The Witch Of Willow Hall: A spellbinding historical fiction debut perfect for fans of Chilling Adventures of Sabrina

For some reason I color deeper when Catherine tells him my name. “And the young lady who’s so busy playing with her dog is Emeline,” I hastily pipe up to divert attention away from my flaming cheeks.

Emeline looks up from scratching Snip’s muddy belly. “We got stuck in the storm.”

“Well, I can’t say you’ve chosen the most hospitable of places to seek shelter.” He gestures to the little porch, hat in hand. “This was my father’s mill, and as you can see it’s fallen into disrepair some time ago.”

“A mill!” Catherine exclaims. “How very exciting. We’ve just come from Boston and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a proper mill before.”

Mr. Barrett raises a brow at Catherine’s enthusiasm for mills. “And what brings you to New Oldbury?”

Catherine clamps her mouth shut, so I answer. “Our father has just invested in the cotton mill here.” It’s not a lie, I’m just omitting the other reason. All the same I feel a little stab of guilt.

“You don’t mean...” His smile fades. “You’re Samuel Montrose’s daughters? And he’s brought you here?” He isn’t asking me, he’s talking to himself. “Mr. Montrose never told me that he was planning on bringing a family with him,” he says, his voice roughening at the edges.

He knows. Despite my best efforts at hemming the truth, he already knows who we are and about the scandal.

“Willow Hall was just to be a summer home,” Catherine chimes in, “but we’ll be living here permanently now.” Her voice is light and she’s twirling that damp lock of hair between her fingers like an idiot again.

“You’re to live at Willow Hall permanently,” he echoes, as if hardly processing the words.

“If you’re going to tell us it’s haunted, you’re too late,” Catherine says with a little laugh. “We quite got all the gossip on that score from the shopkeeper.”

Mr. Barrett gives her a sharp look. “What did he say?”

Before Catherine has a chance to answer, something clicks into place in my mind and I know where I’ve heard his name before. “You’re our father’s new business partner.”

He gives a tight nod. “I am.” The mood has shifted in the little porch, and the only one among us oblivious to the tension in the air is Emeline who is singing to Snip while she tries to clean the mud from his ears.

“Ghosts live in our house,” Emeline says, pausing from her ministrations to look up at Mr. Barrett with solemn eyes. “The whole place is full of ghosts. And goblins. You can’t throw a rock but hit a ghost there.”

“Emeline! He never said that.” I give Mr. Barrett an apologetic look. “She likes to embroider the truth.” Emeline starts to protest but I hush her.

But he hardly hears me anyway, and I dare not say anything else. He stands awkwardly in the silence, taking out a soaked handkerchief from his pocket and then putting it back in again. He runs a hand through his thick hair, shaking out some of the lingering wetness. It’s the same color as the golden fields of shimmering hay, which we passed yesterday on our journey.

“Well, I must go, but you’re welcome to stay and dry off as long as you need. Good day.”

“Wait!” Mr. Barrett stops at my cry, looking at me expectantly. “Your cravat,” I say, raising my bandaged hand as if he would possibly want it back, dirty and bloody as it is now.

He opens his mouth, hesitates and then says shortly, “Keep it.” He gives a brief dip of the head, and then he’s gone.

Catherine and I sit in stunned silence. “John Barrett,” she murmurs. “Why wouldn’t Father have mentioned bringing his family to New Oldbury?”

Why indeed? Father was never much for home life, and that was before the scandal. Now he probably wishes he weren’t burdened with us. No, what’s stranger to me is that Mr. Barrett should look so troubled at our arrival. It would be one thing if it had to do with the scandal, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s not that. He was surprised to learn that our father had a family at all, and that he brought us here. If he had already known about us, then it would follow that he knew about the scandal.

“Well,” says Catherine standing and briskly shaking out her damp skirts, “I can’t believe Father could be so shortsighted. He might have mentioned that his new business partner was young. And handsome.”

I roll my eyes, and the little chill that had settled in my spine dissipates. The sun is inexplicably burning through the clouds, and the air is heavy with humidity. Steam rises from the road and the prospect of walking back in the stickiness is even more daunting than walking back in the rain. Despite that, there’s a nagging tug in my chest, a rough edge that won’t be smoothed down.

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