Raven Witch

by Cach, Lisa

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you the wise woman or midwife here, Miss…?”

  “Bright. Valerian Bright. My aunt and I share that honor.”

  “Miss Bright. Will you do me the kindness of coming to Raven Hall tomorrow, to tend to my friend’s wound? I know that a healer would not hold the ill-tempered words of a suffering man against him.”

  She opened her mouth to refuse, then shut it again, and gave a bare nod. He was right: she would not let personal aversion stop her from helping anyone, not even someone who’d made as bad an impression on her as Paul Carlyle.

  “Splendid. I’ll expect you at noon.” With a nod to her, he nudged his horse, and the whole troupe continued down the street, turning at the crossroads onto the road that lead to Raven Hall.

  Valerian watched them go with her lips pressed tightly together, and her heart in unfamiliar turmoil.

  “What did you do that for?” Paul wailed, once they were out of earshot. “I’m not letting her touch me. Did you see the way she smiled at me? Did you see those teeth?”

  “They did look remarkably healthy. Don’t tell me she frightened you, a poor country girl like that?”

  “Damn right she did. Probably a witch. Probably will poison me as soon as look at me.”

  “A week away from London, and already you fall prey to the superstitions of country folk. Really, Paul, I’m surprised. Where’s the harm in having her check your wound?”

  “Don’t tell me it was concern for my bodily person that made you do that. Why did you ask her to come?”

  “She looked like she knew what she was doing, and you were less than complimentary of her skills. It would be good to make it up to her. I don’t wish to alienate my people my first day amongst them.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes at him. “Is that all there is to it?”

  Nathaniel affected a look of surprised innocence. “Certainly. Surely I wouldn’t ask her to come purely for the entertainment of watching her prod your hairy backside with her sharp little knives. I’ve no desire at all for revenge on you for the last fifty miles of whinging and complaining, and your ceaseless yowling for ale.”

  “God knows I don’t compare to the bright ray of sunshine that you have been lately. I’ve been blinded by your good humor on many an occasion, truly I have.”

  “Careful now,” Nathaniel said. “You shall sour your stomach with that bile.”

  They rode a bit in silence, then Paul spoke again. “I worried that you might have had something else in mind with her.”

  Nathaniel felt a spurt of anger, and did not resist the urge to take it out on his friend. “She did have a clean face, after all. When she’s finished with you, perhaps I’ll impress her with the baronial armature, eh? Give her a taste of the master’s rod. After all, no one in London will ever hear of it, or care if they did.”

  Paul stared at him, aghast. “You can’t mean it, after all that has happened! And not with her, surely not. A muddy-toed peasant girl?”

  Nathaniel kept his expression bland. “I believe she was wearing shoes.”

  “Nate—”

  Nathaniel heaved an exasperated sigh. “I am but jesting with you, Paul. For God’s sake, I of all people know better than to involve myself with the likes of her.” Nathaniel could feel his friend staring at him for a long moment, sifting his words for truth.

  “Well,” Paul said at last. “So you should.”

  Nathaniel chose not to answer, having neither the energy nor the heart for the argument, especially as Paul’s suspicions were not entirely off the mark. In his mind’s eye he saw Miss Bright’s curved figure as she bent to her disagreeable task over the woman’s neck. He saw her red lips, pulled back in that grimace of a smile that she’d used to terrify Paul. And those blue eyes, bright enough to pierce him from a distance, looked startlingly light set amidst her thick black lashes. She had not shown him a hint of subservience, not even the required curtsy.

  Yes, she had caught his attention, there was no question of that, but he would have to be an idiot to seek anything more from her than her doctoring skills. The last thing he needed right now was an entanglement with an unsuitable woman.

  A breeze rustled through the woods along the lane, and somewhere a branch snapped. Nathaniel scanned the waving leaves, light green with new spring growth, and saw only trees. Ahead loomed the grey stone wall that fronted the estate, and just as they reached the gate, with its twin stone sculptures of ravens on either side, he thought he heard a rough voice calling from the forest.

