The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  He has his knees drawn up, arms casually crossed over them as he squints off across the pond. “See that line of pine trees there? No, a bit to the right.” He points. “There. That’s where my property edges yours.”

  “Oh,” I say, a bit taken aback. “I didn’t know we were neighbors.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Though when I sold this parcel to your father, I was under the impression it would be used only for a small office, perhaps a summer home.” He lapses back into silence before adding, “I know you like to explore, but you should have a care when wandering around the woods by yourself.”

  Maybe that’s why he was so surprised to meet us, why he’s so reserved around us still. He had sold his land under one pretense, only to see it used for another. And now he’s afraid that I’ll trespass on his property.

  “I hope I don’t come to regret it,” he says. It’s not clear if he’s speaking to me; he’s still watching Emeline, tensing when she gets too close to the water. She’s having a time of it, dancing under the feathery willow boughs, making a little crown for herself out of daisy stems. I’m too taken aback at his frankness to return her smile.

  He stops when he realizes that I’m watching him. Seeing my expression he hastily adds, “It’s only that the land is so wild, it’s not a comfortable place for a family.”

  It’s a lie. He doesn’t want us here. Our conversation trails off, I have no clue what to say next and Mr. Barrett won’t even look at me. I’m not upset, not really. It’s so beautiful here, wild woods or not, yet I can’t help but feel uncomfortable, as if there’s an undefinable wrongness about the place. The trees and creatures here have no need of my family, and they watch us with wary, slightly accusatory eyes, the way Mr. Barrett must.

  There’s something comforting about knowing that Mr. Barrett lives nearby though, just out of sight. I want to make him glad that he did sell the land and that we’re neighbors now. I want to say that whatever he heard about Boston, the things that happened there weren’t true.

  But he’s distracted, peering off into the woods and fiddling with a loose button on his discarded coat. The heat prickles and I’m having trouble concentrating because I know he’s thinking about Catherine with Mr. Pierce. Is that what today was supposed to be? Some sort of wager laid down between the two men to see who could win Catherine? Suddenly sitting here beside him is not enough. The empty place that I didn’t even know I contained is aching with want, trembling with fear that it may never be filled.

  Abruptly, Mr. Barrett springs up, disrupting the still air and peering off into the woods behind us.

  “What is it? Is everything all right?”

  “Er...yes.” He drops his gaze from the woods, a hint of color creeping up from his collar. “I thought I saw something,” he mumbles as he sits back down. “It was nothing.”

  We sit in silence. Is he looking for Catherine and Mr. Pierce? Did he think he saw them, and was eager to join them after all? If sitting here beside him is not enough for me, it seems it is certainly not enough for him either.

  Cyrus taught me that no man would ever want me for anything other than my family’s money, and this was something that I always accepted about myself. But with Mr. Barrett I saw a brief glimmer of hope, that maybe, just maybe, there was more for me. A heaviness presses against my chest.

  “Miss Montrose, are you all right?” His gaze has been darting about, ever watchful, as if at any moment he expects someone to materialize from the trees. But now it lands on me.

  “What?” His eyes have lost some of their distance. I color, sure that he could read my thoughts as I stared at him. “Oh, yes. Fine. I’m fine.” But I’m not. There’s something wrong, I can feel it. I’ve been jealous before, angry, but this is more than just a passing melancholy mood. It’s as if a dark mist is creeping at the edge of my mind, curling gnarled fingers around me, fogging my thoughts with terrible and ugly feelings. I take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the sensation.

  He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re very pale. Are you sure?”

  “Am I?” I attempt a careless laugh but it comes out in a choke. “It’s just the heat. I think maybe I need to lie down.”

  Mr. Barrett is already on his feet offering me his arm, and I shakily accept it. “Let me walk you back,” he says, peering down into my face. “I’m afraid that I’ve said something to upset you.” He looks genuinely remorseful.

