The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  I slowly scrape back the chair and make my way to the chest. The faint scent of dried lavender wafts up from the quilt as I lift it with trembling hands, and sure enough, underneath is a worn, leather-bound book. It fits snugly in the palm of my hand, the warm, mellowed cover speaking to years of use.

  I close the chest and place the book in Mother’s hands. A wisp of a smile plays at the corner of her lips as she lovingly opens the little volume.

  “What is it?”

  She gingerly turns a page and I catch a glimpse of a black-and-white engraving. The image is crudely drawn, but the subject is unmistakable. A woman in Puritan dress hovers above a kitchen floor, a cat watching her from the corner. The margins are crawling with handwritten notes and marginalia in several different hands, no doubt the additions of generations of women in my family. The inscription under the engraving proclaims VVITCH.

  She closes the cover but the word burns itself inside my eyelids and, no matter how hard I try to push it away, it taunts me, mocks me. Didn’t I always know, even that day with the Bishop boy? Didn’t I know that I wasn’t normal? How could I not?

  The darkness that has lurked at the edge of my mind since we came here, the dreams that have plagued me. Visits from Emeline, Moses and all the other spirits that sought me out. The way my herbs sprang up under my fingertips, growing and growing in their uncanny way. My scream that caused the trees to bend in the wind, the placid water in the pond to churn and swell. Even sending Cyrus flying back through the air. This place has brought to the surface what I’ve always had inside of me.

  “This belonged to your great-great-grandmother, Mehitable Hale, Mary Preston’s mother.” She closes the book and gives it back to me. “You don’t have to read it now, but someday. Someday soon. It will help explain everything that I can’t.”

  “Mother, I—”

  But before I can tell her that I would rather not know, a coughing fit seizes her. When it passes she’s red and wheezing, a yellowish glaze settling over her eyes.

  “Should I send for Father and Catherine?”

  Her eyes close and her lips curl into that small wisp of a smile again. “No, not yet. I just need to rest. I promise.”

  The strange little book and what it means for me is quickly forgotten as I watch for the rise and fall of her chest, and I only exhale when I see she’s done the same. When her breaths become slow and steady the knot in my stomach loosens a little.

  Quietly, I gather up the book, brush my mother’s feverish temple with a kiss and leave her to rest.

  31

  ADA BRINGS ME dinner in the parlor, but the broiled chicken and green beans grow cold as I stare at my hands in my lap. My nails are bitten and ragged, my knuckles still chapped from the journey. Is it possible that some latent power lies within these hands? If it were true, couldn’t I run them over Mother’s body, heal it and force her spirit to stay? Do some secret words rest deep inside me that I could call forth to recite? But I was unable to save Emeline, what makes me think that I could save Mother? If I truly am what Mother claims I am, then I must be the most useless specimen that ever existed; all I am good for is rages and storms, not healing.

  My thoughts are interrupted by voices at the door. Snip yelps in delight, his boundless joy anathema to the dark veil that clings so tightly around our house. I run to the hall to scoop him up so that he won’t wake Mother with his barking.

  I stop short when Ada steps back from the door.

  Mr. Barrett appears in front of me, stomping snow from his boots. He must hear my sharp intake of breath, because he looks up to find me staring at him, his lips turning down in not quite pleased surprise. I’ll never grow used to the way my insides go all light and fluttery when he turns his intense sea green gaze on me, even now as I know his heart belongs to someone else.

  Something in his face darkens, but he nods a polite greeting. “Miss Montrose,” he says, as Ada relieves him of his coat. “I didn’t realize you were back in New Oldbury.”

  There’s an accusatory edge to his tone and I take a little step back, Snip squirming in my arms to be let down. “Only just today. My mother is ill.”

  His face softens and the darkness passes. He thanks Ada and moves farther into the hall, closing the distance between us, stopping just short of me. It takes every fiber of my being not to throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his lean, muscled frame and pouring out all the sadness that has built up in me these past weeks. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. I... I just came to see your father, to see if there was anything I could do.”