  “Eee-diot,” it said.

  Idiot, indeed.

  Chapter Two

  Valerian kept to the grassy verge to the left of the footpath that wound through the hills to home. Her shoes were in her basket, now that she was beyond the filth of the street of Greyfriars. The grass was cool and slightly damp beneath her callused soles, and welcome after the sweaty confines of the leather. The hem of her dull purple skirt was just high enough to keep from the damp ground. She hummed under her breath, swinging her basket, and tried to regain her usual sense of calm, so deeply disturbed by the baron.

  Halfway home she took the left fork in the path, following it to the low hill with the standing stones, from which the small bay that emptied onto the Irish Sea could be seen, and the hump of the Isle of Man in the distance. The skies had cleared somewhat, and the sun had begun its descent and was low enough to cast a yellow light upon the water and through the green vegetation of the hills. She stood silent, soaking in the tranquil beauty, but the peaceful oneness she usually felt here eluded her today. Nathaniel Warrington’s handsome, mocking features imposed themselves before her mind’s eye.

  “Arrogant peacock,” she muttered sourly. She went to examine the goods that had been left on the Giving Stone.

  “The Giving Stone” was what she and her aunt, and the villagers as well, called the fallen stone on the north side of the circle. No one knew who had built the circle, raising the huge slabs of granite in two concentric rings, but it and hundreds of others like it dotted the countryside, along with the mounded barrows of long-buried Britons. This circle was far from complete, several of the stones having disappeared into the fences and foundations of farms, or having been buried in fits of paranoia.

  The fallen stone was the place where those Valerian and her aunt had helped with their healing or their water divining left their payment. It was considered harmful to the healing or magical process—not to mention extremely bad manners—to pay a healer directly, and so the villagers followed the age-old custom of anonymous donations, left a discreet interval after seeking and receiving aid. Of course, in a small village such as Greyfriars, it was not hard to determine which offering had come from whom.

  Valerian smiled to herself. The crocks of honey, butter, and preserves, those had most likely been from Mrs. Hubert, who lived with her husband and brood of children on a farm a couple miles from Greyfriars. Aunt Theresa had given her a tonic for her colicky baby, and ointment for rashes. She had also suggested that the tonic might do the gassy digestion of Farmer Hubert a bit of good, a suggestion for which Mrs. Hubert was apparently grateful, judging by the generosity of her gift.

  The bodice laces were probably from Gwendolyn, the miller’s fifteen-year-old daughter, who had come seeking advice for winning the heart of her beloved Eddie. Eddie was the smith’s oldest son, nineteen years old, and Gwendolyn had been overcome by the passions aroused from viewing his muscled arms and chest at work, gleaming with sweat in the light of the forge.

  Valerian had worked quietly in the background, crushing herbs under her pestle, as Aunt Theresa gave the girl both honest advice and warnings on the consequences of unbridled passion. Gwen had gone away without the love potion she had requested, but with a steely determined eye, much unexpected in a girl known for her vivacious frivolity. If he wasn’t careful, Eddie would soon find himself with a wife.

  Being a wise woman meant living outside of usual life, devoid of normal connection with her fellow man, bu
t she had long told herself that that loss was made up for by the intimate glimpses she got into the private lives of others. She and her aunt saw the hopes and fears, doubts and yearnings, disgraces and secret prides that the villagers normally hid from one another; a healer was needed for more than physical injuries and illness. Those glimpses gave her an illusion of connection with others, and she had chosen to let that be enough.

  It had to be enough, for there would never be anything more.

  Valerian gathered the offerings into her basket and descended the hill, regaining the path toward home. It was mostly women and children she and her aunt helped; the men usually sought out the services of the surgeon in the next town. Only in emergencies would she or her aunt be called in to help with an injury, even though she was certain she and Aunt Theresa did a better job than the surgeon.

