The Witch of Willow Hall by Hester Fox

Author:Hester Fox
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Graydon House Books
Published: 2018-08-02T18:32:59+00:00

20

THE NEXT EVENING Mother makes a rare appearance in the library where I’m immersed in the final pages of The Romance of the Forest.

Though the last thing I want to do is drag myself away from the safe, romantic world of my book, there are too many questions burning the tip of my tongue since my visit from my ancestor. I can no longer pretend that what happened was a figment of my imagination or a bad dream. And if what the spirit said was true, then Mother has some secrets of her own.

Yet I must be careful with Mother; she has yet to emerge from the cocoon of despair she has woven for herself over the past weeks, and I’m starting to worry about her. Sometimes she looks so small and unassuming that I imagine her gradually fading into the woodblock wallpaper and heavy drapes, consumed by the grandness of Willow Hall. I won’t let that happen.

I glance over her shoulder at the fabric she’s unfolding from her basket. It’s an embroidered coverlet. I smile, heartened at the vibrant flowers and fanciful pattern of birds and blackberry vines. “That’s beautiful. I didn’t know that you’d started a new project.”

She doesn’t look up. “Blackberries were Emeline’s favorite. It’s for her bed in the nursery.”

My smile fades as I watch her sort through her thread box looking for the vermillion. We should be going through Emeline’s things, putting them away or giving them to some other child in need. It worries me that Mother has taken it upon herself to start a new project, one that Emeline will never use.

I turn back to my book, unable to give her any encouragement. The Hale ancestor glowers down on us as I read and Mother works. Today the portrait’s expression is one of grim commiseration, as if she understands and pities Mother and me our plight. Now that I have seen her in the flesh, so to speak, I wonder if that is indeed the case.

I choose my words carefully. “You know, I don’t think I even know the name of our old friend up there,” I say, nodding at the painting. I make my tone cheery and inviting, hoping to draw Mother away from her introspection.

Mother’s gaze flickers up to the portrait and she gives a faint frown. “That would be Mary Preston.”

When she doesn’t offer any more information I try again. “I thought she was a Hale. How is she related to us?”

This time Mother doesn’t look up from her embroidering when she answers. “Mehitable Hale was our ancestor. She fled from persecution in England. She married a Barnabas Preston. Mary was their daughter.”

“Ah,” I say, and we lull into silence again. A thousand questions whirl through my head: What do you really know of her? What is the book she spoke of? Has her spirit ever visited you as it has me? But they all sound ridiculous, and I can’t bring myself to come at it directly. The last thing I want to do is upset Mother further.

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