  Just then Catherine comes trudging down the steps, a basin under her arm. Her face brightens when she sees him. “Mr. Barrett,” she says as she hands the basin off to Ada. “It was so kind of you to come. I know how busy you must be with the new mill. Have you started construction yet?”

  “Not until the spring when the ground can be worked.” He carefully avoids my eyes as he speaks; I suppose this is just as awkward for him as it is for me.

  “Of course,” Catherine says. While Mr. Barrett and I tiptoe on eggshells, she blithely dances forward without a care in the world for our mutual discomfort.

  Mr. Barrett clears his throat. “How is your mother? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Catherine puts her hand on his arm and lets it linger there. “How very kind of you. Father is finally sleeping in his study, and I wouldn’t want to disturb him. It’s been a hard few days for him. Will you come in and have some tea? This isn’t an evening for standing about a drafty hall.”

  Wordlessly, he follows Catherine to the parlor and after a moment’s hesitation I fall into step behind them, Snip trotting excitedly at my heels. All those sleepless nights and now he’s right here in front of me, those same broad shoulders, the strong, sleek energy that thrums beneath the surface of his taut body. It’s one thing to make a resolution in the safety of a bed miles and miles away, but quite another to see what I’m losing in the flesh.

  Mr. Barrett stiffly seats himself in a chair, and I perch at the edge of the settee while Catherine chatters on. “It’s so nice that we’re all together again, isn’t it? I’m dreadfully jealous of Lydia who’s been on such a tear in Boston. I hear she’s been quite popular there.”

  Even now, with Mother fighting for her life upstairs, Catherine can play her games as if it were any other day. I suppose the opportunity to make me miserable is too good for her to pass up. I’m burning up at her lies, but know better than to throw fuel on Catherine’s fire, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “I’m sure she has,” Mr. Barrett says tonelessly.

  “Well,” Catherine says, rising. “I should go back upstairs. Someone needs to be with Mother.” She gives me a pointed look and stands aside to let Ada pass with the tea tray. “Before I go, has Lydia told you her happy news?”

  Mr. Barrett’s gaze flickers to me and then back to Catherine, frowning. “I don’t believe she has.”

  “Why, Lydia is engaged to be married.” Catherine smiles warmly, though only I can see the malicious glimmer in her eyes. “Aunt Phillips wrote us earlier in the week. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  And with that, she leaves us alone, her words hanging in the air behind her.

  Mr. Barrett’s hand pauses midstroke on Snip’s back. The muscle in his jaw clenches and I wish I knew what was going through his head, what he wants to say. I look down at my lap, unable to meet his penetrating gaze. When he finally speaks his voice is rough, and it’s not so much of a question as a demand. “Who?”

  Of course he would find out eventually, but I never thought I would have to sit in front of him and see the effect of my decision myself. I never thought he would actually care. My throat narrows to almost nothing. “Cyrus Thompson.”

  He nods, as if this confirms his worst suspicions about me. “The young man at Emeline’s burial.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.
r />   “Well,” he says shortly, “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  I thought I was numb, that nothing else could hurt me. But this hurts, more than I could have ever imagined. “And you, I hope you’ll be happy too.”

  His brows draw together, puzzled, or maybe it’s disgust. But he doesn’t say anything in return, just stands up and puts down his untouched cup of tea. “I’m afraid I should be going. Please, do let your father know that I called. If he needs anything... Well, he knows where to find me.”

  I sit there, too stunned to move. His footsteps recede quickly down the hall, followed by the rustle of his coat as he slings it on, the door yanking open and then clicking shut behind him.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I bolt out of the room after him. “Wait!”

  I fling open the front door, and the cold air hits me like a wall. “John, wait.”

  Mr. Barrett turns on his heel, pausing in the midst of pulling on his gloves. He throws me a harried look and something hardens in my stomach. He’s angry, at me.

