Ravenwood

by Margaux Gillis

  Table of Contents

  Forward

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  Author Bio

  Even a man who is pure in heart,

  And says his prayers by night

  May become a Wolf when the

  Wolfbane blooms

  And the autumn Moon is bright

  ~ Curt Siodmak

  I suppose the same is true for a woman.

  Chapter One

  The unceasing sway and tilt of the carriage kept Elinore awake despite how she longed for sleep. Her head would bob down as her body slipped toward unconsciousness, only for her to jerk it upright again. She was trapped in the horrid no-man’s-land of wretched fatigue and total sleep, but unable to cross the boundary between the two.

  The same could not be said for her carriage mates and she watched them jealously as their heads lolled against the side of the carriage in their repose, unmindful of their craniums tapping against the glass windows. The elderly couple across from her were wedged against one another, each one somehow keeping the other from tipping forward onto the hard floor of the carriage. The woman’s face was lined with wrinkles from smiling, laughing and probably being the most genial sort of woman - the kind of lady who hosted dinner parties and kept the conversation light and airy - moving from topic to topic with ease and grace. The man seemed warm and soft - nary a harsh line on his body nor face. Elinore felt a pang in her heart as she stared at them. Her parents, had they lived, would likely have been such a couple.

  Her grief wasn’t so raw and fresh as it was when her parents passed, two months prior, but it was still new enough that tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them away hurriedly, turning her face to the window. Elinore stared out at the vast countryside. It was overcast and dull - fat, grey clouds hanging low in the sky, seeping fog and perhaps a touch of frost from the plumy depths. Rotund droplets of water clung to the outside of the windowpane, slinking downward, gathering more water and weight as they did. Her breath fogged the window, obscuring her view.

  The man next to her tipped sideways, his head knocking against Elinore’s shoulder and she firmly pressed him back to lean against the other side of the carriage. As hesitant as she had been to do so at first, she was well acquainted with the motion now, having suffered his weight for the endless trip. He grumbled in his sleep, something unintelligible, and seconds later Elinore’s ears were again filled with the sounds of his snoring. Looking out again at the dismal and unfamiliar landscape, she thought it was perhaps the best match possible for her mood.

  Drawing her reticule open, Elinore pulled out a well-worn letter, the paper edges going fuzzy and soft from her constant folding and unfolding. Though she probably had the entire letter memorized verbatim, she found comfort in the familiar script, so dear and recognizable.

  My Dearest Elinore,

  I cannot believe we could not return to see you off! I am heartsick! Although I’m sure you have packed everything well and soundly, I cannot help but wish that I could have pressed some dried flowers into your things, hidden for you to find upon your arrival at your new home. I had hoped we would leave Hartfordshire long before now, but father’s business is not yet concluded and I am obliged to stay to assist my mother in looking after my siblings. Oh, how I wish I could see you off!

  For as long as we have been friends, your parents were a second set of caregivers to me and I feel their loss keenly, though not as keenly as you must. I know you have told me not to worry, but I am a worrisome creature and when you are far from my sight, I think of you often and hope you are well. I am beside myself.

  Dear Ellie, I hope you are well. I was shocked to read in your last letter that you have been taken in by an uncle through marriage. I confess I don’t recall you mentioning any relations to which you and your family were close and feel so desperately unsure for you at the moment. Are you well acquainted with the family? Your mother, god bless her soul, never mentioned her sister nor her husband, your uncle. Although, we were so long children that perhaps she did and I merely didn’t listen because it wasn’t about pirates or fairy sprites or dread creatures lost in lagoons. Such were always our fancies and I hardly have a recollection of our childhood that I can rely on. Instead I recall fondly battles fought in the woods, horrid tales told by candlelight and dreadful stories.

  Will there be any ladies where you are going? You mentioned your mother’s sister had passed and it was her husband taking you in. Surely there must be some congenial kinship to be had. Father says the family resides at an estate several miles from home. I have resolved to inquire to find out all that I can so that I may know where you are and how you are living. Though I am devastated you will be gone by the time I return back to home, I take comfort in the fact that your uncle sent for you so quickly upon your parents’ death. He must desire you to be close to the bosom of his heart in this saddest of times.

  Elinore, I confess I feel quite selfish at the moment. Although I am so grateful you have family to take you in, I am terribly distraught at the thought of being so far away from you! How I wish you could come live with my family in your time of need. I suggested as much to mother and begged her to enquire about it, but she said we must abide by your family ties and their wish to have you close. Blood will care for blood, she says, though I cannot imagine anyone being closer to you than I, nor to me than you.

  Please indulge my selfishness and write to me as soon as you arrive at your new home. I look forward to reading your descriptions! You always have the most wondrous way with words. I’m also eagerly awaiting your next installment in our dire tales! It will take so much longer for us to complete our writings so far apart, but I’ve no doubt we’re up to the challenge.