  The dark mist curls further into my mind—I can’t think straight. My temple throbs. I must get away from this place, this man. I don’t like the dark turn my thoughts have taken sitting out here with him. I don’t like the jealousy and anger that’s simmering beneath my breast. My heart beats hard, every palpitation a threatening command of Just go. Just go. Just go. Deep within me I know that if I don’t leave, all of that anger and frustration will come erupting out of me in a way I can’t control. Just like that day with Tommy Bishop, a singsong voice says in my mind. Just go. Just go.

  But what do I have to be so angry about? I try to shake the fog from my mind, to remember what we were speaking about even a few moments ago. All I know is that I can’t be here right now. I have to leave.

  “No, no. Please, stay with Emeline.” I wave off his polite concern. “I just need to get out of this heat and rest.”

  Mr. Barrett takes a sharp breath, and I follow his line of sight. Emeline. Emeline is gone.

  In the midst of my jealousy and anger, I forgot to watch her, to make sure she was all right. The dark thoughts dissipate, a hundred snakes slithering back from whence they came, as a knot of unease settles in my chest.

  She must have gotten bored while Mr. Barrett and I were talking, ignoring her. “She can’t have gotten far,” I say, though my voice trembles, belying my misgivings.

  Mr. Barrett is already snatching up his coat, his jaw clenched tight and eyes scanning the surrounding trees. He heads off back into the woods, and I have to jog just to catch up with him. His tense silence compounds my uneasiness and I start to feel real panic. What if she got lost in the woods going back to the house? What if someone, some malicious vagabond wandering through our property stole her away? My blood goes cold. What if those words in the mirror weren’t my imagination at all, but some sort of warning? I hike my skirts to my knees, running as Mr. Barrett increases his pace.

  We are just coming up the hill toward the summerhouse, when a crashing in the trees stops us. My heart leaps to my throat and Mr. Barrett comes to an abrupt halt, putting out a hand to keep me back.

  The brush rustles with movement, and then a moment later out tumbles a giggling Catherine, Mr. Pierce on her heels.

  I let out a deflated breath, relieved that it wasn’t something malevolent, but irritated that we’re losing time looking for Emeline when it’s only Catherine making a spectacle out of herself.

  Mr. Barrett parts his lips as if he wants to ask his friend what they were doing, but one look between them tells the whole story; Catherine’s hair is unkempt, her color high and Mr. Pierce’s collar is undone. But there’s no time to chastise her for her careless, lewd, behavior.

  “Lydia!” Catherine looks up at me in surprise, a tipsy smile lingering at her lips. “What are you doing here?”

  “Emeline is missing,” I snap at her.

  The smile fades as Catherine’s gaze flicks between Mr. Barrett and me. She looks more annoyed than worried. “I thought you said you were going to watch her.”

  I bite my tongue and resist the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her. She’s right, but there’s no time to bicker about it.

  Mr. Barrett takes charge. “August and I will go back out to the road. Miss Montrose, you and your sister go back to Willow Hall. Send word if you find her before us, and we’ll do likewise.” His tone is commanding, and I’m too sick with worry to do anything other than obey.

  9

  MY KNEES GO weak with relief wh
en we come back down the hill and around the front of the house to see Snip dozing in the sun on the lawn. A little ways away a horse has been carelessly hitched to the fence; Mother must have a caller, and Emeline has joined them. My heart rate slows. All that worry was for nothing after all. Emeline is safe and sound.

  “There,” says Catherine in a grumble. “She just went back to the house. You needn’t have made such a fuss and driven Mr. Pierce away.”

  I grit my teeth. “Why don’t you go find Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce and let them know that Emeline is safe? They can’t have gotten far.”

  Catherine looks as if she wants to argue, but then clamps her mouth shut. An opportunity to have both Mr. Pierce and Mr. Barrett to herself is simply too good for her to pass up, so she turns on her heel and stalks off to the road.

