Page 21
Story: The Witch of Willow Hall
“Oh, Ada, thank goodness. I—” Catherine stops when she sees me. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me.”
She hesitates a moment and then pulls me into the room. “I needed Ada to help with my laces, but I suppose you can do it.”
“What an honor.”
Catherine gives me a cool look but turns around all the same and lifts her long hair out of the way. I tug at the laces and she winces.
“Do you want them tight or not?”
“I do,” she whines. “Just don’t be such a beast about it.”
When I’m done I sit on the bed and watch her ease into her dress. Despite the tight laces she struggles to get it on, and she’s in peril of spilling out the top again. I don’t say anything but she gives me a sidelong glance and huffs. “It’s the food here. Ada has gotten in the habit of cooking like a country housewife. All that lard and beef.”
I don’t point out that the rest of us haven’t suffered for Ada’s cooking. Our relationship is a strained bridge, both of us making an effort, but one careless word and the whole thing will crumble down.
“Have you picked out what you’re going to wear?” she asks me without turning around.
“I was going to wear the white one.”
She turns, looking at me blankly. “Which white one?”
My wardrobe is a rainbow of dresses with shades starting at ivory and ending with beige. “I don’t know...it has the darts in the bodice and the little lacy things at the sleeves and hem.”
“You’re hopeless, but I know which one you’re talking about. Good choice,” she adds grudgingly.
We lull into silence as she tries on more dresses, a mountain of silk and calico growing on the bed. I wonder if Mr. Barrett will come, and if he does, what he will wear. Even though he’s not interested in me, I can’t help the mounting sense of excitement as the hour for the dance draws near.
Catherine clears her throat and I snap out of my thoughts. “What?”
“I asked you to pass me those pins over there.”
I follow her pointing finger and hand her the jar full of pearl pins.
“I’ll help you do something with that hopeless hair of yours, if you want.” She gives a practiced flick of her wrist, jabbing a pin into her tight swirl of curls.
I don’t really want or need her help. I don’t care how I look tonight since I’ll just be watching from the side. I can’t imagine anyone will ask me to dance. But she’s watching me impatiently from the mirror and it’s not worth a fight. I give in and let her dress me up and fuss me until I pass for decent in her book.
“You want to look nice for Mr. Barrett, don’t you?” she demands with a small smile as she gives my hairpin a final, wrenching twist.
I wince. “Why should I care what he thinks?”
“Oh, please. You turn wide-eyed and trembling whenever he’s nearby.” She shrugs, as if it’s no concern of hers. “I can see why you like him...he’s just as quiet and sullen as you are.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“Oh?”
I know this game. She pretends to be interested and I inadvertently let something slip, and confide in her, give her something she can use against me later. I’ve fallen prey to it more times than I care to admit. And while we might be on better terms right now, I don’t for a moment believe she has my best interest at heart. I won’t make the mistake of giving her ammunition she can use against me later.
“Mr. Barrett is Father’s business partner,” I say, stating the obvious. “He’s very nice but he doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Catherine arches a brow at my reflection in the mirror. “If you say so.”
“Yes,” I say, making a show of inspecting my fingernails. “I do.”
She shrugs again, taking out a little pot of something red and, opening the lid, she dips her finger inside. It smells waxy, with an artificial tang of roses. I watch her with wary eyes, and jump back when she thrusts her finger toward my lips. “What isthat?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
She hesitates a moment and then pulls me into the room. “I needed Ada to help with my laces, but I suppose you can do it.”
“What an honor.”
Catherine gives me a cool look but turns around all the same and lifts her long hair out of the way. I tug at the laces and she winces.
“Do you want them tight or not?”
“I do,” she whines. “Just don’t be such a beast about it.”
When I’m done I sit on the bed and watch her ease into her dress. Despite the tight laces she struggles to get it on, and she’s in peril of spilling out the top again. I don’t say anything but she gives me a sidelong glance and huffs. “It’s the food here. Ada has gotten in the habit of cooking like a country housewife. All that lard and beef.”
I don’t point out that the rest of us haven’t suffered for Ada’s cooking. Our relationship is a strained bridge, both of us making an effort, but one careless word and the whole thing will crumble down.
“Have you picked out what you’re going to wear?” she asks me without turning around.
“I was going to wear the white one.”
She turns, looking at me blankly. “Which white one?”
My wardrobe is a rainbow of dresses with shades starting at ivory and ending with beige. “I don’t know...it has the darts in the bodice and the little lacy things at the sleeves and hem.”
“You’re hopeless, but I know which one you’re talking about. Good choice,” she adds grudgingly.
We lull into silence as she tries on more dresses, a mountain of silk and calico growing on the bed. I wonder if Mr. Barrett will come, and if he does, what he will wear. Even though he’s not interested in me, I can’t help the mounting sense of excitement as the hour for the dance draws near.
Catherine clears her throat and I snap out of my thoughts. “What?”
“I asked you to pass me those pins over there.”
I follow her pointing finger and hand her the jar full of pearl pins.
“I’ll help you do something with that hopeless hair of yours, if you want.” She gives a practiced flick of her wrist, jabbing a pin into her tight swirl of curls.
I don’t really want or need her help. I don’t care how I look tonight since I’ll just be watching from the side. I can’t imagine anyone will ask me to dance. But she’s watching me impatiently from the mirror and it’s not worth a fight. I give in and let her dress me up and fuss me until I pass for decent in her book.
“You want to look nice for Mr. Barrett, don’t you?” she demands with a small smile as she gives my hairpin a final, wrenching twist.
I wince. “Why should I care what he thinks?”
“Oh, please. You turn wide-eyed and trembling whenever he’s nearby.” She shrugs, as if it’s no concern of hers. “I can see why you like him...he’s just as quiet and sullen as you are.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“Oh?”
I know this game. She pretends to be interested and I inadvertently let something slip, and confide in her, give her something she can use against me later. I’ve fallen prey to it more times than I care to admit. And while we might be on better terms right now, I don’t for a moment believe she has my best interest at heart. I won’t make the mistake of giving her ammunition she can use against me later.
“Mr. Barrett is Father’s business partner,” I say, stating the obvious. “He’s very nice but he doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Catherine arches a brow at my reflection in the mirror. “If you say so.”
“Yes,” I say, making a show of inspecting my fingernails. “I do.”
She shrugs again, taking out a little pot of something red and, opening the lid, she dips her finger inside. It smells waxy, with an artificial tang of roses. I watch her with wary eyes, and jump back when she thrusts her finger toward my lips. “What isthat?”
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