The Witch Of Willow Hall. Hester Fox

my eyes, I rock back on my heels, letting the implication of what he’s telling me sink in. I can feel him looking down at me, the firm set of his lips softened with my name still lingering on them.

      Ours was an engagement settled by our parents years ago, a business partnership between our fathers that would benefit our entire family. Even at the age of fourteen I knew that I would never be a beauty like Catherine. It didn’t hurt that Cyrus was tall with dark good looks, and he was always polite. But I never made the mistake of thinking that he loved me, or even that I might love him. Love would come later, Mother had said with forced cheeriness. That was often the way with these kinds of matches. Knowing that I would probably never have the kind of chances Catherine would have—and that Catherine would never allow herself to be used as currency in a business transaction—I agreed. Besides, it made Mother happy to know that I’d be settled and taken care of, and after a few years I’d grown more comfortable with the idea—and with Cyrus. Until I met Mr. Barrett, I had thought that I could be happy with a life like that.

      From somewhere in the house I hear the back door open and then close; Catherine must have taken the back stairs to avoid who she thinks is a caller of Mother’s in the front parlor. Thank God she doesn’t realize that it’s Cyrus, or she would never let me hear the end of it.

      “Why now?”

      His hands are around my waist. How many times did I lie awake at night, imagining what this would feel like? Not with Cyrus, but some adoring man, his features obscured by darkness, fingertips warm with love as he trailed them down my body. But the reality is nothing like my naive fantasies and I feel uncomfortable, not enraptured.

      “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.” He’s nuzzling my neck, the tender spot behind my ear. “I’ve missed you every day since you left.”

      I stiffen as he combs his fingers up through my hair at the nape of my neck, and when he searches for my lips with his, I evade him.

      “Stop, Cyrus.” I push myself back and he looks at me from under his refined brows, his dark eyes making a show of hurt feelings. “Why are you really here?”

      “I just told you. I—”

      “Please, don’t lie to me.”

      His expression loses some of its vulnerability and he drops his hand. “I was going to come anyway.”

      I don’t say anything. My heart rate slows, and the flush of confusion dies.

      Then the ridiculous happens. He drops to one knee, my hand in his as he looks up at me, pleading. “Don’t be this way. Lydia—”

      “Get up this instant!” I hiss, darting a glance over my shoulder, sure that I heard a footstep in the hall. I yank back my hand, throwing his balance. Cursing, he lands hard on his backside, crumpling his carefully pressed coattails.

      This seems to snap him out of it. “Oh, all right. Just don’t look at me like that, would you?” He huffs to his feet, brushing off the crumbs of indignity. “The business has not survived since your father left. We...we’re in a very bad way, Lyd,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “My father asked me to call on you and see if you would be amenable to renewing our engagement, but I wanted to see you anyway,” he adds hastily. “You have to believe me on that score.”

      I’m not inclined to believe him about anything at the moment. My expression must say as much, because he’s pacing about the room, loosening his cravat and running his hand through his hair.

      I bite the inside of my mouth, trying not to smile. So there is some justice in the world after all. I speak as levelly as I can. “Your father was the one who demanded that mine leave. He said he wouldn’t be in business with a man whose children’s names were always in the papers. If the business is failing, then it’s your fault. Not ours.”

      He stops short, running a finger over one of the green bottles on the table, mementos of our fathers’ shared glass venture in Boston, now used as vases for wildflowers. He glowers at me, those dark eyes no longer beautiful and soft, but calculating and angry. “We were going to be married anyway. What do you care why I came back? What other chances do you think you’ll have? I can save you from the cloud of scandal and a life of loneliness, and you can save me from poverty.”

      The smile fades inside my mouth. He thinks I’m a puppet. I don’t know why I thought that someday maybe he would have looked at me the way other men look at Catherine. The way Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce look at Catherine. I feel cheap, used at his words. He’s right, which makes it hurt all the more.

      “You came all the way here with the intention of charming your way into my good graces, into my family’s money. Go home, Cyrus.”

      I didn’t realize I was holding my breath, but I let it out now as he snatches his hat up. He stalks to the door, turning around and thrusting an accusing finger in my direction. “You’re a fool, Lydia. As if I would want anything to do with you or your sick family.” His look drips with contempt, but there’s a break in his voice, and I know that for the right price, he would change his tone in a heartbeat.

      * * *

      I can’t sleep that night. If I fall asleep the bad dreams will come again. Even when I’m awake there are footsteps, cold stares from invisible eyes, figures in the woods and in the garden. I’ve even hung a linen over the mirror, lest new words appear and stare back at me. I kick off the blankets and turn over trying to find a comfortable position, but no matter what I do my dry eyelids won’t stay shut. My skin is still crawling from where Cyrus touched me, and I can’t get his words out of my head. What other chances do you think you’ll have?

      I punch my pillow down to make it fluffier, but punching it feels good so I do it a few more times. I imagine that it’s Cyrus’s smug face, his aquiline nose crooked and bloody. Shameless little opportunist. But suddenly the dark hair shifts to amber, the sharp chin broadens and the face becomes John Barrett, his melancholy, clear eyes looking at me from beneath gold lashes. I stop my fist in the air and slump back. Unlike Cyrus, he’s a good person. I saw it in the way he spoke to Emeline as if she were an adult, his equal. I saw it when he crouched down beside me and took an interest in what I was reading, even though Catherine was right there, watching him. But most of all, it’s just a feeling I get, a warmth he exudes despite his serious, sad demeanor. And if he notices Catherine’s beauty and sparkle, well, I can hardly fault him for that, can I?

      When sleep finally comes, it’s hot and fitful. I drift between shallow dreams. An owl’s echoing question hangs on the night air. The footsteps and laughter of a child. Not Emeline’s carefree laugh, but that of a boy. The way Tommy Bishop used to laugh when he was pulling the wings off flies, mirthless and unsettling. I’m running, the laughter inescapable, following me at every turn. A chorus of You attract them! Are you ready? Prepare! Prepare! rings out. And then the willow from the pond comes, with its rustle of papery leaves, growing and growing until it’s a hurricane of swirling branches grabbing at me, pulling me down. I have no choice but to succumb to the blackness of its deafening roar.