  “Yes, Miss Montrose?”

  I wince at his formality. There’s no warmth in his face, no encouragement. But if there is one benefit to being empty, to giving away everything you have, it is that there is nothing left to fear. What have I to lose?

  “You never answered my letters.”

  He stops, glove halfway on, and raises a brow.

  I plow on, determined to say my piece before I lose my nerve. “I understand you might have been offended by the first letter, that I didn’t explain why I was going away or how very much it hurt to have to leave before you came to meet me as we planned. But the second one, I... I poured my heart out to you, and you couldn’t even send me a word in response.”

  The ice cracks under his boots as he moves a step closer. He peers at me through the December dusk, slowly pulling his glove the rest of the way on. “You wrote me?”

  “Twice!”

  “I never received any letters. I came and Catherine told me that you’d gone back to Boston for the winter to visit friends.”

  I grit my teeth. Either the letters went missing in the post, or, more likely, Catherine is doing everything she can to live up to her promise of making my life miserable and somehow intercepted them. “I didn’t want to go.”

  He nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “Well,” he says, his voice brisk and clipped in the cold. “I’m sorry that I didn’t receive your letters. I daresay you were busy making wedding plans in any case.”

  My body flushes hot with indignation. “You certainly didn’t waste any time after I left. What was it, two weeks?”

  He parts his lips as if to say something, but for once his beautiful features and crystal gaze don’t hold me in their sway.

  “I never fooled myself about what I might mean to you, but I thought you would at least have the common courtesy not to treat me like some sort of diversion, getting my hopes up only to dash them again. You’re a cad, just like your good friend Mr. Pierce.”

  Mr. Barrett weathers my accusations with that cool mask of emotion that I used to find so mesmerizing but is now only infuriating.

  “You made me feel special. That kiss in the road... How many other girls in town have you seduced? Maybe it’s not work that always keeps you so busy.” How worldly and defiant I had felt that day, but now I see what a fool I was. This is exactly the reason young women don’t go about unchaperoned with men like John Barrett.

  I stop for a breath and he tries to speak. “I don’t know what—”

  “I was warned about you.” Before I can stop myself the words slip out. “Moses came to me and tried to tell me that you weren’t what you seemed and—”

  His face goes white, and he takes a halting step toward me. “What did you say?”

  I shrink back, wondering what could have possessed me to bring that up. I swallow. “N-nothing. I only meant that—”

  But he doesn’t let me finish. He’s standing very close, the faint touch of his breath warm on my cheek. “Did you see something?”

  His voice is soft but so icy that I shiver anew in the cold. Maybe there was something in Moses’s warning about Mr. Barrett, something more than the fact he’s a lying scoundrel. Maybe he’s dangerous and even though it feels as if I’m being torn asunder, I’ve actually been spared some greater tragedy. My anger washes through me again and I remember that it’s he that has something to answer for, not I. I take a step back, refusing to be intimidated.

  “It...it doesn’t matter. I begin to think I misjudged you.”

  He couldn’t look more surprised if I had hit him. His expression shifts, from one of restrained anger to something like bewilderment.

  “It’s fine, Mr. Barrett. I’m sorry that we had a misunderstanding, but I need to be with my mother now. Goodbye.”

  Before he can say anything else, I turn on my heel and walk back to the house. I keep my pace measured and slow so that he won’t know just how hard my knees are shaking, how fast and painful my heart is beating.

  * * *

  Urgent knocking at the door startles me from my dozing. I blink at my surroundings for a moment, trying to gain my bearings in the dark room. The haze lifts and I remember I’m in the library at home, that I’m engaged to Cyrus, that Mother is upstairs ill. I wish I hadn’t woken up. The fire is dying, and when my eyes focus, the clock says it’s two in the morning. Ada and Joe are probably asleep, and Catherine won’t be able to hear anything from her makeshift bed beside Mother.

