by Hester Fox
I never understood Mother’s aversion to having a nice herb garden. I have vague memories of my grandmother’s house in Cambridge with an ambling garden behind it, full of every herb and healing plant imaginable. When I was little I used to love to rub my fingers into the bergamot flowers, releasing their spicy scent, and chewing on the leaves of lemon balm. But one day when I had brought Mother a remedy I’d concocted from some of the herbs for her chronic headaches, she had blanched and recoiled from me, telling me that I must never dabble with herbs. Apparently it wasn’t ladylike, or proper for young girls. I can’t remember now.
But now Mother has given up on that, I suppose, not having the energy or inclination to ensure that I’m a proper lady. My hands move automatically, pruning back the plants like mint and chamomile that like to spread, and encouraging the shier plants like hyssop and parsley. For all that I am lousy at arranging flowers and don’t know the first thing about wildlife, it’s almost as if herbs speak to me, telling me what they need. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and survey my progress with pride. Despite the scorching weather, the plot is lush and already teeming with eager plants. It’s miraculous really, like they sprang up overnight. I wonder that the vegetable patch and the flower garden are so withered and decayed, while my little herbs have grown and thrived so quickly.
The back door bangs open, shattering the peace. Emeline cuts directly toward me, little fists balled at her side, brow furrowed in distress. Snip bounds at her heels, wagging his tail furiously as she barrels on.
“It’s not fair!” she shouts before she’s even halfway to the garden.
I quickly wipe off the dirt on my apron and crouch down to receive her, but she stops short and glares at me.
“What’s not fair?”
Before she has a chance to enlighten me, Catherine comes out, throwing up her hands when she sees us. “Get back inside this instant, Emeline!”
“I will not! Lydia, tell her that it’s not fair.”
“Someone is going to have to tell me what’s going on, because—”
They start talking over each other, both acting like eight-year-old children, even though only one of them is, and the other a young woman of twenty-two.
Emeline gets her words out first in a triumphant rush. “Mr. Barrett sent a note along saying he and Mr. Pierce are coming over for a picnic and Cath says that I can’t come because it will be an uneven number and it has to be two men and two ladies but I don’t think it’s fair because I don’t know any other—”
“Mr. Barrett is coming today?”
Emeline stops, and they both look at me as if I have two heads.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, you’re too young,” Catherine says. Turning to me, she lowers her voice. “She’ll say something dreadful, I just know she will.”
She means that Emeline will say something about Boston, and then all the trouble Catherine has gone to with both Mr. Pierce and Mr. Barrett will be lost. “Emeline knows what’s appropriate conversation for company and what’s not. Don’t you, Emmy?”
Emeline glowers at us and then looks down, scuffing her shoe in the dirt. “Yes, I know.”
“There,” I say brightly. I’m already taking off my apron and trying to remember if Ada was able to get the stain out of my favorite cream silk dress. “When will they be here?”
“After lunch,” Catherine says. Crossing her arms, she juts her chin over my shoulder. “What are you doing out here anyway? I don’t remember there being plants there.”
I follow her gaze, having already forgotten the gardening in which just moments ago I was so absorbed. “Just doing a little weeding.”
Emeline is hopping from foot to foot, her patience quickly running out. “So can I come?”
“Oh, just come, what do I care.” Catherine turns to leave. “But it’s your job, Lydia, to keep her out of trouble.”
* * *
I’m pulled from the dark romance of Mathilda by the sound of men’s voices carrying down the road. I put my book down and close my eyes. My stomach has felt light and fluttery all day, and now that Mr. Barrett is here I’m afraid I won’t even be able to sit still or have a level conversation. Mother is sleeping upstairs with a headache, and Father is who knows where on business. It will just be us today. A delicious shiver runs down my spine.
Taking a moment in front of the big gilded mirror in the hall, I smooth out my dress and cast a critical eye over my reflection. I wish I had Catherine’s clear eyes, playful and bright, that make men love her. Mine are dark and serious, just as she always accuses me of being. I test my smile the way she always does in the mirror, but the result is strained, and instead of looking pretty and lighthearted, I look like a bee just flew up my skirt.
