Hester Fox - The Witch Of Willow Hall

“How do you like your new home of Willow Hall, Miss Montrose?” He’s not looking at me, and his question startles me out of my thoughts.

“Well enough,” I say. I don’t tell him that I abhor the house with its heavy, watching walls, nor that I can feel the displeasure of the woods for having been felled for such a creation. I don’t tell him that since coming I haven’t had a full night’s sleep, and what sleep I’ve had is filled with disturbing dreams. I certainly don’t tell him about Mother’s wails or the woman in the garden, the writing in the mirror.

“I’m glad to hear it.” His voice is distant, almost wistful. I want to ask him why he was so surprised, so unsettled when we first met him and he learned that we were his business partner’s daughters. Why do his beautiful eyes hold so much sadness? Why does he never smile in my presence like he did that first day?

He has his knees drawn up, arms casually crossed over them as he squints off across the pond. “See that line of pine trees there? No, a bit to the right.” He points. “There. That’s where my property edges yours.”

“Oh,” I say, a bit taken aback. “I didn’t know we were neighbors.”

“Yes,” he says. “Though when I sold this parcel to your father, I was under the impression it would be used only for a small office, perhaps a summer home.” He lapses back into silence before adding, “I know you like to explore, but you should have a care when wandering around the woods by yourself.”

Maybe that’s why he was so surprised to meet us, why he’s so reserved around us still. He had sold his land under one pretense, only to see it used for another. And now he’s afraid that I’ll trespass on his property.

“I hope I don’t come to regret it,” he says. It’s not clear if he’s speaking to me; he’s still watching Emeline, tensing when she gets too close to the water. She’s having a time of it, dancing under the feathery willow boughs, making a little crown for herself out of daisy stems. I’m too taken aback at his frankness to return her smile.

He stops when he realizes that I’m watching him. Seeing my expression he hastily adds, “It’s only that the land is so wild, it’s not a comfortable place for a family.”

It’s a lie. He doesn’t want us here. Our conversation trails off, I have no clue what to say next and Mr. Barrett won’t even look at me. I’m not upset, not really. It’s so beautiful here, wild woods or not, yet I can’t help but feel uncomfortable, as if there’s an undefinable wrongness about the place. The trees and creatures here have no need of my family, and they watch us with wary, slightly accusatory eyes, the way Mr. Barrett must.

There’s something comforting about knowing that Mr. Barrett lives nearby though, just out of sight. I want to make him glad that he did sell the land and that we’re neighbors now. I want to say that whatever he heard about Boston, the things that happened there weren’t true.

But he’s distracted, peering off into the woods and fiddling with a loose button on his discarded coat. The heat prickles and I’m having trouble concentrating because I know he’s thinking about Catherine with Mr. Pierce. Is that what today was supposed to be? Some sort of wager laid down between the two men to see who could win Catherine? Suddenly sitting here beside him is not enough. The empty place that I didn’t even know I contained is aching with want, trembling with fear that it may never be filled.

Abruptly, Mr. Barrett springs up, disrupting the still air and peering off into the woods behind us.

“What is it? Is everything all right?”

“Er...yes.” He drops his gaze from the woods, a hint of color creeping up from his collar. “I thought I saw something,” he mumbles as he sits back down. “It was nothing.”

We sit in silence. Is he looking for Catherine and Mr. Pierce? Did he think he saw them, and was eager to join them after all? If sitting here beside him is not enough for me, it seems it is certainly not enough for him either.

Cyrus taught me that no man would ever want me for anything other than my family’s money, and this was something that I always accepted about myself. But with Mr. Barrett I saw a brief glimmer of hope, that maybe, just maybe, there was more for me. A heaviness presses against my chest.

“Miss Montrose, are you all right?” His gaze has been darting about, ever watchful, as if at any moment he expects someone to materialize from the trees. But now it lands on me.

“What?” His eyes have lost some of their distance. I color, sure that he could read my thoughts as I stared at him. “Oh, yes. Fine. I’m fine.” But I’m not. There’s something wrong, I can feel it. I’ve been jealous before, angry, but this is more than just a passing melancholy mood. It’s as if a dark mist is creeping at the edge of my mind, curling gnarled fingers around me, fogging my thoughts with terrible and ugly feelings. I take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the sensation.

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re very pale. Are you sure?”

“Am I?” I attempt a careless laugh but it comes out in a choke. “It’s just the heat. I think maybe I need to lie down.”

Mr. Barrett is already on his feet offering me his arm, and I shakily accept it. “Let me walk you back,” he says, peering down into my face. “I’m afraid that I’ve said something to upset you.” He looks genuinely remorseful.

The dark mist curls further into my mind—I can’t think straight. My temple throbs. I must get away from this place, this man. I don’t like the dark turn my thoughts have taken sitting out here with him. I don’t like the jealousy and anger that’s simmering beneath my breast. My heart beats hard, every palpitation a threatening command of Just go. Just go. Just go. Deep within me I know that if I don’t leave, all of that anger and frustration will come erupting out of me in a way I can’t control. Just like that day with Tommy Bishop , a singsong voice says in my mind. Just go. Just go.

But what do I have to be so angry about? I try to shake the fog from my mind, to remember what we were speaking about even a few moments ago. All I know is that I can’t be here right now. I have to leave.

“No, no. Please, stay with Emeline.” I wave off his polite concern. “I just need to get out of this heat and rest.”

Mr. Barrett takes a sharp breath, and I follow his line of sight. Emeline. Emeline is gone.

In the midst of my jealousy and anger, I forgot to watch her, to make sure she was all right. The dark thoughts dissipate, a hundred snakes slithering back from whence they came, as a knot of unease settles in my chest.

She must have gotten bored while Mr. Barrett and I were talking, ignoring her. “She can’t have gotten far,” I say, though my voice trembles, belying my misgivings.

Mr. Barrett is already snatching up his coat, his jaw clenched tight and eyes scanning the surrounding trees. He heads off back into the woods, and I have to jog just to catch up with him. His tense silence compounds my uneasiness and I start to feel real panic. What if she got lost in the woods going back to the house? What if someone, some malicious vagabond wandering through our property stole her away? My blood goes cold. What if those words in the mirror weren’t my imagination at all, but some sort of warning? I hike my skirts to my knees, running as Mr. Barrett increases his pace.

We are just coming up the hill toward the summerhouse, when a crashing in the trees stops us. My heart leaps to my throat and Mr. Barrett comes to an abrupt halt, putting out a hand to keep me back.

The brush rustles with movement, and then a moment later out tumbles a giggling Catherine, Mr. Pierce on her heels.