The Witch Of Willow Hall: A spellbinding historical fiction debut perfect for fans of Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. Hester Fox
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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.
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