Emeline is the first to the door, pulling on it with all her weight. It finally creaks open, swollen in the humidity. I feel the same—sluggish and heavy. Catherine sweeps down the stairs, and though her dress is still crisp and white, there’s a pallor to her complexion, and I know she’s suffering just as the rest of us are in this awful heat. But that’s not what gives me pause. “Catherine, you can’t possibly be wearing that.”
She stops, hand on the railing, and snorts. “And you can’t possibly think I’m about to take fashion advice from you of all people.” Nevertheless, doubt flickers across her face and she rolls her eyes. “Go on then. What’s wrong with it?”
I glance at the door where Emeline is standing, waiting for Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce to come up the drive, and lower my voice. “You’re all but spilling out the top.” She’s always been more endowed than me in that area, but this is immodest even by her standards. I imagine her sitting upstairs, plumping and padding, just another feather in her hook to snare Mr. Barrett. Or Pierce. Whoever it is that she feels like playing with today. “That button is near bursting off.”
She gives me a look of utter disdain, and then breezes past to welcome Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce.
Emeline is already chattering excitedly, leading Mr. Barrett by the hand straight through the hall and to the back door. I intercept them.
“Let’s offer our guests something to drink first, shall we? I’m sure they’re parched.”
Mr. Pierce’s waistcoat is partially unbuttoned and his lank hair rakishly slicked forward. He barely bobs his head at me before his eyes alight on Catherine, taking her hand with a wolfish grin. I send Emeline with instructions for Ada to bring refreshments to the parlor, and then fall into step beside Mr. Barrett.
He’s watching Catherine and Mr. Pierce with a little frown, his eyes melancholy. I want to say something to him, to have him say something back. I want him to turn those blue-green eyes on me and look at me the same way Mr. Pierce is looking at my sister right now. But all my words get tangled up in my head and the only thing I can think to say is, “They make a handsome couple, don’t they?”
Honestly, of all the things to say. I burn as Mr. Barrett glances down at me, but the look is fleeting and he returns his attention back to them. He’s standing very close and, despite the heat, a little flutter runs through me when his sleeve brushes my arm.
“Yes,” he says. “They do.”
We sit in the parlor, Mr. Pierce and Catherine whispering to one another. Mr. Pierce leans in close to her, and Catherine sweeps her lashes down, occasionally tilting her head back and laughing. Her color is high; she must be feeling better. Emeline monopolizes Mr. Barrett, lecturing him on the habits of mermaids and asking if he thinks there might be one in the pond.
“There might be, I’m not sure.”
He’s distracted. Emeline doesn’t notice, but he keeps glancing up at Mr. Pierce and Catherine, and he doesn’t look pleased. His fair brow is clouded, his jaw tense. How is it that Catherine can have not one, but two men vying for her attention? I might as well be invisible.
Ada presses a glass of something cold into my hand and I sip it automatically as I study him. He has
the face of a classical statue, all strong angles rendered soft and beautiful as if by a practiced sculptor. His eyes are the misty green of shipwreck glass, and indeed I fear they could lure me to a stormy fate. Because if I’m understanding the look he keeps throwing in Mr. Pierce’s direction, he’s jealous of his friend. The light fluttery feeling in my stomach hardens and sours.
Damn Catherine. Damn her and her beauty and her cunning and the way she always comes out on top. And damn John Barrett too. I hardly know him, yet I would have thought someone so grounded, so sober, would be impervious to her charms.
The drinks are finished and Emeline is near to bouncing out of her skin. I clear my throat, bringing Mr. Barrett out of his reverie, and Catherine and Mr. Pierce out of their private conversation. “Should we go for a walk?”
* * *
Outside, the thickness of the air hits me like a wall, and I immediately wish I had finished that drink. Emeline skips ahead. Where does she get that endless energy? It’s a labor just to breathe in this heat and humidity. We’re barely out of the yard when Catherine stops in her tracks, her arm laced through Mr. Pierce’s.