  The knocking comes again and this time I have enough presence of mind to wrap the blanket around my shoulders and pad out to the front hall. Outside the wind howls and I shiver, loath to let the darkness into the house.

  I press my ear to the door. News delivered in the middle of the night is never good, but what if it’s something worse, like a thief, or a murderer? Neither of whom would knock first, I remind myself. “Who is it?”

  The answer that comes back is muffled and impatient. “John Barrett.”

  I freeze, my sharp words from our last conversation still fresh in my mind. What could we have to say to each other after that?

  “For God’s sake, Lydia, open the door.”

  My shivering fingers fumble to unbolt the lock. The door swings open to reveal Mr. Barrett standing hunched against the swirling snow, his eyes rising to meet mine like two lanterns in the storm.

  “I... I hope I didn’t wake your mother.”

  My head is still foggy and my eyes bleary. I might be imagining him in our drive, the sharp cut of his overcoat silhouetted against the snow, his marble complexion pink and polished from the cold.

  The wind slices through the thin blanket around my shoulders, and it takes only a moment to notice the purple tint to his lips, his usually precise curl of hair, dark and bedraggled from the wet snow.

  “It’s the middle of the night. You didn’t walk all the way from your house, did you?”

  He blinks, as if this had not occurred to him. “I... What time is it?”

  “It’s nearly two in the morning.”

  “Oh, God. I shouldn’t have come.” He turns as if he’s going to leave, to walk all the way back in the snow and wind to his house.

  Without thinking I take him by the hand and pull him inside. His fingers are ice in mine. “You’re here now. Come in before you freeze to death.” He doesn’t resist, following me as meekly and obediently as Snip would.

  But we don’t get any farther than the hall. He stops abruptly in his tracks, looking terribly wild and out of place. Despite the anger still curdling in my stomach, I want to cup his face in my hands, draw him to me until he’s warm and safe.

  It goes against all convention for him to be here in the middle of the night, alone, with me. I take a deep breath. “Well?”

  “You said something when I was here earlier.”

&nb
sp; I swallow. Pale Moses and his cryptic warning seem far away and unreal now. A dream. How could I ever think Mr. Barrett was dangerous? “About your brother? I told you, it was nothing. I—”

  He stops me with an impatient shake of his head. “You said something in the parlor, something about hoping that I would be happy too?”

  My face flushes despite myself and I stammer out my words. “I meant...well, you wished me happiness in my engagement, and I thought it only right to return the sentiment to you on yours.”

  He stands stock-still. A clump of snow melts off his shoulder, landing with a plop on the carpet. When he speaks it’s with restrained impatience, like one trying to explain something to a small child.

  “I told you that I wasn’t engaged, that you shouldn’t put any stock into what a gossipy old hen like Mrs. Tidewell says.”

  “But Catherine wrote to me and said—” My hand flies to my mouth. In an instant it becomes so clear that I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I let out a muffled groan.

  Mr. Barrett surveys me from narrowed eyes. “Lydia,” he says slowly, “I told you I would come for you. What did you think I meant?”

  “I...” The hall is spinning, each tick of the clock echoing in my ears like a death knell. How could I have been so blind, so easily misled? My knees go weak and buckle as the realization of what I’ve done sweeps through me.

  Mr. Barrett moves fast, catching me by the elbow.

  “I’ve gone about this all wrong and upset you.” He reaches out his hand to steady me, then he loops his other arm around my waist. “Come, let’s get you into the parlor where you can sit down.”

  It’s no use arguing, or telling him that he’s the one with blue lips and looks like he could use a thawing out. But the room is still spinning and my legs ready to go out from under me again, as he walks me down the hall, his arm pulling me tight against him.

  When we reach the library he guides me down into Father’s overstuffed chair. His head is bent low, his cheek just grazing the top of my head as I sit. He’s so close that I can smell his shaving soap. The sliver of air between us grows warm. I feel drunk, and I’m deliciously helpless to do anything but tilt my face up the last little bit to close the distance between our lips completely.