  I take a deep breath, watching her go before I square my shoulders and go inside. I hate having to be the one to discipline Emeline, but someday she’ll get herself into real trouble if she doesn’t learn to listen, and God knows Mother won’t be the one to do it. I only hope that Emeline isn’t pestering Mother’s caller.

  But when I step into the parlor, it’s not one of Mother’s callers that Emeline is bombarding with questions.

  “Cyrus?” At the sound of my voice the young man that had been lounging by the window with a bored expression springs up. What on earth is he doing in New Oldbury, in our parlor? It’s almost as outlandish as if Napoleon had stormed in for a cup of tea. But here he is standing before me in his fine double-breasted coat, his short black hair usually so trim and precise, sticking up at odd angles.

  “Lydia,” he says, with his honey-smooth voice. “Forgive me for intruding, but Miss Emeline was kind enough to invite me inside.” He runs a hand through his ruffled hair and flashes me an apologetic smile. “I’ve just arrived from Boston and haven’t even gone to my inn yet. I wanted to see you first.”

  I don’t even know how to respond to him. Is this the same Cyrus Thompson who said he could never see me again? The same Cyrus Thompson who sealed my family’s fate in society when he severed our engagement? I take a deep breath. One thing at a time. Turning to Emeline, I try to plaster a stern expression on my face. “You gave us an awful fright running off like that without a word,” I say, conscious that Cyrus is watching us with his sharp brown eyes. “Go up to your room to clean up and we’ll talk later.”

  Emeline shrugs, giving me a sly look. “If you hadn’t been so busy with Mr. Barrett you’d have heard me say I was going back to the house.”

  My gaze involuntarily flickers to Cyrus at this, and one of his dark brows rises in interest.

  “We’ll discuss this later,” I hiss at her, and with a reproachful “hmph” she leaves me alone in the parlor with my ex-fiancé.

  “She’s gotten so tall,” Cyrus muses, his gaze following her to the door. When it shuts, his eyes land back on me. “You two used to have such adventures together, I remember. Always coming home muddy from tramping all over Boston, full of fantastic stories.”

  I’m surprised he remembers anything about our time in Boston. I’ve hardly spared a thought for Cyrus these past months, and I figured he would have done the same with me. We might have been engaged once, but we rarely saw each other, and after he broke it off I was more upset for my family’s sake than any idea that he might have loved me. When he showed up in Boston to let me know the engagement was off, I was taken aback that he delivered the news in person rather than with a note. Now here he is in our parlor on the other side of the state, fondly remembering little details about our old life.

  But I’m in no mood for small talk and I gloss over his pleasantries. “What brings you to New Oldbury?” I ask coolly.

  He gestures that I should sit, but when I remain standing he shrugs and seats himself on one of the chairs. “I’m in town on business for my father.”

  “You came to New Oldbury on business?” My disbelief must show on my face, because he cocks his head and breaks into one of his dazzling smiles.

  “Your father isn’t the only one who sees that New Oldbury is a ripe plum for the picking when it comes to mills. Or that mills are where the real money is to be made these days.”

  I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to find the words to address him. Cyrus is a relic of a terrible time in our lives, and he belongs in Boston, in the past. “And you came to find me to tell me this?”

  In an instant he’s up out of the chair, dark gaze locked on me. He moves a step closer, his expression fervent and amused. “Business isn’t the only reason I came, Lydia.”

  I take an awkward step back. He’s not saying what I think he’s saying, is he? “I...what? You can’t be serious.”

  Ignoring my incredulous tone, he launches into his appeal. “I had to see you. I...” He places his hat on the chair and closes the distance between us, taking my hands in his. He’s looking right into me with his dark eyes. “Everything that happened in Boston, it was a mistake. I told my father that I don’t care about the scandal. I made him understand that I’ll have you or nobody. I want you as my wife, Lydia.”

  The wind goes out of me, and I reach back to steady myself against a chair. Closing my eyes, I rock back on my heels, letting the implication of what he’s telling me sink in. I can feel him looking down at me, the firm set of his lips softened with my name still lingering on them.

