Two more days pass. I make the raven’s recovery my pet project, and Mrs. Morant leaves me to it. The doctor checks the young bird morning and afternoon. He does not say anything, but I presume that means all is well.
I feel as if I have done something wrong. Until the injured bird, Dr. Morant was polite, even friendly in the evenings, after a glass of brandy. Breakfast was the only awkward part of the day. Now he seems equally distant from sunup to sundown. He is no longer able to join us in the evenings, and so I only see him at meals, including that silent breakfast.
On the third morning, I have had enough. I do not know what I have done, but I will not suffer through another of those interminable shared morning meals. I tell Tillie that I will take a tray into the gardens. She does not bat an eye at my request. It is, in some ways, like staying on a tiny island, where the inhabitants are untouched by the rest of the world, having no idea what is and is not acceptable and, if I am being honest, all the better for it. No one insists I wear a bonnet to keep my skin white. No one looks askance if I do not put my hair up every morning. And Tillie makes me a breakfast tray without a moment’s hesitation.
I dine at a small garden table, surrounded by Mrs. Morant’s flowers and greenery, my face turned up to the sun. Flowers perfume the breeze that tickles across my face. At a squawk, I look to see two ravens perched on a rock wall. I lift the remains of my morning roll and one flaps over to the table and takes it from me. Then it flies off, the other following, screeching indignantly at it.
I smile and lift my tea cup for a sip. As I do, I catch sight of a figure in the breakfast room window. Dr. Morant is there, drinking his own tea and watching me. As soon as I glance over, though, he withdraws and the glass reflects nothing but the moor beyond. I hesitate. Then I decisively turn away to gaze over the moors and find my moment of peace again.
* * *
When I finally slip into the house, voices reach me. Dr. Morant and his aunt are in the study, their voices low but carrying through the closed door.
“—stop this foolishness,” Dr. Morant is saying.
His aunt’s voice is unruffled. “I do not know what you mean, Victor.”
“Yes, you do. She must go. You know that.”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
“She is here until her ankle is better, and then she must go.”
“Must she?”
“It is . . .” He seems to struggle for words. “Not right. She does not belong here. Her world is out there.”
“And what world is that, Victor? The one where she has no family? Where a monster pursues her? Is that what you will shove her back into?”
“I am not shov—” He clips the word off. “I will handle him. But she must go. You know that. This is our world. It is not hers.”
“It could be.”
“Do not even say that. It is wrong. I will not allow—”
He stops as Tillie’s footfalls tread above. When the study door knob turns, I hurry down the hall as quietly as I can.
* * *
I want to run. I am ashamed of myself for thinking that. How many nights did I scream to the heavens to let me stop running, and now I want to do it? Not out of fear but out of humiliation?
Dr. Morant does not want me here. I have stumbled into his life, falling before his coach. Then I twisted my ankle, and he is stuck with me. That is why his mood has changed. He has reached the end of his hospitality, only to realize I will likely be here for weeks.
I do not know how to handle this situation. The humiliation of being an unwanted guest is too much to bear, yet I literally cannot run. If I leave the Ravenswood, I will find my pursuer waiting. I have no doubt of that. If I cannot run, will he take advantage of the excuse to kill others?
There has been nary a sign of him since the night I arrived. The proper thing to do is wait until I am healed. Mrs. Morant is fine with my company. I should overlook her nephew’s begrudging hospitality. Yet the feeling of being unwanted worms its way into my very soul.
I beg off helping Mrs. Morant in the garden, which only makes me feel worse. It was the one thing he asked of me—that I be a companion to her. Yet I fear she will see my mood and prod me for the reason, and if there is one thing more humiliating than being unwanted it is admitting to it and forcing my hostess to soothe my misgivings.
I am in the study, attempting to read, when the front door slaps open.
“Alma?” Dr. Morant calls. I have noticed he often calls her this. Sometimes aunt, sometimes Alma, never Aunt Alma, as if they have lived alone together too long for such formalities.
When no one answers, I step into the hall and Dr. Morant nearly bashes into me.
“Where is my aunt?” he says, a little out of breath. “I am in need of her assistance in town.”
“She is in her garden,” I say. “I was feeling unwell and . . .”
I trail off. No need for an explanation he will not even be around to hear, as he is already at the back door. He throws it open.
“Aunt?”
When no reply comes, he wheels back, cursing.
“Where is Tillie?” he asks.
“I do not know. I was reading—”
“Damnation.” He runs one hand through his hair.
“Is there something I can do?”
“Are you any good at holding down terrified and bleeding children?” He waves off my response, as if he did not need one. “I will find someone in the village.”
“I can help,” I say firmly. “You need a child restrained for a procedure?”
“She has broken her leg. It is a compound fracture.”
I hesitate a heartbeat, not wanting to expose my ignorance before realizing I must, if I am to help him. “Compound . . .?”
“The bone has broken through the skin.”
