The Witch of Willow Hall

by Hester Fox

  Pink creeps up his neck past his cravat, his eyebrows stitching closer together into an angry frown. I brace myself for a stern reprimand on trespassing.

  “I’m sorry...” I can’t get my words out through my gasps. The longer he stands there, hair disheveled, sleeve torn, with that bewildered look on his face, the harder I laugh.

  His lips twitch and I do my best to pull myself together and not further injure his dignity. But instead of yelling, demanding to know just what I think I’m doing barging in unannounced, he smiles.

  He smiles with his whole soul. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, John Barrett’s face all lit up, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

  “What?” he asks helplessly. “What is it?”

  I couldn’t even answer him if I wanted to. He blinks slowly, and then he starts laughing too, soft at first, then rich and throaty, every bit as beautiful as his smile.

  “You...” I start again. “The cat’s face...” This sends me into a fresh riot of laughter for no reason.

  When we finally come to our senses, there’s a stitch in my side and Mr. Barrett is wiping his brow. His face is still pink, though whether it’s from the exertion of laughing or embarrassment that I caught him sharing a tender moment with his kitty, I can’t tell.

  He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Well, Miss Montrose,” he says, trying his best to assume a grave expression, “that’s my favorite shirt ruined. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

  “I am,” I say, wiping away the last of my tears, meaning it.

  He flashes me a grin and then unwinds his cravat and starts unbuttoning the torn shirt. “I’ll be sure to tell my housekeeper just whose fault it was that she has to mend it.”

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry and my face growing hot as I realize he means to change his shirt. Desperate not to look like I’m watching, I lean to inspect a framed print on the wall, nearly knocking a vase off the table behind me in the process.

  Mr. Barrett looks around the room as if expecting a spare shirt to be sitting there. Despite my best efforts, he catches my eye before glancing into the hall behind me. “Did you come alone?” His tone is light, but I can’t help but notice the carefully inflected note of hope.

  My mouth still too dry to say anything, I nod. I struggle to keep my eyes trained on his, pretending that I don’t notice the open V of his shirt, showing glimpses of smooth, defined chest muscles, and a light feathering of golden hair that trails down his stomach.

  He holds my gaze for a drawn-out moment, as if not sure how to respond. If he thinks me rash or uncouth for coming unannounced and unescorted, he doesn’t let it show. Besides, he is the one standing in the middle of the room in partial undress. Coming back to himself, he asks, “Will you have a seat? I’ll be right back.”

  I seat myself and watch him leave; he shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off as soon as he’s through the door, and then his footsteps pound up the stairs. I imagine him crossing bare-chested to his wardrobe, pulling out a fresh shirt and sliding it over his broad, muscled shoulders. I can almost feel the cool linen as if it were brushing against my bare flesh. Then, as if he might be able to read my thoughts through the floor, I quickly push the image from my mind.

  I take the opportunity to drink in everything in the room. Did he furnish it himself, picking out the expansive mahogany desk? Father’s desk is always buried under stacks of papers and loose receipts, but Mr. Barrett’s is neat and clean, only a writing set, a slim stack of papers and a couple of books on the polished surface.

  Over the desk hangs a portrait of a beautiful woman wearing the fashion of decades gone by. There’s no mistaking her identity. She has stormy blue eyes, and instead of the fanciful powdered wigs popular in her day, she wears her own abundance of dark blond hair romantically pinned up on her head. With her faraway gaze and a backdrop of clouds rolling across a hilly landscape, the woman cuts an arresting figure, much different than any Puritan Montrose ancestor hanging in our house. Beside her, looking up at his beautiful mama is a wispy little child in white. He bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Barrett, with his blue-green eyes and amber hair. Maybe it’s because I know about his past that I see a sadness in Mr. Barrett’s eyes that his little brother lacks. Moses instead looks self-assured in his status as favorite child, possessive of their mother.

  Mr. Barrett returns buttoning his cuffs, humming under his breath, his hair still sticking up slightly from when he pulled his shirt off. He looks up to see me standing under the painting, studying it, and his face darkens.

  “Is that your mother?” I already know the answer, but maybe if I take the first step, if I show him that I understand, then he’ll open up to me.

  “Yes,” he says shortly, wrestling with the last button without looking up.

  “She was very beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  A chill settles in the room. Quickly, I turn away and my eyes alight on an engraving of a bird. “And this one,” I say lightly, “this must be one of your collection?”

  “Mmm, a wood duck.” His cuffs are buttoned, his hair smoothed back down, and he looks as composed and unruffled as ever. The chill in the room recedes. “Now,” he says, rubbing his hands together and brightening, “would you like some tea? Coffee? Hannah is just in the back and I’m sure—”

  I quickly wave off his offer, though I’m somewhat relieved that his maid is about, that if Catherine asks later I can say I wasn’t completely alone with him. “Oh, no, please don’t put yourself to any trouble. I won’t be staying long.”

  Mr. Barrett raises a brow, and I instantly hear the rudeness in my own words.

  “Well then,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I’d ask you what’s brought you here, but of course I already know the answer.”