  Ours was an engagement settled by our parents years ago, a business partnership between our fathers that would benefit our entire family. Even at the age of fourteen I knew that I would never be a beauty like Catherine. It didn’t hurt that Cyrus was tall with dark good looks, and he was always polite. But I never made the mistake of thinking that he loved me, or even that I might love him. Love would come later, Mother had said with forced cheeriness. That was often the way with these kinds of matches. Knowing that I would probably never have the kind of chances Catherine would have—and that Catherine would never allow herself to be used as currency in a business transaction—I agreed. Besides, it made Mother happy to know that I’d be settled and taken care of, and after a few years I’d grown more comfortable with the idea—and with Cyrus. Until I met Mr. Barrett, I had thought that I could be happy with a life like that.

  From somewhere in the house I hear the back door open and then close; Catherine must have taken the back stairs to avoid who she thinks is a caller of Mother’s in the front parlor. Thank God she doesn’t realize that it’s Cyrus, or she would never let me hear the end of it.

  “Why now?”

  His hands are around my waist. How many times did I lie awake at night, imagining what this would feel like? Not with Cyrus, but some adoring man, his features obscured by darkness, fingertips warm with love as he trailed them down my body. But the reality is nothing like my naive fantasies and I feel uncomfortable, not enraptured.

  “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.” He’s nuzzling my neck, the tender spot behind my ear. “I’ve missed you every day since you left.”

  I stiffen as he combs his fingers up through my hair at the nape of my neck, and when he searches for my lips with his, I evade him.

  “Stop, Cyrus.” I push myself back and he looks at me from under his refined brows, his dark eyes making a show of hurt feelings. “Why are you really here?”

  “I just told you. I—”

  “Please, don’t lie to me.”

  His expression loses some of its vulnerability and he drops his hand. “I was going to come anyway.”

  I don’t say anything. My heart rate slows, and the flush of confusion dies.

  Then the ridiculous happens. He drops to one knee, my hand in his as he looks up at me, pleading. “Don’t be this way. Lydia—”

  “Get up this instant!” I hiss, darting a glance over my shoulder, sure that I heard a footstep in the hall. I yank back my hand, throwing his balance. Cursing, he lands hard on his backside, crumpl
ing his carefully pressed coattails.

  This seems to snap him out of it. “Oh, all right. Just don’t look at me like that, would you?” He huffs to his feet, brushing off the crumbs of indignity. “The business has not survived since your father left. We...we’re in a very bad way, Lyd,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “My father asked me to call on you and see if you would be amenable to renewing our engagement, but I wanted to see you anyway,” he adds hastily. “You have to believe me on that score.”

  I’m not inclined to believe him about anything at the moment. My expression must say as much, because he’s pacing about the room, loosening his cravat and running his hand through his hair.

  I bite the inside of my mouth, trying not to smile. So there is some justice in the world after all. I speak as levelly as I can. “Your father was the one who demanded that mine leave. He said he wouldn’t be in business with a man whose children’s names were always in the papers. If the business is failing, then it’s your fault. Not ours.”

  He stops short, running a finger over one of the green bottles on the table, mementos of our fathers’ shared glass venture in Boston, now used as vases for wildflowers. He glowers at me, those dark eyes no longer beautiful and soft, but calculating and angry. “We were going to be married anyway. What do you care why I came back? What other chances do you think you’ll have? I can save you from the cloud of scandal and a life of loneliness, and you can save me from poverty.”

  The smile fades inside my mouth. He thinks I’m a puppet. I don’t know why I thought that someday maybe he would have looked at me the way other men look at Catherine. The way Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce look at Catherine. I feel cheap, used at his words. He’s right, which makes it hurt all the more.

  “You came all the way here with the intention of charming your way into my good graces, into my family’s money. Go home, Cyrus.”