“Mr. Pierce wishes to see...” She trails off, giggling into his shoulder. “What was it you wanted to see, Mr. Pierce?”
“Rumor has it you have the finest...roses...in New Oldbury,” Mr. Pierce declares with good humor, “and your sister has graciously offered to show me.”
They head off in the opposite direction.
“Your sister is rather fond of roses,” Mr. Barrett observes.
I look up at him, surprised. But then, of course he would remember that she was arranging roses the other day, and he probably saved the one she gave him as a keepsake.
“I suppose so.” I don’t care what flowers Catherine likes. I don’t care what little tricks and pretty things she says to get her way.
“And you, what’s your favorite flower?”
He’s either trying to be polite, or mask the fact that he’s interested in Catherine’s preferences. I shrug, hardly attempting to keep the irritation from my voice. “Foxglove, I suppose,” I say offhandedly. “Or poppies.”
Emeline is growing restless. “We can look at flowers on the way,” she says, before Mr. Barrett can respond. Then she’s dragging him by the hand down the path.
“In the poem the mermaids ride dolphins and wear crowns of seaweed and pearls. Catherine says they aren’t real but she’s never looked so how can she know for sure?”
Mr. Barrett slowly brings his attention back to us and looks down at her. “Well, she may be right. You probably won’t find any mermaids in the pond.”
Emeline’s face falls. I’m torn between scooping her up and hugging her or giving Mr. Barrett a harsh word.
But before I can do either, he’s crouching down and squinting off in the direction of the pond. Then he shakes his head. “No, this isn’t the right weather for mermaids,” he says solemnly.
Emeline studies his face, not sure if he’s putting her on or not. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he says, frowning as if in deep thought, “mermaids usually keep to the ocean. That’s where all the dolphins and pearls are after all. No, I shouldn’t think the mermaids would trouble themselves with a little pond.” Seeing her face, he quickly amends, “Unless perhaps they are at the deepest part, where humans can’t find them. Quite shy, are mermaids.”
She stares at him, enraptured. Then she turns to me, hands on hips. “We just came from the ocean and I never thought to look for a mermaid in the harbor.” Exasperated, she heaves a sigh and tramps on ahead of us.
I can’t help smiling, and I almost forgive Mr. Barrett his weakness for falling under Catherine’s sway. Almost.
8
I’M WALKING A few steps behind them. Mr. Barrett has stripped down to his waistcoat, his riding coat slung over his arm, white sleeves rolled up revealing tanned arms taut with lean muscles. Perhaps there are some benefits to this heat after all.
Snip bounces at Emeline’s and Mr. Barrett’s ankles, then doubles back to make sure I’m coming before bounding off again. I can’t help but think of the day I met Mr. Barrett in the woods and how different he had been then, smiling and warm and eager. And then he had found out who we were and the door slammed shut.
We climb the little hill behind the house, past the summerhouse and back down into the woods. Sunlight filters in through the glass-green canopy above. It’s cooler here, but only just, and the air is thicker with moisture. I wipe the sweat from my brow and wish I hadn’t done my laces so tightly this morning.
The air is quiet and still, charged with an uneasy energy. It’s an alive thing, prickly and filled with restless spirits. Cicadas and crickets grind away, and bullfrogs hold their breath until we pass, then join the chorus. If I stand still and listen closely it almost sounds like whispers. Yet for all the oppressive heat, the farther away from the house we get, the lighter I feel, as if a weight is gradually being lifted from my shoulders. I run to catch up with Emeline and Mr. Barrett.
A bird calls out above us, and a moment later a streak of yellow flashes between the branches. “Oh! That looks like a golden thrush, doesn’t it, Mr. Barrett? A male, I believe.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. A golden thrush,” he agrees. For a moment he doesn’t say anything else and I wonder if he’s even paying attention. But then he slants a glance down at me, the corner of his lips quirking up ever so slightly. “You know your birds, Miss Montrose.”
