We are approaching Raven’s Moor under a low-hanging harvest moon. I had not looked at the house as we left it, and finally I see it, lit by that gorgeous golden moon. It rises from the moor, a two-story stone house with windows smaller and narrower than those on my family home. Small and narrow to keep out the wind that whistles over the moor, setting the grasses whispering.
One window dances with firelight, and smoke swirls from the chimney. A stone house can look austere and forbidding, and Raven’s Moor does, in its way, but it also looks like the most welcoming sight imaginable.
Mrs. Morant hurries onto the front porch. Her nephew has barely stopped the coach before she is there.
“I came out from gathering Clara’s clothing and you were gone,” she says. “Where did you take her?”
“I tried to get rid of her. Drove her to the edge of the forest, but she wailed and begged to come back for a bath. I relented. After that, though, she is gone. Cast out into the night.”
“I often appreciate your sense of humor, Victor. Not tonight. I asked a question that demands a serious answer.”
“Does it, though? Since you evidently know I would never cast her out, then the only explanation is that she insisted on leaving.”
“And you allowed it?”
He gives his aunt a hard stare as he hops down. “You might be able to insist a young woman stay until she is well. As a man, I cannot.”
He puts up a hand for me, and I get halfway down before he scoops me up, earning a yelp from his aunt.
“Edie has fallen again. Hurt her ankle this time. She was in such a hurry to get away from me that she flung herself from the moving coach.”
At his aunt’s silence, he glances over. “The fact you do not immediately recognize that as a jest is somewhat alarming, aunt.”
“I was simply wondering how she really hurt her ankle.”
“Leaping out of a moving carriage, as I said.” He waits for his aunt to open the door and then carries me through, ignoring my insistence that I can walk. “There was a man. He seems to be the cause of her situation, and she apparently thought I was in danger from him.”
“So it was a noble gesture to protect you,” his aunt says.
“It was a foolish one that could have gotten her dragged under the coach and killed. I cannot fix dead.” He carries me into the parlor and sets me on a chair. “Fortunately, I can fix this.”
I glance around the room. Like the guest bedroom, the parlor is spacious and airy. The furnishings are worn, but they exude a sense of comfort rather than neglect. The chair I am in is a wonderfully soft high-backed one with ornate carved arms and faded lilac fabric that reminds me of the heather.
As Dr. Morant takes off my boot, his aunt hovers.
“My bag, please,” he says to her. “I left it in her room.”
While she’s gone, he tests and prods my foot, asking me to turn it this way and that.
“Only sprained,” he says when Mrs. Morant returns. “Plus the scrapes and bruises that are undoubtedly hidden by that hideous dress.”
“Victor!” She looks at me. “It is a very fine dress.”
I manage a wan smile. “It was at one time.”
“Tell me about this man,” Mrs. Morant says as she sits.
“Edie thought she killed him,” Victor says.
“I was not talking to—” She stops. “What?”
“She believed him to be dead, but he is not.” He looks up at me. “Is it better that he lives? Or worse?”
“Victor! This is not a joking matter.”
“It is not,” he says as he returns to my ankle. “The question is a valid one. It would seem better for her if she did not kill him, but that also means he is alive and still a danger to her.”
“A danger to others,” I whisper. “He has hurt those who helped me.”
“That is what you said. Why you needed to leave at nightfall. Very dramatic.” He glances up. “My sarcasm is aimed at him, not you. He was obviously pretending to be an undead monster that only comes out at night. Hurting others to keep you . . .”
“Running,” I whisper. “He kept me running.”
Mrs. Morant sucks in an angry breath. “That is why you look as if you have been run off your feet for days. How long has it been?”
“Not long,” I lie.
Dr. Morant makes a sound of disbelief, but if I am to tell my story, it must be a gentler version of it. My pursuer did not kill others; he “hurt” them. He has not been chasing me for weeks, only days. This is the believable version, and they are already inclined to accept it because the fact he is corporeal makes it believable.
Not fleeing from a ghost.
Running from a man I thought I killed.
“Is there someone we might notify?” Mrs. Morant asks. “Your parents?”
I shake my head. “They died three years ago. Cholera.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Dr. Morant says, pausing his ministrations to look up at me. “I heard it went through the city.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone else?” Mrs. Morant asks gently. “Brothers? Sisters?”
