The Witch Of Willow Hall: A spellbinding historical fiction debut perfect for fans of Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. Hester Fox
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about the way she’s moving. It takes me a few more moments to place it, and when I do, I catch my breath.
She’s gliding.
She moves as if she were walking on air. It’s not a natural movement, and my skin prickles. The shopkeeper’s sensational warning about ghosts suddenly doesn’t seem so silly or impossible.
I watch her another few moments, holding my breath. That’s all she does, glides back and forth, back and forth, the pale silk of her dress billowing out behind her despite the lack of breeze.
My legs are jelly and my heart pounding, but I won’t be able to go back to bed and sleep a wink so long as I know she’s out there. I have to go out and set my mind at ease.
Silently, I tiptoe through the house and to the back door. I take a deep breath before pushing the door open. Tentatively, I step outside and peer into the thick night air.
There’s nothing there. The garden, just visible in the moonlight, with its thirsty shrubs and prickly flower stalks sits benignly in the yard, returning my vacant stare in equal measure. But there’s no woman.
My knees go weak with relief and I have to brace myself against the door. I could laugh. It was someone snooping about, and they heard me coming and fled. In the morning I’ll have to let Joe know that we might need a guard dog, or at the very least, a fence. I go back upstairs, climb into my bed and, with a body made weary with relief, drift off to sleep.
* * *
I don’t know who’s more excited to hear Mr. Barrett’s light knock at the door the next day. Snip howls in delight and skids through the hall, circling Ada’s heels as she tries to open the door, Emeline trotting close behind with her half-braided hair falling out of its ribbon.
Catherine lays aside the limp roses and lilies she’s been arranging and passes a light hand over her curls. Sitting up a little straighter, I put my book down. I wish Mother had asked me to do the flowers. I always make a mess of them, but at least it would be me looking flushed and pretty when Mr. Barrett is shown in, a white rose stem in my hand. As it is, I’m bone tired from my bad dream last night. Because that’s what it was, I’ve decided—a dream. Somewhere in that hazy margin between sleep and wakefulness, I must have thought I saw something. In the light of day and now that Mr. Barrett is here, it all seems faraway and unimportant.
He’s not hugely tall, but when Mr. Barrett walks in it feels as if the walls and ceiling fall away around him. He fills the room with his quiet force, as electrifying and still as the moment before a storm breaks. Even Snip feels it, for he stops his nervous circling and sits patiently beside Mr. Barrett’s leg, looking up and waiting to be petted.
Emeline is already prattling on about the pond and mermaids and even faeries, which are a new interest. He nods down at her politely, not saying anything.
“Emeline, for goodness sake, take a breath. Didn’t Mother ask you to help her with the blackberries in the kitchen?”
This morning I had wanted to talk to Emeline about her tantrum the night before with the slamming doors, but when it came down to it I couldn’t figure out what I was trying to say. So I settled with, “Emeline, have you been feeling quite all right lately? You like it here?”
She had looked at me as if I was asking her if the sky was blue. “Yes. I love it here, don’t you?”
I had agreed that I did, and let the subject drop. No one else has brought it up, and so even though it makes me feel uneasy every time I think of the doors slamming shut in unison with her stomping foot, I’ve pushed it to the back of my mind. Like my bad dream, it melts away in my excitement to see Mr. Barrett.
But now, at the prospect of being sent away from Mr. Barrett, Emeline pouts, looking like she might break into tears, and that’s when I realize that all of us Montrose girls are smitten with John Barrett. For a moment I’m even afraid that we might have a repeat of the other night. But the tears hold, and she shoots Catherine a reproachful look before dragging her feet back out of the parlor. Usually I would tell Catherine not to talk to her like that, except Mr. Barrett is right there, and I’m inwardly grateful that Emeline can’t monopolize his attention now.
“I’m sorry to barge in here like this,” Mr. Barrett says, “but I had a meeting with your father and it seems he’s not quite ready for me yet.”
“Oh, you aren’t barging—”
“Mr. Barrett, you are doing no such thing.” Catherine sweeps to her feet and links her arm in his. “Please, sit down and do us the favor of entertaining us while you wait.”
As he obediently seats himself Catherine arches a triumphant brow at me. The battle lines have been drawn. Let her play her game. And that’s all it is to her. She can’t possibly be interested in Mr. Barrett, not seriously. Not after the way she dropped him like a hot coal last night when she saw Mr. Pierce.
They chat a little, Catherine commenting on the weather and Mr. Barrett agreeing that the heat has been unbearable lately. If he’s suffering he doesn’t look it; his collar is crisp and his clothes pristine. I feel rumpled and stale in my dress, the straggling hair at my neck damp and unpleasant. A couple of times he directs a comment in my direction, but Catherine is quick, reeling him back in to her with a little laugh or foolish question. I arrange my book in my lap so that I can sneak a few sentences at a time; if I’m not to be included in their conversation then what’s the harm in doing a little reading?
“Miss Montrose?”
When I look up, Mr. Barrett is crouching beside my chair and I nearly drop my book in surprise. I hadn’t meant to get lost in the story and lose track of time. I dart a glance at Catherine who is scowling, but also making a great show of drawing her needle in long pulls through her embroidery.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “That must be quite the book.”
“Oh, yes.” I don’t know where to look. Certainly not directly in his eyes because then I wouldn’t be able to think straight.
Unperturbed by my ghastly manners, Mr. Barrett tips his head to see the title. “The Monk.”
The book is well-worn with little slivers of paper marking some of my favorite passages, and the spine is as creased as a bellows. “Yes,” I say again, even though he wasn’t asking anything.
“I’m not familiar with it.”
A loud sigh escapes Catherine from the other side of the room.
“You’ve really never heard of it?”
“I confess I haven’t,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “Will you enlighten me?”
There’s a warmth in his eyes that I haven’t seen before, bolstering my confidence, and I’m relieved to have the opportunity to smooth over my careless comments from dinner last night. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m giving him a detailed summary in a breathless rush, going back when I forget certain parts, and miming the best scenes. When I finally realize how long I’ve been talking I clamp my mouth shut, the blood rushing to my face.
I think he’s going to laugh—I’m certain I heard Catherine snickering once or twice—and my cheeks burn as I study the gilded cover. But when Mr. Barrett speaks there’s no hint of ridicule in his voice, and to his credit he looks only slightly overwhelmed.
“Well,” he says at last, “I can see why it has so captured your attention.”
I want to insist that he borrow it. How it would thrill me to know that his eyes passed over the same lines of text as me, to know that his soul is stirred as mine is by the passionate love of Alphonso and Agnes.
“Are you a reader, Mr. Barrett?”
“I’m confess I’m not much for books,” he says.
Catherine seizes her chance. “Of course not, you’re much too busy running the mill, I expect.”
“Business does have a