  Please write soon. I must know how you are faring, dear Ellie. I am already penning another letter to be sent directly to the estate’s mail in the hopes that it shall be there waiting for you when you arrive. I understand it is quite remote and I dare not even guess how long correspondence will take to travel back and forth. I hope that we correspond so frequently that even after a short time, our letters will be so familiar to the postman that he will double his efforts to deliver them speedily, knowing how dear we are to one another!

  All my love and fiendish friendship

  Charlotte

  Several times over the last few days, Elinore had imagined herself completely dry of tears, having shed them all, but seeing her friend’s familiar penmanship and reading her words in the darkening interior of the carriage had her blinking furiously in an effort not to cry. She pulled a clean, dry handkerchief out of her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. Carefully folding Charlotte’s letter along the frayed folding lines, she tucked it back safely in her small pouch. She had tried to write in the carriage, but she lacked a solid surface on which to lay her paper and the buck and sway of the mighty wooden beast was too much - causing her words to spill out nearly illegible. Returning Charlotte’s correspondence would have to wait until she was at Ravenwood.

  Ravenwood. Her new home.

  Elinore had not even heard of it prior to the letter received by her late father’s solicitor. She had no no
tion of what was waiting for her at the end of her long carriage ride. She only knew that her uncle, Hayter Vollmond, had called Elinore to live with him at the remote estate after the death of her parents. Elinore felt she was quite capable of looking after herself, however, society had no such ideas. Seeing her as a young, single lady of marriageable age who was slowly yet inexorably tipping toward spinsterhood, she’d been socially obliged to accept the offer. Her parents’ will had left everything to her, but her father’s solicitor had been all too visibly relieved to find out there was an older male relation willing to ‘take Elinore on’ and had already started the proceedings transferring the estate to Mr. Vollmond.

  Elinore’s mother and her sister, Victoria, had lost regular contact after they had both married, as was sometimes the way with sisters, and Elinore had never had the chance to meet her late aunt, nor ask her mother many questions about her. The most Elinore knew was that her mother often commented on how much Elinore took after Victoria. As a child, Elinore had given this no further thought than other things her mother told her such as ‘don’t swing your feet while in a chair,’ or ‘do not slurp your soup.’ As she grew older, though, Elinore often wondered what it was like for her mother to see her sister’s face in that of her daughter. Did it make her mother miss her sister more? Less? Was it a comfort or a burden? Elinore wished she thought to ask her mother if she also took after her aunt in manner as well as in appearance. Had Victoria been a voracious reader like Elinore? Was she amusing? Had she liked long, intricate tales and going for leisurely walks on cloudy days? But of course, such things hadn’t seemed important to Elinore at the time, and so she’d never asked. Now, on her way to live with her late aunt’s husband and his household, she could only hope they were genial folk with whom she may hopefully share some common interests.

  The sun had set by the time the carriage stopped at the Haleton train station - the fat, orange orb already slung low beneath the horizon. Though the chill of the night approached, Elinore was grateful for the chance to stretch her legs and take a short walk, free from the dark confines of the carriage. The older couple toddled off together, arm in arm, the gentleman carrying a solid looking travel bag that presumably held both their possessions. Elinore watched them walk away, each still leaning on one another, her heart feeling sad and a little heavy at the sight. The other man in the carriage, his name she did not know, was also departing, leaving Elinore’s three bags affixed to the boot of the carriage looking lonely and bereft.

  Or perhaps that was simply how she felt herself.

  When the driver let loose the other gentleman’s bags, Elinore took the opportunity to fetch her cloak, pulling it around her shoulders, grateful for its weight. It was getting too cold for only her shawl. Elinore had to clear her throat before speaking, her voice soft and slightly rough from disuse. “I beg your pardon, how much farther to Ravenwood Manor?”

  The driver, an older man of perhaps fifty or so, shook his head. “Oh, miss, I’m not sure myself. I never go farther than Haleton.” At Elinore’s perplexed frown, he continued. “Not many guests go out to Ravenwood. They’ll be sending their own driver to take the carriage the rest of the way. I’ll be assisting with the horse change and then I’m on my way again back the way we came.”

  “Ravenwood is not one of your regular stops?” Elinore asked.

  The older driver shook his head. “No, miss. I received word that someone would come to fetch you proper and take you there.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  He tipped his hat at her and, at her request, lit a small lamp for the interior of the carriage so that she may read once she had to board again. Not quite ready to crawl into the darkened interior just yet, Elinore settled herself on a hard bench in the train station, where she could watch the passengers boarding the departing train. She took Charlotte’s letter out, but didn’t read it. She simply turned it over in her hands, running her fingers over the frayed edges. The passengers in the station hustled and bustled about, talking to one another, some saying tearful goodbyes and others looking glad to be leaving. Finding her thoughts turning maudlin without anything to do, Elinore tucked Charlotte’s letter away again and took out her knitting needles and a small ball of yarn and started working on a pair of socks. She thought about trying to write something to Charlotte, or perhaps work on one of her stories, but it likely wouldn’t do to get so involved in something when the Ravenwood driver would be along shortly and she’d just have to pack it all up again.