“Oh!”
He brushes past me. “You do not need to come along. Particularly if you are unwell.”
I thought he had not heard me say that. “It is only a headache.” I follow him. “I am not squeamish. I had a friend whose father was a butcher.”
He gives a short laugh as he reaches for the door knob. “I should like to say it is not the same thing at all, but sometimes, it truly feels like it. Come then. But if you feel unwell, say so. I cannot have my assistant falling into a dead faint midway through setting the bone.”
* * *
We take the brougham into the village, affording me my first real look at Moorsville. I sit up top with Dr. Morant, and as we enter, people stop and stare. Whispers snake out before people avert their gazes.
“They are not accustomed to strangers,” he says as we ride. “They have heard there is a guest at Raven’s Moor, and they will be curious. They do not mean any offense.”
“None is taken. I might be from the city, but I have read books about village life. I take it you are not on any trade route?”
“We are at the end of a road that goes nowhere but here. If you come to Moorsville, it is by intent, and there is little reason to do so.”
“Do you like it here?”
When he does not answer, I decide he has reached the end of the conversation. I look about. It is like many villages I ran through on my journey north. Thatch-roofed small homes, with a few larger ones. A tavern with tables outside, a few people enjoying a pint under the warm fall sun. Children spill from a school house and then stop short to stare at me before their schoolmarm hurries out and whispers to them.
I wave a hand in greeting, feeling a little like Queen Victoria in a parade.
“When I was a child, I could not imagine ever leaving Moorsville,” Dr. Morant says, and I realize he is responding to my question. “It seemed a perfect idyll for a boy. Then I became a young man, and I could not flee fast enough.”
“You went to medical school in London?”
“Edinburgh. That is where my father went.”
“You came back after he retired?”
He shakes his head. “He is still practicing. When I finished my medical studies, I stayed in the city for a couple of years, but the luster had dulled. I wanted to come home. I worked with my father for three years before he and my mother decided to move to York, where my sister had recently borne her first child.”
“And you stayed at Raven’s Moor.”
“I did.”
“With your aunt?”
“Yes.” He steers the horse around a villager who has stopped to gape. “Which is not to say that I felt obligated to stay and care for an elderly relative. She is ten years my father’s senior, but still very capable, as you have seen. We are housemates, which keeps us both from being lonely, rattling around in such a large place.”
“You seem to get on well.”
He passes me a smile, soft around the edges. “We always did. It was a fine way to grow up, with a father and mother who had to say no to extra sweets and an aunt who would slip them to us later.” He leans my way, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Our mother and father knew full well what Alma was doing and were only relieved that they could not be blamed for completely spoiling us.”
“It sounds like a lovely way to grow up.”
“It truly was.” His mouth opens, and I brace for him to ask about my own family, but he turns his attention back to the road and is quiet for the rest of the ride.
* * *
That afternoon, I pour all my willpower into helping Dr. Morant. As I said, I am not squeamish. I am, however, affected by the plight of others, and so I need to be careful not to let him see too much of my sympathy, lest he mistake it for unsettled nerves.
The girl’s name is Lucy, and she had been climbing a tree when she fell. That would be enough impact to break a leg, but she also fell onto a stone wall, which is what did the worst damage. Dr. Morant has someone bring a dram of whisky to numb her, and while he works, I hold her still and talk to her. I ask Lucy about climbing, while admitting I have always wanted to but never have.
“Children do not climb trees where you are from?” she asks.
“Boys do. Girls do not. We must behave like ladies, even when we are young. It was most vexing.”
Lucy giggles, the sound turning to a gasp as Dr. Morant adjusts her leg. Tears spring to her eyes.
“Do you think it is too late for me to learn how to climb a tree?” I ask quickly.
She shakes her head, not quite falling for the distraction.
“What would be the best one for a beginner? In this area?”
Dr. Morant answers, “One that is not overtop a stone wall.”
“Pay him no mind,” I say. “Is there a tree I could start with?”
“There is an old apple one in the orchard,” she says. “I could show you.”
“Could we talk less of climbing trees?” Dr. Morant says. “And more of sedate activities for young ladies, where they will not break ankles and legs? I believe the two of you need to begin a sewing club.”
“If you consider that less dangerous, you have never seen me sew,” I say. “A needle is a formidable weapon in the wrong hands, and mine are always the wrong hands.” I lean toward Lucy. “The last time I had to embroider, I sewed the piece right onto my dress. My great-aunt declared me hopeless at it and never asked me to help her again.”
“Which was a terrible disappointment, I am sure,” Dr. Morant says dryly. “And not at all the reason why it ended up attached to your dress.”
“Are you saying I did it on purpose, sir?”
“Are you saying you did not?”
“What a dreadful accusation.” I bend to Lucy’s ear. “Accurate, but still dreadful.”
Dr. Morant waits for Lucy to laugh and then pushes the bone back into place.