Green Willows. V. J. Banis

      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 suppose it is,” he said offhandedly, and quite unexpectedly, “Irish, eh? You’ve got no brogue.”

      “I was raised in London and in Devon.”

      We came down the slope, around the lake. It was lovely, even in the rain and darkness, and I felt a desire to play in that gazebo on the island.

      As we neared the front entrance of the house, I paused. My companion stopped too, giving me a quizzical look.

      “Are...are you expected?” I asked. I was a bit embarrassed by what I should do next. If this man were coming here for a visit, I thought he would be irritated if I came in with him and he later learned I was only a servant.

      He shrugged and said, “More or less.”

      I did not know what to do. Finally, I said, “I am the new governess here.”

      “Yes. I know.”

      My discomfiture increased, but as it seemed he intended to do nothing to alleviate it, I said, “I shall go in now, then. Thank you for your company and I am sorry about your fall.”

      He made a gesture with his hand that said the incident was nothing and gave a slight bow. “I shall be on my way to the stables.”

      I gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, you are a servant here, then.”

      “No,” he said soberly, “I am Mr. Tremayne.”

      I could feel my face burning crimson. In my confusion, I could think of nothing to say. This, then, was my new employer, and I had not only caused him to fall from his horse and spoken familiarly with him, but had insulted him by calling him a servant in his own home.

      “Oh,” I cried and, turning from him, ran up the steps and banged on the front door.

      CHAPTER THREE

      An elderly lady in black with a white apron and a widow’s cap ushered me in at the front door. With her silvery colored hair and her spectacles slipped down on her nose she reminded me a bit of Mrs. White, which was reassuring. She was, I supposed, Mrs. Tremayne, but I could not help noting that she was considerably older than the gentleman I had met outside.

      “Yes, yes, come this way, please,” she said when I told her who I was. She led me into a comfortable sitting room, which seemed all ablaze with candles and a fire roaring in the fireplace.

      “You must be frozen. What a night for travel. And hungry, too, I’ve no doubt. Here, take off your shawl and stand by the fire. My, you are young. He didn’t say, but then, of course, he wouldn’t.”

      She brought her fluid chatter to an abrupt stop and I had the impression she thought she had said more than she should. I was still unnerved by meeting with Mr. Tremayne, and the awkward silence jangled on me.

      “I...I met the master,”