  After two hours, she sorely regretted the decision not to pick up a book. Despite the dining light, she was close to finishing one sock, her hands proficient at the task after so many years. A chill had settled into her bones from her lack of movement and she found her legs and back stiff from her sitting. The train station was no longer the bustle of activity it had been earlier in the evening and was now nearly devoid of people. All but one of the ticket booths had closed up and the last one, while open, was occupied by a tired older gentleman who nodded off now and then. Elinore’s eyes were repeatedly drawn to him and she wondered how long he would wage the war on his imminent slumber before succumbing. She tried not to worry about still being at the station - surely someone was coming for her. Perhaps she should have inquired about hiring for a messenger to send to the manor. She supposed she could always inquire with the gentleman at the ticket booth to see if there was any chance of being able to hire a driver. Elinore did not have much by way of currency upon her, but she was certain she could wire her parents’ solicitor back in town and he would provide funds. At the very least, she knew that if she were in a terrible state, she could wire Charlotte’s father and request a small loan.

  The most galling part of it all was that Elinore, as a single, unmarried lady of a young age, could not manage her own funds. They were in a trust managed by the solicitors until she was married or until she reached her twenty-fifth birthday, at which point she would be declared a spinster and well past marriageable age.

  Elinore considered herself quite lucky it was only four years away. Naturally, she would entertain the thought of marriage if she found the right gentleman. But if not, she did not fear being a spinster and relished the idea of finally being able to make her own decisions. She and Charlotte had made grand plans of all sorts regarding what they could do if they did not marry. They could open a dress shop, or perhaps a yarn shop, or a combination of both. They imagined they could continue writing their stories while working behind the counter, spending all day wrapped up in fanciful silks and even more fanciful ideas.

  Elinore shivered a bit, the late evening air cutting through her cloak. She eyed her luggage, still affixed to the carriage, and wondered how difficult it would be to find another shawl to ward against the chill.

  “Miss Elinore Reed, I presume.”

  Elinore jumped slightly at the voice, coming from her left and turned sharply. A tall, thin, older man stood before her, solemn and grave. He wore a manservant suit of dark charcoal with a black cap upon his head. His features were slightly sunken in, although the general nature of the remainder of his body indicated he was the sort that had been thin and spindly his entire life.

  “I am Elinore Reed,” she asserted, clutching her knitting a bit closer to her and setting her spine steel straight and strong.

  He tipped his head in acknowledgement - a stiff and formal motion. “I am Edgar Thistlewaite, from Ravenwood. Most folks just call me Thistle. I am to take you directly to the manor.”

  His voice was low and deep - like a large, sonorous bell. She nodded once. “That is the carriage there. The other driver left it as is.” She indicated to where the carriage was parked, at the side of the train station.

  “If you please, miss.” He gestured that she should proceed to the vehicle. She gathered her small bag, tossing her knitting back inside quickly and pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. As she moved away from the train station, she noticed a light fog was settling over the countryside. The lights from t
he station made it glow slightly, pale ghosts against the landscape, and she shivered again.

  “Are you chilled?”

  She granted Thistle a small smile. “No worse for the wear. Only slightly tired from my journey.” She was dismayed to see the interior of the carriage dark as she approached, the candle the other driver had lit having long since burned out.

  “Shall I fetch you a blanket?”

  “No, thank you.” Elinore was grateful for his kindness. The night was dark and she’d been feeling very solemn and lonely as she waited. Though Thistle had an odd look about him, he seemed quite capable and genteel. She felt immeasurably better about her journey.

  “I had perhaps thought to read a bit, but it appears the candle has burned out. Is there another?”

  Thistle nodded slightly, pulling a small box from under the driver’s seat of the carriage. “Most drivers keep a small stockpile at the ready. I’ll light it for you. Bit of a reader, are you miss?”

  Elinore smiled, waiting patiently as Thistle lit the candle in the carriage. “Yes. I don’t sleep well on carriages. I’ll likely either knit or read.”

  “Good habits to have. My daughter is the same. Always with her nose in a book.”

  Elinore smiled at his fond tone. “May I inquire, how old is your daughter?”

  Thistle smiled, his long face lighting up. “Thirteen, miss. Loves the mysteries and the mythology books. My misses says she should probably try her hand at more manor work and less minotaurs, but my Alice is not easily persuaded.”

  “Perhaps she will loan me some of her books and be interested in sharing some of mine. I do love mythology as well.”

  Thistle nodded at her, seemingly bashful. “She’d love to talk about books. Neither her mother nor I have a care in the world for half-man creatures and fables. It would be right kind of you if you could trouble yourself.”

  “It wouldn't be trouble at all. I remember that age well. I loved reading. Still do.” Indeed Elinore remembered how glorious it was to hunker down in a corner of her house or a small patch of the woods with Charlotte and a tale of mystery and mayhem. Oh, what fun they’d had!