The Witch Of Willow Hall. Hester Fox
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now, that’s better,” he says with a smile as fast and brilliant as the lightning. When he’s done he ties it off neatly. My hand lingers in his for a moment, relishing the warmth, before I remember myself and pull away.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
Perhaps realizing just how close we’re standing, the man steps back with a brisk nod. “If we’re going to find your dog we should do it now while we have a break in the rain.”
I’d hardly noticed that the rain has lightened to nothing more than a misty drizzle while his strong fingers held my hand. “Do you think you can manage...?” He trails off, looking discreetly at the ground. The cool breeze on my ankles reminds me that between my dress and the cut on my hand, I probably look like I’ve been mauled by wolves.
I tug at my bodice and adjust Catherine’s shawl in a vain attempt at modesty. “Perfectly fine,” I assure him, and, as if accepting a challenge, add, “I love a good walk in the woods.”
He inclines his head, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and we set off.
We crest the little embankment, the man shortening his strides so that I don’t have to run to keep up with his long legs. I chance a sidelong glance at my knight, wondering what on earth brought him to the woods in a storm at the same time as me.
“He can’t have gotten far. The river cuts through over there, and if he has any sense he’ll have stayed put on this side.”
“I’m not sure sensibility is Snip’s strong point. Chasing his tail, maybe. Or barking at shadows.”
The man’s eyes—arresting eyes, which are somehow blue and green at the same time—settle on me and he flashes me a grin before putting a light hand on my elbow and guiding me up the bank.
I’ve nearly forgotten about my sodden shoes and the stinging from my cut. The fresh, resinous smell of the woods fills me with renewed energy. We’re Lancelot and Guinevere, fleeing through the forest from a jealous King Arthur. Any moment we’ll come upon a white steed and Lancelot will swing me up upon its jeweled saddle and we’ll gallop off together.
“There!”
My dream comes to a halt as I follow Lancelot’s pointing finger down to the edge of the water. It’s not a white steed, but a muddy Snip. He’s gnawing on something, a piece of rotted wood it looks like, as we slowly approach.
Snip eyes the man suspiciously as he slowly advances with one outstretched arm, but doesn’t make any move, just pants contentedly with his tongue lolling out. “I suppose he’s had enough adventure for one day,” Lancelot says as he scoops up the unprotesting Snip and hands him to me.
I almost wish Snip did have some chase left in him so that I could prolong my adventure with this handsome stranger. But he just wriggles around in my arms and plants me with a sloppy kiss, and we head back to the old building.
* * *
“There you are! I was just about to...” Catherine’s words trail off as the man steps into the little porch behind me. Her mouth falls open as her gaze swings up to him, then narrows suspiciously on me.
“Snip!” Emeline is up in a flash, arms outstretched, receiving her wayward pet among a tangle of dirty paws and frantic licks.
“Remember your manners,” I say as I try to brush off Snip’s dirt from my already ruined dress. “Thank Mr....” I flush. The man bandaged up my hand, helped me find our dog, and escorted me back to my sisters and I never even thought to ask his name.
“Barrett,” he says with a small inclination of the head. “John Barrett.”
The name is familiar, but I can’t place it. Before I can ask him why I might know it, Catherine is sliding off her crate, her gaze fixed on Mr. Barrett. She’s regained her composure and is twirling a damp lock of hair around her finger. “Catherine,” she says with an unnecessarily deep curtsy. “We’re indebted to you for returning Lydia to us in one piece.” The sharp look she throws my way and tight tone suggest otherwise.
For some reason I color deeper when Catherine tells him my name. “And the young lady who’s so busy playing with her dog is Emeline,” I hastily pipe up to divert attention away from my flaming cheeks.
Emeline looks up from scratching Snip’s muddy belly. “We got stuck in the storm.”
“Well, I can’t say you’ve chosen the most hospitable of places to seek shelter.” He gestures to the little porch, hat in hand. “This was my father’s mill, and as you can see it’s fallen into disrepair some time ago.”
“A mill!” Catherine exclaims. “How very exciting. We’ve just come from Boston and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a proper mill before.”
Mr. Barrett raises a brow at Catherine’s enthusiasm for mills. “And what brings you to New Oldbury?”
Catherine clamps her mouth shut, so I answer. “Our father has just invested in the cotton mill here.” It’s not a lie, I’m just omitting the other reason. All the same I feel a little stab of guilt.
“You don’t mean...” His smile fades. “You’re Samuel Montrose’s daughters? And he’s brought you here?” He isn’t asking me, he’s talking to himself. “Mr. Montrose never told me that he was planning on bringing a family with him,” he says, his voice roughening at the edges.
He knows. Despite my best efforts at hemming the truth, he already knows who we are and about the scandal.
“Willow Hall was just to be a summer home,” Catherine chimes in, “but we’ll be living here permanently now.” Her voice is light and she’s twirling that damp lock of hair between her fingers like an idiot again.
“You’re to live at Willow Hall permanently,” he echoes, as if hardly processing the words.
“If you’re going to tell us it’s haunted, you’re too late,” Catherine says with a little laugh. “We quite got all the gossip on that score from the shopkeeper.”
Mr. Barrett gives her a sharp look. “What did he say?”
Before Catherine has a chance to answer, something clicks into place in my mind and I know where I’ve heard his name before. “You’re our father’s new business partner.”
He gives a tight nod. “I am.” The mood has shifted in the little porch, and the only one among us oblivious to the tension in the air is Emeline who is singing to Snip while she tries to clean the mud from his ears.
“Ghosts live in our house,” Emeline says, pausing from her ministrations to look up at Mr. Barrett with solemn eyes. “The whole place is full of ghosts. And goblins. You can’t throw a rock but hit a ghost there.”
“Emeline! He never said that.” I give Mr. Barrett an apologetic look. “She likes to embroider the truth.” Emeline starts to protest but I hush her.
But he hardly hears me anyway, and I dare not say anything else. He stands awkwardly in the silence, taking out a soaked handkerchief from his pocket and then putting it back in again. He runs a hand through his thick hair, shaking out some of the lingering wetness. It’s the same color as the golden fields of shimmering hay, which we passed yesterday on our journey.
“Well, I must go, but you’re welcome to stay and dry off as long as you need. Good day.”
“Wait!” Mr. Barrett stops at my cry, looking at me expectantly. “Your cravat,” I say, raising my bandaged hand as if he would possibly want it back, dirty and bloody as it is now.
He opens his mouth, hesitates and then says shortly, “Keep it.” He gives a brief dip of the head, and then he’s gone.
Catherine and I sit in stunned silence. “John Barrett,” she murmurs. “Why wouldn’t Father have mentioned bringing his family to New Oldbury?”
Why indeed? Father was never