hounds of hell hot on our heels and he wouldn’t even raise a brow from his papers.

  I guide Catherine upstairs by the elbow, one hand at her waist. She’s breathing hard. I don’t look back but she must be leaving a trail of blood behind her and God knows Mother won’t be able to miss it. But there’s nothing for it, so I trundle her into bed and lock the door behind me.

  “We have to stop the bleeding.” I push Catherine’s dress up past her knees despite her weak protests and force back the gag rising in my throat. I need something to stanch the blood flow but that Ada won’t see in the laundry. Something that won’t be missed. My gaze lands on the bolt of lavender silk, untouched and meant for her wedding gown.

  I move with purpose, as if I’m watching myself from far away. I calmly fetch the silk and return to the bed where Catherine watches me with terrified, feral eyes.

  From somewhere in the depths of her panic and half-formed moans, there’s a disconcerting awareness. She knows as well as I do what this could mean for us: no more baby means no fresh rumors, no need for Catherine to dash off to the altar with the first willing man she finds. I’m tearing off a strip of silk and winding it into a thick pad when she grips my wrist with surprising strength.

  I lean down so her lips are at my ear. “Please,” she whispers hoarsely, “save my baby.”

  25

  TIME SLOWS DOWN, and when it’s over, Catherine lies drained and ashen on the bed, her lips parched but silent. The baby—if you can even call it that—lies wrapped in what would have been Catherine’s wedding gown in the corner.

  I pat a damp cloth over Catherine’s brow, but her eyes never leave the pile of lavender silk. “What was it?” she whispers.

  My hand wavers for a moment, then I start again, small, gentle motions with the cloth. “I don’t know. I don�
��t think that it was anything yet.” I don’t know exactly how far along Catherine was, and I don’t want to know. But it was far enough to look like a macabre parody of a baby, with its bulbous head and fingers like tiny curls of paper. It will haunt me until the day I die.

  “We have to bury it.”

  “Catherine, you—”

  Suddenly she’s animated, struggling to prop herself up and reaching out to grab my wrists. “We have to. My...my child needs to be buried. Besides, Mother can’t know. She just can’t. It would destroy her.”

  I wonder when Catherine became so concerned about our mother, but maybe she’s right. By some miracle no one is home yet, but Catherine isn’t in any state to go outside and do this unthinkable task. Which means it falls to me.

  She slumps back down into her pillows. It’s hard to read her expression in the thick darkness. My hand trembles as I touch her fingers. “Cath, it’s too dark out. I can’t.”

  How is this real? I get up and light the lamp, avoiding the far corner. “We’ll just have to wait until tomorrow, and hope that Mother goes out.”

  “I’m not sleeping with that thing in my room... You have to do something with it!”

  “And you need to calm down!” She’s sitting up again, making as if she’s going to jump out of bed.

  “Stop yelling at me!”

  “I’m not yelling,” I say, taking a deep breath and lowering my voice. “But think, Catherine. Where? How? I don’t even know where Joe keeps a shovel.”

  For some reason the shovel, this particular detail, sends a shiver down my spine. There’s a little misshapen body in the corner next to the beautiful blue-and-white ewer and the yellow damask curtains, and we are going to bury it. I’m going to bury it.

  The sound of wheels clattering cuts through the sharp stillness. Our eyes lock. “There’s no time. Keep your door locked and I’ll go down. I’ll tell Mother that you’re ill, that the blood is from... I don’t know. I’ll think of something, but you have to stay in here.”