  I let out my breath, surprised, but relieved that I won’t have to explain the particulars of Catherine’s errand. “You do?”

  He gestures to the book in my hand. “I said I’d come by for a book, and I’ve been so busy that I’ve completely broken my word.”

  “Oh, no. I—” I stop myself. My side is still sore from laughing. There’s something about Mr. Barrett’s house, something so different than Willow Hall. A lightness. At home I always feel on edge, as if I were holding my breath, waiting for something to happen, and that’s to say nothing of the torturous nights with their evil dreams and the footsteps and wailing. Here I can just be, and with Mr. Barrett no less. I want to bask in his attention for a little while without the shadow of Catherine’s troubles looming over me.

  “No,” I say again, this time with confidence. “You mustn’t apologize for not coming. Here.” I hand him the book and his eyes run over the title. He gives me a smile before placing the book gently on his desk.

  “I wanted to come,” he says. “It’s just this...” He gestures to the modest pile of papers behind him. “This land deal has been taking much longer than I anticipated. We’ve been working late into the evenings, and Mr. Clarke has been stubborn as an ox about signing anything.”

  “But Father says you’ve settled it now. You must be glad.”

  A paper has caught his attention and he frowns. “Mmm,” he says without looking up. There it is again, his detachment that tears him away, as if he has more pressing matters on his mind. Then with a little “tch” of self-reproach he comes back to himself. “I’m sorry.” He puts the paper away.

  “Will you buy more farms along the river now? For more mills?”

  “No. Well, yes, maybe. It depends.”

  I know he’s trying to spare me the tedious business details, but to my surprise, I’m actually interested. I want to know how he spends his days, what kind of documents he signs, where he goes and whom he meets.

  “It depends on the banks, you mean?”

  He leans back against his d
esk, head tilted slightly. He’s looking at me—or rather, through me—and I’m not sure he even heard my question. I’m about to try again when he suddenly asks, “Can I tell you something?”

  “Oh, of course,” I say breathlessly, not in the least curious as to this new direction in the conversation. “You can tell me anything.”

  He gives me an appraising look and nods. “Well, the thing is...” He trails off, rubbing his jaw and a small smile pulling at his lips as if he can’t quite believe what he’s about to admit.

  I’m leaning in so far that I’m in danger of toppling over. I hold my breath, my mind forming scenario after scenario of what it could possibly be that he wants to tell me, and then dismissing them all just as quickly. He’s pulling out of his partnership with Father. He’s moving. He’s engaged. Or just maybe—and I know this one is ridiculous—he’s going to declare his feelings for me.

  22

  “WELL, THE FACT of the matter is that I find milling reprehensible.”

  My breath comes out in a slow, deflated hiss. “Oh,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment. Then, seeing his earnest expression, his eyes seeking mine for some kind of reassurance, I say, “But you’ve such a good head for business, Father always says so. And you’ve been so successful.”

  “To be good at something isn’t to necessarily enjoy it,” he says. A hint of color touches his face. Embarrassed, he forces a smile. “I shouldn’t complain. I don’t know what made me say that, I—”

  “No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine, really. What is it about milling that you don’t like? What would you rather do?”

  He considers the question. “I don’t know,” he says, frowning out the window. “Farming, perhaps.” He hoists himself up on his desk, dangling his legs and bracing his elbows on his knees, like a little boy fishing on the edge of a stream.

  “It’s not so much the product itself. After all, cloth needs to be manufactured and it needs to be done so in the North. And there’s no denying that the industry has made New Oldbury a prosperous outlier. It’s just...” His words trail off. “Have you ever been to a mill, Lydia?”

  A little ball of warmth forms in my stomach when he says my name. “No. Well, only that day that we met you.”

  He nods. “My father’s old mill. I’m talking about a working one though, with a wheel that churns up water, looms that pump so loud that you can’t hear yourself think. Shouts of men over the din and fiber choking the air. Mills are like hungry beasts, and they must be fed a constant diet of labor and wool or cotton or wood. And those in turn must be harvested from somewhere, which in America’s case is in the South by the forced labor of slaves.”

  “It’s a violent sort of business, isn’t it?”

  He had gotten up and was pacing around his desk, but now stops short, staring at me. “Yes,” he says softly. “That’s just it.”

  His gaze lingers on me for a moment and then he clears his throat and starts pacing again. “There’s an ever increasing demand for goods, and as British products come back on the market people will expect a greater variety and at better prices. How many mills will there be in five years? Ten years? Will every river be clogged with competing wheels?”

  I can’t help feel a little ashamed that I ever grudged Catherine for holding Mr. Barrett’s confidence. Surely he would never have spoken to her like this, like an equal. And if he had, she would have had to pretend that she was interested, politely nodding at the right times, demurring. I don’t have to pretend. “And yet, you still do it. Why?”

  “At first it was a way to pay off my father’s debts. But they’ve long since been settled.” He pauses, standing a couple of paces from me, and looking out at me from under shy lashes. When he speaks again his matter-of-fact tone has shifted into something almost eager, his words picking up speed. If I didn’t know better I would say that John Barrett is nervous.