  Perhaps that was the reason Baron Ravenall kept intruding so rudely into her thoughts. (I want, her heart complained, but she smothered it and pretended it hadn’t spoken.) She should be the last person he would ask to care for his friend. Why had he insisted she come to Raven Hall? It was baffling. Perhaps he had been impressed by her treatment of Sally’s boil.

  She shifted the basket to her other hand. It was heavy now, and bumped against her leg as she walked. The path led through a cool, dark grove of trees in the dell between two hills, then emerged into a sloping meadow. A rocky stream tumbled its way through the meadow to the bay and thence the ocean, a wedge of which shimmered between the hills. The path crossed the stream via a narrow footbridge, then finally ended before the cottage that had been Valerian’s home since her parents died and Aunt Theresa had come and taken her away from the Yorkshire village of her birth.

  The distinctive sound of a spade working the dirt came from the far side of the cottage, and Valerian followed it around the corner to the kitchen garden. The formidable figure of her aunt, tall and somewhat stocky with muscle and middle age, was bent toward the ground, one hand pulling at the remains of the weed that the spade had unearthed.

  “I’m home,” Valerian called to her.

  Theresa Harrow straightened up, one hand going to the small of her back, massaging the muscles there. “Did everything go well? No problems?”

  “None that you mean.” It was not just the healing that her aunt was asking about. There were certain dangers to being perceived as a white witch, even now that it was no longer legal to persecute witches.

  Theresa tossed the weed onto the wilted pile at the edge of the garden and came to join her. “What happened?”

  Valerian shrugged uncomfortably. “I met the new baron, Nathaniel Warrington. He rode through town and stopped to watch me lance Sally’s boil.”

  Theresa leant the spade against the side of the house, and dusted her hands on her homespun apron. “Let’s have some tea, shall we, and you can tell me all about it.”

  Over a cup of soothing peppermint tea, Valerian told her all that had transpired, and of the command to come tend to Paul Carlyle’s derriere.

  “A good sign, I must say,” Theresa laughed. “The new baron hardly seems likely to encourage our good neighbors to hang us if he’s requesting your assistance for his friend.”

  Valerian shrugged one shoulder, uncertain. “I think it more likely he’s unaware of how things are in villages. He didn’t strike me as a man who would be aware of our concerns, or particularly care even if he were.”

  “Neither did George Bradlaugh show much interest in the workings of the town.”

  “But he cared enough about what happened to you.”

  “Poor old fool.” Theresa’s lips curled in a fond smile. She rubbed her thumb along the rim of her heavy mug, musing, Valerian knew, on the former baron’s romantic tendencies. “I don’t think we can count on this Warrington fellow to think me the stars and the moon. He sounds a trifle young for me.” She raised her eyebrows at her niece.

  “Aunt Theresa, the man would as soon adore a pig as a poor village girl. And even if he did take notice of me in that way, which he would not, I wouldn’t return the interest.”

  “It sounds to me as if he has taken notice of you already.”

  Valerian’s cheeks pinkened. “I don’t think so.”

  “And most certainly, he has made an impression of a certain strength on you, hasn’t he? All this complaining—I think the lady doth protest too much.”

  “Oh, really, Aunt Theresa!” Valerian cried, cheeks flaming to scarlet.

  “Perhaps you wish he had taken even more notice of you, hmm? But at any rate,” Theresa continued before Valerian could protest yet again, “you know how important it is that we remain in his good graces. The village will follow his lead in their treatment of us. If the baron shows disapproval, it’ll be more than our lives are worth the next time some farmer has a cow die on him, or his wife miscarries.”

  Valerian turned her eyes away, staring out the open door at the twilight settling over the meadow. The fluttery shape of a bat crossed her field of vision, chasing insects. “I know.”

