bird calls out above us, and a moment later a streak of yellow flashes between the branches. “Oh! That looks like a golden thrush, doesn’t it, Mr. Barrett? A male, I believe.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. A golden thrush,” he agrees. For a moment he doesn’t say anything else and I wonder if he’s even paying attention. But then he slants a glance down at me, the corner of his lips quirking up ever so slightly. “You know your birds, Miss Montrose.”
I quickly look away, trying to keep my smile from growing too broad under his gaze. “Some. I’m sure I would love to learn more about them, if only I had a teacher.”
Where did that come from? I sound like Catherine. I hazard a quick peek up at him but he’s already looking away, scanning the trees for other birds, presumably.
The truth is, I don’t really know anything about any species of birds, aside from the most common ones. We had gulls and sparrows in Boston, some doves I think. Here, I might be able to point out a cardinal or jay, but that’s where my knowledge ends. That might not even have been a golden thrush for all I know. As soon as I had learned Mr. Barrett was coming over today, I pulled out all the volumes of Histoire Naturelle in our library and pored over the colorful plates, trying to memorize as much as I could. After hours of study all I had to show for it was an aching back and dried-out eyes. Who would have thought there were so many species of the creatures?
Mr. Barrett and Emeline are a little way ahead. His hand is light at Emeline’s elbow as he helps her navigate a tangle of roots, the graceful line of his broad shoulders bent endearingly close to her. For a moment I consider pretending to stumble so that he’ll come back and take my elbow, but as soon as the thought forms, I dismiss it. I won’t stoop to Catherine’s level of tricks and deceits.
When the trees clear I catch my breath. The little patch of shimmering green gives way to a full view of the pond. It’s beautiful, and I can see why it has captured Emeline’s imagination. Rocks edge the water, green and slick, and a weeping willow’s tendrils dip into the glassy surface. It would be the perfect place for a mermaid to emerge and lounge in the sun.
“Be careful, Emmy,” I call to her as she bolts ahead, stick in hand, eager to stir at the water and find her aquatic friends. Snip yelps happily as he tries to steal her stick away.
“I am being careful!” she yells back, her voice equal measures of irritation at being parented and excitement to finally be here. “After the mermaids I’m going to find the boy and we’ll all play together.”
I shrug; it’s impossible to keep up with all her fancies and play stories. “Just don’t go so close to the edge.”
Mr. Barrett stands rigid as he watches her go, squinting against the sun. He looks uncomfortable, as if he wants to say something.
“She’ll be fine,” I say. “I’ll make sure she minds herself.” It’s sweet that he’s concerned for her, but with Emeline busy she won’t be able to let anything slip like Catherine was so worried she would.
With a wary eye still trained on her, he lays his coat beneath the willow and extends his hand. I press my own into his and he guides me down. It’s the first time we’ve touched like that, skin to skin, our fingers twined. That day in the woods when we met he had been wearing gloves, and I’ve been waiting since then to feel his touch again. A tingle runs through my arm and blooms in my stomach. I catch my breath and carefully look out the corner of my eye to see if he felt it too. But his face betrays nothing as he settles down beside me.
I make sure that Emeline is still in my line of sight before I allow myself to enjoy his company. He’s so close that I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way the sun catches and filters through his thick, golden lashes. Maybe he wishes that it was him inspecting Catherine’s roses right now instead of Mr. Pierce, but he’s here all the same, with me. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I feel safe when he’s nearby. Not that there’s any reason I should be afraid. It’s more like finding something you never knew you were missing. The bad dreams, the unsettling occurrences of the past weeks all melt away when I’m with him. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, sitting here beside him watching the pond is enough. This moment is enough.
“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,