  “I don’t have extravagant needs and could live comfortably enough within my savings and investments. When your father wrote to me about backing a new milling venture in New Oldbury I decided that I would help see it off the ground and then bow out. But—” he gives me a nervous glance “—things have changed. I thought...” He makes a show of clearing his throat and compulsively straightens the stack of papers on his desk. “Well, if a man is to take a wife, he should have a way to provide for her. A bachelor can live well enough off less, but it isn’t fair to ask a woman to live below the means to which she might be accustomed.”

  My body goes rigid. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what he means, except that he must be referring to the mystery fiancée Mrs. Tidewell asked me about. The silence grows very loud and I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

  “Oh,” I finally say. “I see.” If I were better spoken, politer, I might comment that it’s very gracious of him to anticipate the lady’s needs and comforts, and that I’m sure any woman would be lucky to be his wife and mistress of his house. I can’t bring myself to speak about her though, even if she is hypothetical.

  He seems embarrassed and hastily shuffles the papers over and over, not meeting my eye. “Well,” he says, “I’ve taken advantage of your kindness to listen to me ramble on long enough.”

  “You weren’t taking advantage of anything,” I assure him. But something in his expression closes, the animated look replaced with his usual cool mask. He’s done sharing.

  I can’t put off my original errand any longer. “Actually, there was something else besides the book that brought me here.”

  “Oh?”

  I hesitate. “It’s Catherine. She... I was led to believe there was some sort of understanding between her and Mr. Pierce, and now it seems that he’s gone. She’s heartbroken, and I promised her I would try to find out anything I could. And that I would deliver this,” I add, holding out her note.

  I hate lying to Mr. Barrett—Catherine isn’t heartbroken—but what choice do I have? I can’t very well tell him the real reason that she’s so desperate to get her would-be groom back.

  “Did he tell you anything before he left? Give you any clue as to if he might come back?”

  Mr. Barrett takes the letter and sighs. He doesn’t look surprised in the least about the charges laid against his friend. “The thing about August... Well, he’s incapable of taking responsibility for his actions. I’m sure he did feel for your sister, but he’s just as beholden to money and social opinion as his heart. In the end it was his inheritance and the threat of being cast out of his social circle that mattered most. He shouldn’t have been a clod about it though. I told him to let her know in person.”

  It’s just as I expected, and I push aside all the unpleasant thoughts about what this means for Catherine and her child, as well as for the rest of the family. “Well, thank you anyway. I—”

  There’s a knock at the front door, and before I can say anything else Mr. Barrett excuses himself to answer it. I wait while there’s a quick exchange in the hall and then the door closes and he comes back into the room, shrugging on his coat.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes, fine,” Mr. Barrett says waving off my concern as he searches for his hat. “There’s been some sort of fight at the mill between two of the boys. Something about a girl. It seems they nearly took down a loom in the process of establishing their manhood. I need to go make sure that everything is in order and the appropriate parties get a stern lecture.”

  “Of course,” I say, disappointed that I have to leave the cozy study, but aware that I’ve probably stayed too long as it is.

  Mr. Barrett accompanies me outside and looks around. “Did you come on foot?”

  I hesitate, standing on the front steps behind him, desperately searching for some excuse to stay with him. But he’s looking at me expectantly, so I nod.

  “Let me walk back with you to Willow Hall. It looks like rain and I don’t want you ou
t here alone.”

  “Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “I couldn’t let you do that. Aren’t you needed at the mill?”

  “A few minutes won’t make a difference. Let me at least accompany you back as far as the fork to town.”

  He saddles his horse, and then, leading it by the bridle, falls into step beside me.

  I ought to be ashamed of myself, that I reprimanded Catherine for going off with Mr. Pierce unchaperoned and now am walking alone with Mr. Barrett. But this is different, I tell myself. Mr. Barrett isn’t like Mr. Pierce, and besides, there’s no one here to see us. My skin tingles at the thought.

  After the conversation flowed so naturally in his study, now I find myself tongue-tied and slow-witted with Mr. Barrett walking so close beside me. I feel small next to him, coming just up to his shoulder, and the deep blue of his brushed wool coat fills my field of vision when I dare to glance sideways.

  There’s a smile pulling at the corner of his lips and he looks like he wants to say something.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, but the smile wins out. “It’s nothing.”

  “What is it?” I ask, unable to stop my own smile from spreading. “Tell me!”

  He slants a sidelong glance down at me. “You’ll laugh.”

  Now I have to know. “I won’t, I promise!”

  “I’m supposed to believe you can keep that promise after seeing you in stitches this afternoon?”

  I tilt my chin up defiantly, feigning insult. “I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing,” I say in my primmest voice. “I never break my promises.”

  He nods, matching my mock seriousness. “Well then, in that case.” He clears his throat. “I don’t know what made me think of this, but I was just remembering that the first time I came over to your house, I brought a little slice of ham with me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “For Snip,” he explains. “Damn if this isn’t the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever admitted to. I brought it as a sort of bribe, so that he might like me, and in turn, his masters.”