creak and groan seemed to be a whispered warning of some impending evil. The wind tore at the coach. The rain lashed at the windows with renewed fury.
We came over a hill. It seemed to me that the driver was whipping up his horses to an incredible speed, as if he wanted to be through this stretch of lonely countryside as hastily as possible.
Then we were slowing and, rather abruptly, the coach halted and the driver appeared at the window.
“Here you are, Miss,” he said, opening the door and offering a hand to help me down, “Green Willows.”
I got out, pulling my cloak close to protect me from the rain, and stared about. I could see nothing but blackness around us.
“But where is the house?” I cried, fear making me almost hysterical.
“It’s over the hill there,” he said, pointing. “You follow that path. It’s closer that way than by the drive, you see. Once you come over the hill, you’ll see it. Watch you don’t walk into the lake.”
He did not wait for me to question him further, but tipped his hat at me and leaped up into his seat. He cracked his whip again and he was gone, rushing away into the darkness as if the demons of hell were in pursuit.
I stood staring after him anxiously. The wind caught my cloak and sent it swirling in the air about me. The rain dashed my face. I was alone on a deserted road, in the dark of night.
Shivering and not from the cold alone, I lifted my portmanteau and began to walk along the path he had indicated. It led up a gentle rise and around a stand of birch trees. It seemed to me that there were voices whispering in the birches, but common sense told me it was only the wind rustling the leaves.
There was another sound, however, that was not just the wind, a steady clip-clop coming rapidly nearer. Someone was riding a horse this way, riding him hard, I judged from the sound of it. In my present state of mind I would hardly have been surprised to see the devil himself.
I would have stepped off the path, but the growth here was thick and dark and pressed close, so that I could not see where I might be stepping.
The horse came swiftly around the bend in the path and into view. I turned, meaning to call out, forgetting that in the dark, in my black cloak, I would be hard to see.
My movement, with my cloak suddenly billowing again in the wind, startled the horse. He gave a frightened snort and reared on his hind legs, flailing the air with his forefeet.
I screamed at the sight of those hooves cutting the air so close to me, and someone swore. I saw a man fall from the horse to the ground. At the same time I stepped aside, heedless of the brush that tore at my skirt, and the horse ran by me, neighing. He stopped a few yards along the path, apparently deciding the danger was past.
Having vented some of my anxiety in screaming, and having seen that this was only a man and his horse and not some demon, I too felt that the danger was past, but I could see that for the fallen rider it might not be. He lay on the ground in a crumpled heap. Alarmed, I lifted my skirts and ran toward him.
It seemed he had only had the wind knocked out of him, for as I approached, he stirred, groaned, and sat up. Shaking his head, he turned to see me. I had stopped a few feet away.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing,” he demanded in a loud, angry voice, “scaring my horse like that? I might have been killed.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, and indeed I was. “Can I help you?”
“Thank you, no,” he said shortly, and proceeded to get up. For a moment he looked himself over carefully, feeling here and there, trying first one arm and then the other to see if anything was broken. Except for a slight limp when he took a step, there did not seem to be any great injuries.
At last he returned his attention to me. I had remained where I was, not knowing what to say or do. I could not just turn and walk away and he surely did not want my assistance.
“Who in blazes are you?” he demanded, angry again now that his inspection was completed. “And what are you doing traipsing along this path in the middle of the night?”
“I am Mary Kirkpatrick and I am on my way to Green Willows. When the coachman put me down by the road, he told me that this path would lead me there.”
“Aye, that it does,” he said, studying me in a less heated manner. After a pause, he said, “You are awfully brave now, it seems, when only a moment ago you were as skittish as my horse.”
It was true. Since my near mishap with his frightened horse, I had quite gotten over my previous fear. I could not explain to him all the circumstances that had led up to my skittishness, as he called it—the nervousness of approaching a new, and first, job, the strange dark countryside, the attitudes of the coachman and the woman at the last station. All of these, as much as the horse’s hooves, had made me scream, but now I was not afraid.
“I thought you were hurt,” I said.
“And that calmed you?”
I felt a little silly. I might almost have thought he was making fun of me. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth and his eyes had an amused glint. I could only nod in affirmation.
“Well,” he said, “as we’re both going to Green Willows and as it is getting wet standing here, we might as well go along together. Can you ride?”
“A little,” I said hesitantly, glancing around at the horse, who was now waiting placidly just along the path.
“Meaning badly,” he said with a sigh. “Well, come on then, we’ll all walk.”
“It isn’t—” I started to say it was not necessary for him to accompany me, but he interrupted.
“It isn’t far anyway.” He found his hat where it had fallen and slapped it once or twice on his thigh. Then he nodded at me and we began to walk. When we got to the waiting horse, he took the reins and led the animal along with us.
For a while we walked in silence. The gentleman had not introduced himself or explained why he was going to Green Willows. From time to time I stole little glances at him, motivated by nothing more than curiosity. He was the first person connected with Green Willows whom I had met.
His clothes led me to wonder if he were a servant. He wore a riding cloak, a nice enough one, although I could see even in the dark that it was threadbare. Beneath the cloak I glimpsed coarse trousers and a dirty shirt. I also glimpsed a considerable breadth of chest, though he was not much over middle height.
He was neither young nor handsome. I should have guessed his age at about thirty-five. He had dark hair, quite unruly, and indeed a dark face, with his deep complexion, his stern features, and his heavy brow. Before, his eyes had looked wrathful but now that he was no longer angry, they did not look so fierce.
We rounded the stand of trees and suddenly below us was the pond and the willows drooping their branches in mournful elegance, and beyond them, the house. Two of the windows were lighted, which seemed few for so big a house.
“It’s a lovely house, isn’t it?” I said, relieved, for I had half expected some crumbling ruin straight out of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.
“I
