Alma’s Story – The Lady of Raven’s Moor
There once was a lady, whom we might call a witch or a sorceress or a wise woman, whichever of those words you feel best applies to someone who knows the ways of the forests and the moors and whispers to the beasts and sometimes seems to do that which appears unnatural but can be explained away if you so wish. Her name was Madeleine Morant. Or perhaps it was not, and that is the surname she took, fitting, as it means a stranger who stays, which is what she did.
At that time, there was nothing here but the moor and the ravens. Or perhaps, as some say, only the moor, and the ravens came with her.
The people of Moorsville say that none even knew she was there until the builders arrived. When the lord of this land realized someone was building a house, he sent his sheriff to evict her, and she produced papers that showed no one owned this piece of land, and by the ancient laws, she could claim it and had done so.
The lord hired solicitors from London, but they all agreed she was within her rights, even though the lord could have sworn this land had been his. He also argued that, according to the common law, women could not own property, but the papers were in the name of her father, and so they had no recourse and the house of Raven’s Moor rose, as you see it now.
At first, the villagers, being unaccustomed to strangers, did not welcome Madeleine, but she wore them down, with acts of kindness, bringing food when there was none and healing that did not require a half-day ride to the nearest physician. Crops that never before grew in this harsh land took root. Diseases that struck the neighboring towns never reached Moorsville. The locals credited their witch, the lady of ravens, as they called her, often seen roaming in a black cloak, ravens in her wake, a brass cage in her hand, looking for any wounded from her flock.
When she came, they say she was a young woman, no older than you, Edie. She built the house and charmed the villagers, and years had passed. Yet she was still young, and the people only said that they must have been wrong about how long ago she arrived. One day, when a child was struck by an illness Madeleine could not cure, the lady sent for the nearest doctor. The old one from the next town had died, and his grandson had taken over, a hale and handsome man of thirty-three, and soon he was living in Raven’s Moor, and if no one could remember an actual marriage taking place, they decided they were, once again, mistaken.
The lady and the doctor raised a family at Raven’s Moor. Most of the children moved away, happily spreading their wings and flying into the world with their parents’ blessing. A son stayed, learning his father’s trade and marrying a girl from the village, whom his mother taught her trade.
The years passed, and more children came. Most left, but one of Madeleine’s granddaughters stayed, marrying a visiting doctor. Madeleine and her husband lived to see their great-grandchildren born and grown. Finally, her beloved perished at a very ripe old age, and the next morning, their granddaughter found her grandmother’s brass raven’s cage inside her room, and she understood what that meant: Her grandmother had gone.
Later that day, while the granddaughter was gathering herbs, she saw a black-cloaked woman walking near the forest. Certain it was Madeleine, the granddaughter ran to her but this woman was young, with raven-black hair, and her cloak was like the wings of a raven. The woman lifted a hand in greeting and then drew the cloak up and when it fell away, the woman was gone and a flock of ravens soared into the air. The granddaughter knew that it had been her grandmother, resuming her true form to watch over this land and all who live here.
That is the legend of Madeleine Morant, lady of ravens, witch of Raven’s Moor, and it is why we feel, however little truth there may be in the tale, that we are her descendants. We live in these moors, with the ravens, and we remember that they are important, as is everyone who lives here.
Madeleine came and she stayed, and she tended to her flock, and forevermore the Morants will do the same.
***
I dream of the witch of Raven’s Moor. In my dreams, she becomes that glimpse of a woman I saw when I fled the ravens. That trick of the night and an unsettled mind. The stories meld into one. My hosts’ ancestress becomes a wild black-haired woman striding over the moors in a black gown and black cloak of raven’s feathers. In each hand, she carries a bronze cage, and the ravens follow her. So do I. I am running to catch up with her, to ask her questions, because I have so many questions.
How did my pursuer become flesh?
Where is Georgie?
What is this place?
Why am I here?
I am racing after her, and while she is only walking with purposeful strides, I cannot catch up. She grows ever farther away until I finally shout the only question that truly matters.
“Am I safe here?”