“I–I had a sister. Younger. Grace. She is also dead. There is no one, but thank you for asking.”
“And this man?” Mrs. Morant’s voice is soft. “Is he . . . your husband?”
“I am unwed. He was—is—neither husband nor fiancé.” The words come on a wave of satisfaction, as if I am denying him that which he thought should be his for the taking.
“Did you know him?” she presses.
“He attempted to court me. I was . . . not receptive.”
A sharp intake of breath, and Mrs. Morant says, “Victor? When you have a moment, would you go and fetch the dinner tray Tillie left for Edie? She must be famished.”
I glance over, knowing what she is doing—wanting her nephew out of the room before she pursues this. “He—my pursuer—he did not interfere with me. Not in that way. He hurt someone. To punish me. I killed—tried to kill him.”
Dr. Morant rocks back on his heels. “He thought that hurting another would convince you to marry him?” He snorts. “He found out otherwise. I ought not to say I wish you had been successful, but there is a satisfying irony there.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice cool. “Very satisfying indeed. I showed him the error of his ways, and he decided to leave me alone. Oh, no, wait. That is not what happened at all.”
He looks up, his gaze meeting mine, clearly startled by the rejoinder, as a little of the old me surges back.
“She speaks your language, Victor,” his aunt murmurs. “Best watch your tongue.”
“That was thoughtless of me,” he says, nodding an apology my way. “I cannot imagine such a situation.”
“Because you do not have to.” I regret the words as soon as they come, and I wince. “I did not mean that.”
“But you are correct,” he says. “I have never needed to worry what a woman might do to me if I rebuff her attentions.”
“She could curse you,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
He snorts and resumes binding my ankle. “For all the good that would do. Women have been cursing me since I was a lad. It has had no effect.”
That makes me choke out a laugh.
“Yes,” he says, “I suppose a woman could take umbrage and harm me or mine in some way, but I acknowledge it is not the first thing that pops into a man’s head when he rebuffs a woman’s interest. Women need to be so much more careful, and I would say I am sorry that happened to you if ‘sorry’ did not seem a very poor word indeed.”
“I truly am concerned for your safety,” I say. “He has hurt others. He has . . .”
I swallow. I want to properly warn them, but how do I say he has left bodies in his wake? They will think me mad. Even if they believe me, that makes him a murderer whom Dr. Morant might feel honor-bound to detain. My whole body shivers at the thought.
“He has hurt them badly,” Mrs. Morant says. “We understand, child, and we will not take the threat lightly. Is he still out there?”
“The ravens frightened him off,” Dr. Morant says.
“Good. They will keep him gone.”
I want to argue. No flock of ravens can hold him at bay. They are merely birds.
Birds that herded me to Raven’s Moor.
That attacked a man who threatened Dr. Morant.
That made Georgie disappear and now did the same to my tormenter. I am certain he did not “run off” though I am hardly arguing the point.
“The ravens here are special,” Mrs. Morant says with a note of finality, as she rises. “You are safe. If he comes and they cannot stop him, they will warn us. Now, let me get you that tray.”
“I will get it,” Dr. Morant says, rising. “Food and then a bath and fresh clothing.”
Mrs. Morant clears her throat and looks meaningfully at my freshly wrapped ankle.
“Damnation,” Dr. Morant says.
I smile at the curse. “I can bathe with it raised.”
* * *
I have had my first bath in nearly a month, and I am glad I was alone because I wept. Even with the awkwardness of having my foot on the tub’s edge and the coolness of the water—Tillie being long gone after filling it—I do not believe I have ever enjoyed a bath so much, and that is saying a great deal. My parents used to tease me about being a mermaid. Washing up was never enough. I would boil water myself for a twice-weekly bath, my mother having rightly taught me that I should not impose on the maids with extra work.
I would never care that it took a half a day for my waist-long hair to dry, I would sink under the water just to hear the silence of it. Tonight, I spend nearly an hour washing, and it is a luxury beyond imagining. The Morants have plenty of soap, enough that I do not feel guilty using it. When I look around the house, it does not scream of great wealth, but instead of comfort. Enough money that one can afford a copper tub and plentiful soap and thick towels. The furniture is not new and the wooden floors and rugs show signs of wear, but they are all sparkling clean. And after that long in the tub, so am I.
