The Witch Of Willow Hall. Hester Fox
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if my dream about the pale lady the other night wasn’t my mind’s way of telling me that I ought to pay more attention to the garden. I haven’t dared breathe a word about it to Emeline because I don’t want to scare her, or to Catherine because she would just laugh at me. It’s bad enough that Catherine saw me flustered and in a panic about the words in the mirror. The more I thought about it as I lay in bed last night, the more I’m convinced that, like the pale lady who has not reappeared, the words were nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Otherwise, how do I explain it?
Our flower garden with the lilacs used to be Mother’s pride and joy, but here she hasn’t shown any interest in the plot behind the house. When I told her I wanted to clean it up and start an herb garden—something she had forbidden in Boston—she had looked pained and told me she didn’t think it was a good idea, but in the end, she had not fought it.
I never understood Mother’s aversion to having a nice herb garden. I have vague memories of my grandmother’s house in Cambridge with an ambling garden behind it, full of every herb and healing plant imaginable. When I was little I used to love to rub my fingers into the bergamot flowers, releasing their spicy scent, and chewing on the leaves of lemon balm. But one day when I had brought Mother a remedy I’d concocted from some of the herbs for her chronic headaches, she had blanched and recoiled from me, telling me that I must never dabble with herbs. Apparently it wasn’t ladylike, or proper for young girls. I can’t remember now.
But now Mother has given up on that, I suppose, not having the energy or inclination to ensure that I’m a proper lady. My hands move automatically, pruning back the plants like mint and chamomile that like to spread, and encouraging the shier plants like hyssop and parsley. For all that I am lousy at arranging flowers and don’t know the first thing about wildlife, it’s almost as if herbs speak to me, telling me what they need. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and survey my progress with pride. Despite the scorching weather, the plot is lush and already teeming with eager plants. It’s miraculous really, like they sprang up overnight. I wonder that the vegetable patch and the flower garden are so withered and decayed, while my little herbs have grown and thrived so quickly.
The back door bangs open, shattering the peace. Emeline cuts directly toward me, little fists balled at her side, brow furrowed in distress. Snip bounds at her heels, wagging his tail furiously as she barrels on.
“It’s not fair!” she shouts before she’s even halfway to the garden.
I quickly wipe off the dirt on my apron and crouch down to receive her, but she stops short and glares at me.
“What’s not fair?”
Before she has a chance to enlighten me, Catherine comes out, throwing up her hands when she sees us. “Get back inside this instant, Emeline!”
“I will not! Lydia, tell her that it’s not fair.”
“Someone is going to have to tell me what’s going on, because—”
They start talking over each other, both acting like eight-year-old children, even though only one of them is, and the other a young woman of twenty-two.
Emeline gets her words out first in a triumphant rush. “Mr. Barrett sent a note along saying he and Mr. Pierce are coming over for a picnic and Cath says that I can’t come because it will be an uneven number and it has to be two men and two ladies but I don’t think it’s fair because I don’t know any other—”
“Mr. Barrett is coming today?”
Emeline stops, and they both look at me as if I have two heads.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, you’re too young,” Catherine says. Turning to me, she lowers her voice. “She’ll say something dreadful, I just know she will.”
She means that Emeline will say something about Boston, and then all the trouble Catherine has gone to with both Mr. Pierce and Mr. Barrett will be lost. “Emeline knows what’s appropriate conversation for company and what’s not. Don’t you, Emmy?”
Emeline glowers at us and then looks down, scuffing her shoe in the dirt. “Yes, I know.”
“There,” I say brightly. I’m already taking off my apron and trying to remember if Ada was able to get the stain out of my favorite cream silk dress. “When will they be here?”
“After lunch,” Catherine says. Crossing her arms, she juts her chin over my shoulder. “What are you doing out here anyway? I don’t remember there being plants there.”
I follow her gaze, having already forgotten the gardening in which just moments ago I was so absorbed. “Just doing a little weeding.”
Emeline is hopping from foot to foot, her patience quickly running out. “So can I come?”
“Oh, just come, what do I care.” Catherine turns to leave. “But it’s your job, Lydia, to keep her out of trouble.”
* * *
I’m pulled from the dark romance of Mathilda by the sound of men’s voices carrying down the road. I put my book down and close my eyes. My stomach has felt light and fluttery all day, and now that Mr. Barrett is here I’m afraid I won’t even be able to sit still or have a level conversation. Mother is sleeping upstairs with a headache, and Father is who knows where on business. It will just be us today. A delicious shiver runs down my spine.
Taking a moment in front of the big gilded mirror in the hall, I smooth out my dress and cast a critical eye over my reflection. I wish I had Catherine’s clear eyes, playful and bright, that make men love her. Mine are dark and serious, just as she always accuses me of being. I test my smile the way she always does in the mirror, but the result is strained, and instead of looking pretty and lighthearted, I look like a bee just flew up my skirt.
Emeline is the first to the door, pulling on it with all her weight. It finally creaks open, swollen in the humidity. I feel the same—sluggish and heavy. Catherine sweeps down the stairs, and though her dress is still crisp and white, there’s a pallor to her complexion, and I know she’s suffering just as the rest of us are in this awful heat. But that’s not what gives me pause. “Catherine, you can’t possibly be wearing that.”
She stops, hand on the railing, and snorts. “And you can’t possibly think I’m about to take fashion advice from you of all people.” Nevertheless, doubt flickers across her face and she rolls her eyes. “Go on then. What’s wrong with it?”
I glance at the door where Emeline is standing, waiting for Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce to come up the drive, and lower my voice. “You’re all but spilling out the top.” She’s always been more endowed than me in that area, but this is immodest even by her standards. I imagine her sitting upstairs, plumping and padding, just another feather in her hook to snare Mr. Barrett. Or Pierce. Whoever it is that she feels like playing with today. “That button is near bursting off.”
She gives me a look of utter disdain, and then breezes past to welcome Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce.
Emeline is already chattering excitedly, leading Mr. Barrett by the hand straight through the hall and to the back door. I intercept them.
“Let’s offer our guests something to drink first, shall we? I’m sure they’re parched.”
Mr. Pierce’s waistcoat is partially unbuttoned and his lank hair rakishly slicked forward. He barely bobs his head at me before his eyes alight on Catherine, taking her hand with a wolfish grin. I send Emeline with instructions for Ada to bring refreshments to the parlor, and then fall into step beside Mr. Barrett.
He’s watching Catherine and Mr. Pierce with a little frown, his eyes melancholy. I want to say something to him, to have him say something back. I want him to turn those blue-green eyes on me and look at me the same way Mr. Pierce is looking at my sister right now. But all my words get tangled up in my head and the only thing I can think to say is, “They make a handsome couple, don’t they?”
Honestly, of all the things to say. I burn as Mr. Barrett glances down at me, but the look is fleeting and he