  In those two words were fifteen years of awareness that she and her aunt were respected for their knowledge, and both despised and feared for suspicion of whence that knowledge had come. The villagers sensed the truth that Valerian and her aunt had powers beyond the mere blending of garden herbs and application of poultices. That fear, while keeping the healers somewhat safe in their isolation, could turn destructive with a change in the wind. The witch hunts of the past century were long over, the witch laws recently repealed, but the country folk found more truth in their own beliefs than in the letter of the law. She who was a healer and midwife today might tomorrow be denounced as a poisoner in league with Satan.

  It was not a fate to wish on anyone, much less oneself. If being nice to the baron would do anything to prevent it, nice she would be.

  Chapter Three

  “You aren’t going to wear that, are you?”

  Valerian turned from the small silver mirror at her aunt’s critical tone. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Really, Valerian.”

  Theresa’s exasperation spoke for itself. Valerian tightened her lips for a moment in defiance, then loosened them as she gave in, and she began to yank at the laces of her work-a-day bodice.

  “I know, I know, my foolish pride,” Valerian muttered, removing the bodice and pulling on her best black one over her chemise. It had elbow-length sleeves, and was both stiff and tight enough to provide support for her breasts. It was her best more by virtue of newness and quality of material than because of any decoration, although with the purple laces that matched her skirt it had a certain attractiveness to it. “I didn’t want him to think I’d dressed up for him.”

  “Come here, let me fix your hair.”

  Valerian flounced down onto a stool with an exaggerated sigh. Theresa pulled a few wisps of hair from her braid to frame her face, then squinted at her critically. “You need something more.”

  The cottage had a high roof, steeply peaked, and thatched with heather. In the dark recesses above their heads hung line after line of drying plant matter, from herbs to flowers to lengths of root. The cottage smelled of a combination of wood smoke and sweet dry greenery, punctuated with touches of scents both more spicy and more noxious. Theresa dragged out their ladder, and retrieved a spray of dried purple statice from where it had been hiding in the shadows above.

  Ignoring her niece’s fierce frown, she twisted the papery flowers into Valerian’s braid. “There. It goes against human nature to think a witch would wear flowers in her hair.”

  “More likely he’ll think I’m trying to attract his attention.”

  “And so what if he does? If he thinks you like him, he’ll be more inclined to be kindly disposed towards you.”

  “I don’t want him to take it as an invitation,” she grumbled. An invitation that he’d laugh at, and reject.

  “It might not be so bad, if you decided he wasn’t so disagreeable…”

  “Aunt Theresa!” />
  “Hush, child. I’m not trying to sell you into prostitution to secure our safety. But you’re twenty-seven years old, and you have never had a sweetheart. They’re all afraid of you. If the baron shows an interest, I see nothing wrong with experiencing a little of what life has to offer. The prudish attitudes of others have never been for us.”

  Valerian pulled out from beneath her aunt’s hands and quickly gathered up her things, her movements jerky.

  “When I do decide it’s time to ‘experience’ things, it will not be with the baron. The very idea repulses me.” A lie, of course. I want, I want, I want… her heart said, aching with its desires. To have that man touch her, to feel his hands on her skin, to feel his lips against her own, the strength of his arms around her body…

  Loneliness had long lived in her heart, but this yearning for a specific man was new. She hated Nathaniel Warrington for creating it in her, and exposing her to the risk of being hurt.

  Valerian hurried out of the house, eager to escape her aunt’s knowing smile.

  The path she would take to Raven Hall was no more than a deer path through the hills and woodland. Raven Hall was between her own home and the town of Greyfriars, and the path she normally took to town made a wide circuit of the estate. Today she took the shortcut that would lead directly into the Raven Hall orchard, and thence to the gardens and the house.

  Once out in the late morning sunshine her mood lifted, and she managed to forget for a bit her aunt’s lewd suggestions. Her eyes scanned the greenery to either side of the path, taking in the first shoots of plants that had lain dormant through the winter. What should have been a ten-minute walk stretched to twenty, then thirty minutes as she repeatedly left the path to examine bits of flora, her mind cataloging locations and stages of growth. It was only when the path spilled her out into the edge of the apple orchard that she recalled with a start where she was headed and for what purpose.