I quickly look away, trying to keep my smile from growing too broad under his gaze. “Some. I’m sure I would love to learn more about them, if only I had a teacher.”
Where did that come from? I sound like Catherine. I hazard a quick peek up at him but he’s already looking away, scanning the trees for other birds, presumably.
The truth is, I don’t really know anything about any species of birds, aside from the most common ones. We had gulls and sparrows in Boston, some doves I think. Here, I might be able to point out a cardinal or jay, but that’s where my knowledge ends. That might not even have been a golden thrush for all I know. As soon as I had learned Mr. Barrett was coming over today, I pulled out all the volumes of Histoire Naturelle in our library and pored over the colorful plates, trying to memorize as much as I could. After hours of study all I had to show for it was an aching back and dried-out eyes. Who would have thought there were so many species of the creatures?
Mr. Barrett and Emeline are a little way ahead. His hand is light at Emeline’s elbow as he helps her navigate a tangle of roots, the graceful line of his broad shoulders bent endearingly close to her. For a moment I consider pretending to stumble so that he’ll come back and take my elbow, but as soon as the thought forms, I dismiss it. I won’t stoop to Catherine’s level of tricks and deceits.
When the trees clear I catch my breath. The little patch of shimmering green gives way to a full view of the pond. It’s beautiful, and I can see why it has captured Emeline’s imagination. Rocks edge the water, green and slick, and a weeping willow’s tendrils dip into the glassy surface. It would be the perfect place for a mermaid to emerge and lounge in the sun.
“Be careful, Emmy,” I call to her as she bolts ahead, stick in hand, eager to stir at the water and find her aquatic friends. Snip yelps happily as he tries to steal her stick away.
“I am being careful!” she yells back, her voice equal measures of irritation at being parented and excitement to finally be here. “After the mermaids I’m going to find the boy and we’ll all play together.”
I shrug; it’s impossible to keep up with all her fancies and play stories. “Just don’t go so close to the edge.”
Mr. Barrett stands rigid as he watches her go, squinting against the sun. He looks uncomfortable, as if he wants to say something.
“She’ll be fine,” I say. “I’ll make sure she minds herself.” It’s sweet that he’s concerned fo
r her, but with Emeline busy she won’t be able to let anything slip like Catherine was so worried she would.
With a wary eye still trained on her, he lays his coat beneath the willow and extends his hand. I press my own into his and he guides me down. It’s the first time we’ve touched like that, skin to skin, our fingers twined. That day in the woods when we met he had been wearing gloves, and I’ve been waiting since then to feel his touch again. A tingle runs through my arm and blooms in my stomach. I catch my breath and carefully look out the corner of my eye to see if he felt it too. But his face betrays nothing as he settles down beside me.
I make sure that Emeline is still in my line of sight before I allow myself to enjoy his company. He’s so close that I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way the sun catches and filters through his thick, golden lashes. Maybe he wishes that it was him inspecting Catherine’s roses right now instead of Mr. Pierce, but he’s here all the same, with me. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I feel safe when he’s nearby. Not that there’s any reason I should be afraid. It’s more like finding something you never knew you were missing. The bad dreams, the unsettling occurrences of the past weeks all melt away when I’m with him. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, sitting here beside him watching the pond is enough. This moment is enough.
“How do you like your new home of Willow Hall, Miss Montrose?” He’s not looking at me, and his question startles me out of my thoughts.
“Well enough,” I say. I don’t tell him that I abhor the house with its heavy, watching walls, nor that I can feel the displeasure of the woods for having been felled for such a creation. I don’t tell him that since coming I haven’t had a full night’s sleep, and what sleep I’ve had is filled with disturbing dreams. I certainly don’t tell him about Mother’s wails or the woman in the garden, the writing in the mirror.
“I’m glad to hear it.” His voice is distant, almost wistful. I want to ask him why he was so surprised, so unsettled when we first met him and he learned that we were his business partner’s daughters. Why do his beautiful eyes hold so much sadness? Why does he never smile in my presence like he did that first day?
