CHAPTER SEVEN

The morning mist lay soft upon the cobbled lane as Harriet tended her modest shop, arranging lengths of satin and velvet upon the wooden counter. The bell above the door tinkled, and in stepped Mrs. Marwood, one of Harriet's customer, a well‑to‑do gentlewoman known for her discerning eye and discreet speech.

"Good morrow, Mrs Blackwood," Mrs. Marwood began, her tone low as she cast a cautious glance toward the street. "I trust I do not intrude on thy morning labours?"

"Not at all, dear madam," Harriet replied, offering her a gentle smile. "Pray, be seated. What may I do for thee this day?"

Once the door closed behind her, Mrs. Marwood leaned forward, voice scarcely above a whisper. "There is a matter of utmost delicacy—one I would not breathe in curious ears. Thy way people scorned at you, your everyday weariness I do see, this is definitely not the Harriet I know of. Hast thou heard of the sorcerer who dwells at the far end of Heath?"

Harriet paused, her needle hovering above a scrap of silk. "I appreciate thou concern but about this sorcerer, I have heard only rumour and dark tales. They say none dare approach his dwelling—that strange lights dance upon the moor at midnight, and ghastly shadows flit between ruined stones."

Mrs. Marwood's eyes gleamed with secret knowledge. "He is named Morven the Sable. 'Tis said his craft has aided the desperate—bringing comfort to the bereft, healing to the ailing. Yet the folk hereabouts speak of him as though he were the very devil."

Harriet's heart quickened. "And hast thou any cause to vouch for his powers?"

The gentlewoman pressed her gloved hand to her brow. "I have known a score of wretched souls who came to me in confidence—saddened mothers praying for children, merchants undone by plague, hearts broken by sorrow. Each did find relief after a journey to his abode. His price is steep, yet his gifts… profound."

At this, Harriet's breath caught. She cast a furtive glance at the door. A milk‑maid paused outside, her basket swinging, and the two women exchanged a barely perceptible nod before resuming their confidences.

"But Mrs Marwood," Harriet continued, voice earnest, "the villagers shun magic as though it were poison. They clamour that meddling with madic's arts invites ruin upon one's soul."

"I know," Mrs Marwood said .

Harriet pressed her lips together, tugging at a strand of hair. "I have heard these sermons too, and I have listened to my neighbours' whispers: 'She who weds but bears no child shall walk in shame.' Yet… yet my heart falters not. Ten years I have known the blessing of Robert's love, how can I refuse a chance to give him the fatherhood he so deserves?"

Mrs. Marwood reached across the table, covering Harriet's hand with her own. "Thou art a mother already in spirit. If the sorcerer's aid can bring thee but a single day of joy in a babe's first breath, is it not worth the peril?"

A silence fell, broken only by the distant clatter of a passing carriage. Harriet's mind raced: the uneasy peace of her home, the heavy ache in her womb, the quiet sorrow she stifled each dawn. She felt the weight of the years press upon her like the unyielding stones of a tomb.

"I shall… consider thy counsel," Harriet finally murmured, eyes shimmering. "Though the very notion fills me with both dread and hope."

Mrs. Marwood rose, adjusting her cloak. "Take thy time, sweet soul. But remember: love oft demands a bold heart more than caution."

As the customer departed, Harriet stood at the door, watching her swift retreat into the morning haze. The late‑summer breeze stirred the chintz curtains behind her, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, lost in thought.

In that moment, Harriet knew the path she must tread. Even if fate would claim her life or grant her only fleeting bliss, she would journey to the magician's lair. For she would be a mother_if but for a single, wondrous day.

That evening, Harriet returned to her home in a buoyant mood, her skirts swaying beneath the basket of provisions she had procured from the market. She set to work at once in the heart lit kitchen, the copper pots gleaming as she boiled water for pasta and seasoned a joint of chicken with rosemary and thyme. Over a pan of sizzling vegetables—carrots, peas, and tender green beans—she hummed a merry tune, her fingers dancing as she stirred. The very air seemed to brighten beneath her joy.

Robert crossed the threshold, shaking the last of the autumn chill from his coat. "My love?" he called softly, pausing in the hallway.

Harriet glanced over her shoulder, a broad smile upon her lips, and nearly lost her footing as she hurried to embrace him. "Robert! Thou art home!" she exclaimed, catching her balance against his chest.

"A kitchen most fragrant greets me," he said, breathing deeply. "What travail has made thee so radiant this eve?"

She placed a gentle hand upon his arm. "Pray, take thy ease in the parlour. I shall shortly bid thee sup."

With a fond nod, he withdrew to the parlour while Harriet arranged the table with gleaming pewter platters and polished tumblers. Candles flickered in their brass sconces, casting a warm glow upon the polished oak. Soon, she bore in a platter of steaming pasta crowned with golden-roasted chicken and vibrant vegetables.

"Here, my heart," she said, setting the plate before him. "I have prepared this especially for thee."

He placed a hand over his heart in mock solemnity. "Truly, I am most fortunate."

He lifted his fork and sampled the first bite. His eyes shone. "Heavenly," he murmured, "each morsel shows thy skill."

Harriet lingered at his side, watching the pleasure his meal gave him. Though he urged her to partake, she shook her head. "Nay, this feast is for thee alone. I shall sup later."

When he finished, he wiped his lips and reached for her hand. "Now," he said gently, "thou didst promise me good news, and I likewise have tidings to impart."

She laid a gloved hand upon her bosom. "Thou first, dear Robert."

He drew in breath, recalling his recent conversation with his mother. "This day," he began, voice resolute, "I reflected on our discourse of adoption. 'Tis my belief that a child need not spring from one's own loins to deserve a loving home. There are orphans in every town—homeless souls craving the warmth of a family. If Heaven denies us a babe, I would adopt such a one, rearing it as my own, that our house know laughter once more."

Harriet's lips trembled. A shadow passed across her joy. "Robert… hast thou ceased to believe that I might bear thine heir?"

He clasped both her hands. "Never, sweetest. I love thee more than life itself. I wish only for thy happiness."

She drew a steadying breath, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "My beloved, though thy heart is noble, I cannot consider another's child as mine. Your line is bound by blood—remember how thou didst pledge to carry on the Blackwood legacy through our own flesh and blood. I would rather endure any trial than see a stranger inherit what your ancestors wrought."

Robert studied her face, moved by her conviction. "Thy words are just, my dearest. I spoke in haste, for I feared thy sorrow. But if thou wouldst rather seek another remedy—"

Harriet's eyes shone like stars. "Indeed, I have good news of my own. This morn, Mrs. Marwood confided in me of Morven the Sable—a magician who dwells at Heath and has aided many in their most desperate hour." She told him of the whispered stories: how desperate mothers and broken merchants had been helped, how the villagers feared his arts even as they envied his results.

Robert's brow furrowed. "Magic? Thou knowest how the folk denounce it as devil's work."

"Aye," replied Harriet, "and yet, if it holds the promise of one blessed child, I must brave it. Wouldst thou accompany me, dear heart?"

He rose and drew her close. "Though my soul quail at the prospect, I shall go wherever thou dost choose. Anything for thee, my heart."

She smiled through tears, relief mingling with hope. "Then on the morrow we depart at first light."

He kissed her forehead, his voice hushed with awe. "So be it, dearest wife. Together we shall defy all fear."