Before I got into the tub, Mrs. Morant had laid out clothing for me. There is a nightgown and robe, should I wish to dart to my room, but it is barely ten at night and I have only been awake for a few hours. Mrs. Morant invited me to join her in the parlor, and presuming it is not too late, that is what I will do, meaning I can hardly wear night clothes.
Back at the home I shared with my family, we dressed properly for those of our station. That meant all the underthings women are required to wear—by both propriety and fashion. Corset, corset cover, drawers, petticoats and so on. Getting dressed required help. When I fled, I was properly attired in all that, including a fine dress. As I ran, I rid myself of the petticoats, mostly for ease and weight, though it meant my dress drooped enough that I’d needed to hack off the hem. What has been left out for me is simpler country wear. That is unsurprising, given what I have seen of the Morants, with their sun-tanned skin.
This is not the city, and they do not follow city fashions. Mrs. Morant has left me two day dresses, light pettis, clean drawers and a corset cover. There is no corset because my own is the one thing I shall keep, being a very fine silk one that has been perfectly sized to my form.
Dressing myself takes work, mostly because I am ill-accustomed to it. We always had a maid to help, and if she was busy, Grace and I assisted each other with our dresses and hair.
My hair is, of course, a problem. There is no easy way of putting it up and so I take a chance on my hosts, as kind people who will understand if I leave it down to dry. At least, Mrs. Morant seems kind and understanding. Her nephew seems decent enough, and I suspect if I apologized for the state of my hair, he would have some sarcastic comment about being appalled and insisting I put it up immediately for his viewing comfort. In other words, do not be silly.
This is not a fine home in Mayfair. It is a Yorkshire country doctor’s house built for comfort and utility, with occupants who seem to embrace that.
Once dressed, I take the cane Dr. Morant gave me and head downstairs to find both my hosts in the parlor. I do mention my hair, because it is polite to acknowledge the unsuitability of it, but I do not apologize. Mrs. Morant assures me it is quite fine, and Dr. Morant does not comment at all.
“Do you drink, child?” Mrs. Morant asks, motioning to a glass of amber liquid as I take a seat by the fire.
“If she is a child, then I hope she does not,” Dr. Morant says. “She does not look like one, though, and so I presume she is not.”
“I am five-and-twenty,” I say. “Yes, I do enjoy alcohol now and then.”
“What is your preference?” he says as he walks toward a cabinet.
“Whatever you have.”
He fixes me with a dark look.
“In this house, we say what we want,” Mrs. Morant says gently. “We may not always get it, but we still put voice to our wishes.”
“Tell me what you like best,” Dr. Morant says, “and if we do not have it, we will work down your list from there.”
“I only wish to make things easy—”
“Easy is telling me what you like, not forcing me to guess.”
“Brandy is my favorite.”
He hesitates, one hand on the cabinet. “Ah. I am not certain we have that, but perhaps we have cognac.” He opens the glass door, surveys the bottles within and lets out a deep sigh. “And there is brandy. Of course.” He takes out the bottle.
Mrs. Morant smiles at me. “See? In this house, we say what we want.”
Dr. Morant shakes his head and pours me a drink. He hands it to me, and I take a sip. I cannot recall the last time I drank alcohol. I used to at my mother’s salons and parties, but those ended on her death. After that, we were in mourning, and I had a sixteen-year-old sister to care for. Then mourning ended, and the invitations resumed just long enough for my tormenter to learn of my parents’ demise . . . and I was not drinking anything after that. I needed my wits about me. Not that it helped.
I take another drink of the brandy.
“Do you like stories, Edie?” Mrs. Morant asks, startling me from my thoughts. When I look up, she says, “It is often only the two of us here, and we have many small diversions to pass the evenings, but my favorite is stories. There is a library next door in Victor’s study. Sometimes we read separately. Sometimes Victor reads aloud for me. And sometimes, if he has had a particularly trying day, I tell him one from memory. I think the last is most appropriate tonight. Would you like to hear a story?”
“Very much,” I say.
“What is your preference? True recountings? Pure inventions? Or fanciful tales that may have a touch of truth?”
I am about to say that it is up to her. Then I remember her gentle admonishment to ask for what I want.
“A touch of truth, please.”
She smiles. “The best kind. All right then. Let us tell the tale of the lady of Raven’s Moor.”