She turns then, her haughty face glowing pale in the moonlight, hair whipping about.
“Am I safe here?” I repeat.
“That depends on you,” she says, and the wind whips the black-wing cloak over her face, and when it falls away, ravens soar up to the stars above.
***
I wake to light streaming through the window glass. I forgot to close the curtains again. I am still blinking when a raven lands on the window sill.
“I am still here,” I say.
The raven croaks and flies off, white tail feather flashing, as if she really did only come to check. I lie abed for a few moments, thinking of the dream.
I do have questions. Even in the light of day, I do not dismiss them as foolishness. Dr. Morant says the ravens here are different, but he accepts that difference as natural fact. Just as he accepted my story about my pursuer, believing I had simply been mistaken and had not killed him. All is well. All makes sense.
I cannot ask my hosts for answers, because they see nothing amiss. It is how things are and how things have always been, for them.
I rise and dress. For my hair, I find a brush and pins, but there is little hope of doing a proper job of it. I plait it down my back, as I sometimes did when it was only Grace and our staff to see me. Then I take my cane and head to the main level. At the scratching of pen on paper, I follow the sound to a half-open door.
Dr. Morant sits at a desk, writing. I glance up and down the hall. There is something I need to talk about, and I would much rather do it with his aunt.
I steel myself and rap softly. He looks over and sets down his pen and motions me in.
“Good morning, sir.”
A sigh, telling me I am already getting off to a poor start. “Good morning, Edie. I trust you slept well.”
“I did, thank you. May I speak to you?”
He does not answer, as if the question does not require a response. He has stopped his work and invited me in, so obviously I may speak.
I half shut the door. “I appreciate the kindness you and your aunt have shown. I understand that I have been foisted on you by fate, and that you did not expect a house guest whose leave-taking may be further delayed.” I glance pointedly at my bound foot. “I do not wish to impose.”
“You are not. My aunt will be pleased for the company.”
“I wish to be clear that I am not taking advantage of your kindness. I will leave as soon as I am able. In the meantime, is there someone I might ask for tasks? You mentioned Tillie?”
“Our girl of all work. My aunt and I are self-sufficient enough that we do not require a full staff, though Tillie’s mother joins us twice a week for the carpets and laundering. There is a boy from the village who tends to the horse when he is not in school. That is all we need. We are not going to ask a hobbling houseguest to clean our floors.”
I nod toward the desk. “If you need help with your correspondence, I can do that. My father was a solicitor. I took on the role of his clerk. I am very good at both my letters and my numbers.”
“My practice encompasses a village of two hundred souls. My correspondence is . . .” A humorless smile. “Non-existent. We keep to ourselves in Moorsville. Which is why, as I said, my aunt will be glad of the company. If you insist on repaying us, that will be your role. Entertaining house guest.”
I hesitate. “I will try, though I am not certain how entertaining I will be. I have no musical talents and—”
“Talk to her, Edie. Can you manage that?”
My cheeks heat. “Of course, sir—Dr—” I swallow. “Victor.”
“There, not so hard, is it?” He swivels the chair fully to face me. “I am certain we seem quaintly provincial to you. You are from London, yes?”
I nod.
“You are accustomed to the latest in manners and fashions and whatnot.” He tugs at his cravat. “Is this the latest in menswear?”
“Er . . .”
“No, it is at least ten years out of date, as is that dress of Clara’s you wear. Because we do not care here in our corner of the moors. We use Christian names and we dress as we like and we speak plainly. I am not trying to browbeat you, Edie. I only wish for you to understand the custom of this place. That, in asking you to use my Christian name, it is not a trick or a test that you will fail if you do so. Nor is it me being ‘kind.’ I am not kind. I am a spoiled boy who has grown into a proper tyrant, one who expects guests to adhere to the customs of Raven’s Moor and the surrounding environs because it makes things easier for me.”
He stands. “Now, let us find Tillie, introduce you and have breakfast. That will give her time to clean our bedchambers before my aunt rises.” He lifts a finger. “And if you dare to insist on cleaning your own room—to make things easier for Tillie—then I have to tell her that, and she will be distraught, thinking her cleaning is not good enough for a city lady, and I will need to deal with that. Which is not making things easier for me.”
