The Witch Of Willow Hall. Hester Fox
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that his father was dead? I couldn’t have, yet my stomach is still in knots over the way his eyes clouded when I mentioned his father, the change that passed over his face. I wish I could take it back, not for me, but to save him from any heartache and discomfort.
Catherine brushes by me and whispers, “His mother is dead too, you ought to know. Mr. Pierce told me.”
I start to say something but clamp my mouth back shut. What’s the use? I sit in penitent silence as Catherine takes up with Mr. Pierce across the room. My coffee grows tepid and undrinkable. When I look up I find that Mr. Barrett’s studying me out of the corner of his eye. I color and quickly look away. He must be wondering what to make of me, how one sister can be so charming and polite, and the other such an utter dolt.
“It’s too hot for coffee,” Emeline announces suddenly, even though she’s not allowed to have a sip of the beverage. “It’s too hot for dresses and shoes and hair and fingernails. It’s too hot for stockings and feathers and fur.”
Mr. Barrett and Father break off their conversation, and silence falls over the parlor. Mother shoots our guests an apologetic look and then a pleading one at Emeline. “I’m so sorry. It’s past her bedtime and she’s getting tired.”
But Emeline isn’t done. She’s goes over to Mr. Barrett and looks up at him. “It’s too hot,” she repeats. “And I’m not tired at all. There’s a pond behind the house, did you know? I want to go to the pond and see the mermaids.”
I should take her upstairs to bed, but I don’t move. Mr. Barrett is looking down at her with a queer expression, a crease between his brows. She takes his hand in hers. His aren’t tapered and elegant like Cyrus’s; Mr. Barrett’s hands are capable, strong, and Emeline’s hand completely disappears in his. “Please, let’s go to the pond where it’s cool and we can swim with the mermaids. I want to go play with the little boy at the pond.”
“What little boy? What on earth are you talking about, Emmy?” But Emeline ignores Mother’s question and her lip begins to tremble when it becomes clear that she isn’t going to get her way.
By this time even Catherine and Mr. Pierce have paused in their giggles and whispers and both are staring. Crimson spreads over Catherine’s face. “Really, Emeline. Leave poor Mr. Barrett alone.”
Mother gets up slowly, and I can tell she doesn’t have the energy for this. “It’s dark out, Emmy. And Mr. Pierce and Mr. Barrett have business to discuss with your father.” She reaches out to take her hand, but Emeline dives out of her grasp.
I’m mortified. I understand Emeline, but Mr. Barrett will never return to our house if she behaves like this. I try to catch her attention, but she misses the cautioning look.
“I don’t want to go to bed!” I’ve never seen Emeline in such a pout before. She must be tired beyond reason, and the heat certainly isn’t helping. Hands clenched at her sides, she looks as if she’s on the verge of bursting into tears. But instead she just stomps her little foot.
But just as her foot comes down on the carpet, the doors slam shut with a great bang.
Mother jumps, Catherine lets out a little cry and Father’s eyebrows look as if they are about to fly off his face. The room goes silent, the only movement the residual wobbling of a vase on the table.
We all look at each other. Even Emeline looks surprised, because if we didn’t know better, it was almost as if she caused the doors to fly shut with her foot.
Father is the first to speak. He clears his throat and glances around. “Must be the wind,” he mumbles. “You think you have a house built new and it wouldn’t be full of drafts and loose doors, but I suppose there’s no such thing as peace of mind in New England construction.”
Mother is quick to agree with him, and Mr. Pierce gives a dubious nod. But we all know that there was no breeze, that it’s been so still that a feather would have hardly quivered, let alone two doors slamming. No one wants to say so though at the risk of frightening Emeline.
Then, without warning, Mr. Barrett goes to Emeline and, dropping to his knee, puts his hands on her shoulders. He peers at her curiously, and when he speaks, it’s slow and gentle, so soft that I have to strain to hear him. “Your mother’s right, Miss Montrose. It’s late and I’m sure that it’s almost my bedtime as well. But perhaps you’ll be so kind to invite August and myself back soon, and then we could have the pleasure of being escorted around the grounds by yourself. And your sisters,” he adds, glancing at me. His blue-green eyes still hold a note of sadness, but there’s no trace of anger or bitterness. With Emeline’s outburst, my blunder must have been forgotten, or at the very least, forgiven.
I catch my breath. Emeline looks unsure, her bottom lip trembling. But ultimately she nods, even going so far as to brush his cheek with a kiss. He gives her a faint smile in return before standing and passing her off to Mother, who ushers her out of the parlor to Ada.
Despite Father’s assurance that it must have been the breeze, an uncomfortable pall hangs over the rest of the evening. There are a few false starts in conversation as we struggle to fill the void, but it’s eventually Father, who has looked exceedingly uncomfortable throughout this whole exchange, who picks up the conversation with Mr. Barrett again as if nothing happened. He has found a great friend in Mr. Barrett, who can rattle off figures and calculate the profit in a spool of wool or a cord of lumber just as easily as he. They’re engrossed in a debate about the merits of some new kind of waterwheel, so neither notices the very friendly tête-à-tête that has resumed in the corner.
The lamplight illuminates Catherine’s hair, giving her something of a halo. She’s laughing behind her hand, eyes sparkling. She hangs on Mr. Pierce’s every word as if he’s the most interesting person she’s ever met. I suppose it doesn’t matter if it’s Mr. Barrett or Mr. Pierce that’s paying her attention, so long as someone is.
And August Pierce is very handsome, I’ll give Catherine that. He must know he is too, judging by the way he’s always smiling, almost smirking, at nothing in particular. I doubt he takes anything very seriously in life, including himself.
I’m not the only one watching Catherine. Mother is feigning interest in her syllabub, pushing it around with her spoon, but I see her studying her eldest daughter. Why doesn’t she say something? Catherine’s behavior is bordering on the improper, and the last thing we need is more fuel for rumors and gossip. But then Mother catches my eye. I’ve never seen that expression on her before, one of trepidation, cautious optimism and, most of all, relief. Then it dawns on me: Mother thinks that perhaps Catherine might be married after all.
And if Catherine could be married, then I could as well.
IT MIGHT BE the heat, or that I can’t get the image of Mr. Barrett’s sad eyes gazing at me unstuck from my head, but I can’t sleep that night. When I can’t stand the scratchy feel of my eyelids anymore or the sheets sticking to the backs of my thighs, I get up from bed and pour myself a glass of water from the ewer in the corner. Opening the window, I slowly drink my water, hoping for a scrap of a breeze blowing in from the yard. But the night is still and unyielding.
I’m just about to turn from the window and go back to bed, when a movement in the yard below catches the corner of my eye.
At first it looks like a bird taking wing into the night, a pale splash of movement. But when I look harder I see that’s not a bird, but a person. A woman. I’m still drowsy, so it doesn’t seem so ridiculous that perhaps it’s Ada out in the garden, though doing what I can’t imagine. But then the clock in the hall strikes three. What on earth would she be doing out there at this time of the morning?
I put down my glass and press myself against the edge of the window frame, peering out from the side so that I can’t be seen from below. Maybe it’s a vagrant, hungry and in search of food. But the garden is barren, and they’ll find no food there. Or perhaps it’s