“I will gratefully allow Tillie to make up my room, and then I will await your aunt’s waking and keep her company.”
He exhales dramatically. “Thank you.”
***
I meet Tillie, who is indeed the sort of maid who would—if told she did not need to clean a room—presume she had done something to cause offense. It does not seem to be a learned experience. Dr. Morant is gentle with her, as if she is an easily spooked fawn, and she seems comfortable with him. I am the one who makes her nervous. She stares a great deal, even when Dr. Morant reminds her that she knew I was here before she left yesterday. It is as if she had been told they had a guest but did not quite believe it.
We take our breakfast in the dining room with little conversation. Then Dr. Morant returns to his study after telling me his aunt should be up by ten. When he is gone, I ask Tillie for directions to the library, only to learn it is in the room where Dr. Morant was working. I had not taken a look around while I was there, being focused on him. I am certainly not going to bother him again, so I head into the parlor, where I find a copy of Oliver Twist on the table and settle in to read.
Mrs. Morant takes breakfast in her room, so it is nearly eleven before she appears in the doorway. I quickly set down the book and rise.
“Your nephew mentioned over breakfast that you like to walk in the morning,” I say. “Might I join you?”
“I do not think there is much walking in your future today, child,” she says, with a look at my bound foot. “However, if you would like to go out . . .”
“I would.”
“Might I entice you into my gardens? They will need to be put to bed soon, and I am gathering the last of the herbs. Are you familiar with healing medicines?”
“I am not, but I am interested.”
She smiles. “You may regret saying that. The men of our family become doctors, a path not yet open to the women, so we are midwives and herbalists.”
“I had a dear friend whose mother was a midwife. My friend took no interest, sadly, so I know little of the craft.”
“What path did your friend choose?”
“The same as most of my circle. Marriage.”
She gives a sudden laugh. “Your expression suggests that would not be your choice.”
I rub my face. “I mean no disrespect to those who choose it.”
“But it was not for you?”
She is only making idle conversation, but I feel the need to treat the question seriously. “I did expect to marry. Even hoped to. Yet my parents raised me to believe that one advantage to being of the middling classes is that marriage, for us, can be a union of love.”
She nods. “For the upper classes, particularly nobility, it is a necessity. Alliances made and all that. For the least fortunate among us, it is a path to much needed security.”
“Exactly. My parents were well-to-do and had no sons. I hoped to marry, but there was no hurry to do so. I had started to consider it when the cholera came. Then there was my younger sister to look after, and when our mourning period ended . . . there was him. Once his interest was known, no one came near me.” I pause. “To be clear, I was not a cold maiden who refused to consider a good match in hopes of better.”
Her voice softens. “Even if you were, child, that would be your prerogative. Or it should be. The fact he hurt others tells me he was never a good match. Or a good man.”
“He was not.” I clear my throat. “But what of you? Was there a Mr. Morant?”
“There were hopefuls,” she says with a sly look. “Many hopefuls and many enjoyable days with them, if that does not shock you overmuch. Things were different when I was a girl.”
“Society was not as rigid in matters of courting.”
“Thankfully. I did not wish to marry. I had a brother, ten years my junior, whom I raised after our mother passed. I was happy with my work and with caring for him and our father, and then my brother grew up and married and had two wonderful children for me to raise. One is still with me.”
“Victor.”
“Yes.” She pauses. “I know he can be difficult, but please do not judge him harshly.”
“I do not. My father’s dearest friend was a doctor.”
That makes her laugh, hand flying to her mouth. “Then you know the sort. Men who hold the power—and the responsibility—of life and death in their hands. We live very isolated lives here, in Moorsville, and so his ways—and ours—might be odd to you, but you are welcome here. I hope you know that.”
“I have felt very welcome, thank you.”
“Good. Then let us go out to the gardens, and you shall regret expressing even the most polite interest in my craft.”