The Lark Ascending
Part I: Dartmoor
I. On the Wings of Dreams
In her dreams she flew, as a lark ascending on a secret wind. From her beady eyes the moors unfurled, stone and heath strewn artfully as if by God's own hand. The heady weight of freedom rippled beneath her wings and, sensing this, she flew higher, ever higher. The taste of the air shifted; the East Wind tickled her nostrils and fear, rank and stinking, made itself known. Nothing had changed save for the faint thrum of electricity on the breeze, but on the endless horizon, a storm was brewing. It was far from her, and not a threat- but it was there, present and menacing. She flew on, and the currents brought her closer to the source of the storm. As she watched, a stab of lightning forked to the Earth, awesome and frightening in it's brilliance. She knew, in the deep recesses of her being, that she oughtn't to continue; that all impulses implored her to turn back, turn back! But she could not: and it was in this inexorable pull to the glorious and dangerous that she found the seeds of her dread and dismay. Her eyes grew wide against the surge of light, the very pits of her stomach leaping to the tips of her wings, fingers…
She woke with a great gasp of air from the crushing weight of sleep, the tendrils of dark hair that escaped from her cap slick with perspiration. The barest cracks of dawn crept through the hangings of the window, and she focused on the grey light as her heartbeat slowly subsided. She pulled at the strings of her cap fretfully, abhorrent of the restrictions it placed on her head. Her plait fell loose against her shoulder as she shifted the quilt aside, swinging her legs up and over the edge of the bed. The cold of the floor caused her to hiss in discomfort, and she padded quickly to the window. She slipped behind the hangings to huddle in the window seat, resting her chin against her knees, and clasping her hands about her legs in an effort to feel the contact of every point of her body. The breath she drew was smoke against the window pane, and as she gazed out over the cold light of early spring, she remembered the feeling of wind against her cheek; the lark ascending in dreams alone. The birds had just begun to chirrup cautiously from the scant trees in the garden, and she envied them wholeheartedly. They were not bound by the duties and life of a woman: ever the horizon was Molly's limit, and yet they, with their hollow bones and delicate bodies, could fly wherever they pleased. Every day would be a lesson in tedium, if she did not so painstakingly endeavor to exercise her mind. The action of a man's life was not hers, and the slow creep of banality took it's toll on her staunch walls built on optimism.
The house groaned, as houses are wont to do. And as her pulse steadied, her breaths grew long; presently, she slept.
"Molly…" The very air whispered in her ear, consuming her senses; a voice carried by the wings of the bird.
"Molly…" She sighed, her lashes fluttering against her cheek, as she stirred to slow, cold wakefulness.
"Molly!" The sharp tones of her Mother's voice overcame her, and she sat upright, the hazy edges of sleep escaping her mind. "Child, what on Earth possessed you to sleep over there? Good heavens, and without a covering, as well! You'll catch your death of cold, mark my words. Wake up! Wake up, now, we've company later-"
"C-company, Marm?" she yawned, stifling a groan as she stretched her stiff, cold limbs. Her feet were ice, and she massaged life slowly back into them. Her mother tutted softly as she pulled open the wardrobe, handing Molly her corset and day-dress. She took the proffered clothing, dressing quickly in an attempt to warm her frozen limbs.
"Yes, company, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times- Mrs. Donahue will have the breakfast ready soon, I need you to milk the cow quickly so there's milk for the table, Grace isn't in just yet.."
"Who's coming?" Molly asked absently, crossing to the wardrobe to pull down her apron.
"Mrs. Vernet, you goose! Now, hurry up, we've much to do.." And with that she left, hands fluttering anxiously.
Her father met her at the foot of the stairs with a glance of carefully schooled surprise, the hints of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was a man of lean stature, with a kind face hidden behind round spectacles; the sort of man that one instantly feels at ease with, and is consequently harried within an inch of his life by his wife. "Ah, Molly," he said on seeing her.
"Good morning, Papa," she said, raising a brow as he beckoned her surreptitiously closer. "What is it?"
"Don't show your Mother- here: an early gift." He passed her a heavy tome that had been bulkily hidden under the cloth of his coat. It's great weight surprised her, and she glanced down at the cover. Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical, by Henry Gray.
"I- thank you, Papa! But it's not a holiday- "
"Does a Father need a reason to dote upon his daughter?" He asked with a small smile. "Come, hide it quickly, or Mrs. Hooper will have my hide."
"But Mother's just asked me to see to the cow- "
"Nonsense. Grace will do it. Go now, quickly, and hide it somewhere she will not see." She flashed him a wide grin then, trusting that everything would find itself in order, and darted back to her room.
With the door safely closed behind her, she chanced a moment to look down at the book. And what a book it was: filled with the most fascinating anatomical illustrations, and careful commentary as to many of the newest surgical procedures. The drawings were executed with the utmost precision, and she longed to have the luxury of hours in which to study it. What a treasure! For if there was anything in which Molly Hooper took the keenest pleasure, it was in learning her Father's profession. He was a Doctor, and though this trade might have been seen in the highest of lights, he was only a country Doctor, as it were; and the most difficult cases he had seen in recent years were Mrs. Bentham's common complaint of headaches. They were of healthy stock in Dartmoor, and Dr. Hooper was rarely called for any excessive grievance.
But it was in Dr. Hooper's extensive library that his daughter had found her first passion: in the examination of the human body, hidden away in the crackling binding of her Father's books. It was, of course, an undertaking neither decorous nor entirely proper; but in the absence of sons, Dr. Hooper was obliged to humor his only daughter's every whim. So he began to teach her, slowly, under the disapproving remarks of her Mrs. Hooper- but she was steadfast in her desire, and so it was allowed.
And now, as she slowly gained the formidable age of 25, it had become abundantly clear to Mrs. Hooper that this incessant coddling had not been in her daughter's best interest. She had become willful, with a strong and immoderate manner of speech; and yet, somehow, she had still managed to gain the interest of a small handful of young men, God be praised. But Molly Hooper would not have a husband to stem her learning; a husband to curtail the experiments she squirreled away in her room using equipment she had found in her Father's study. No: a husband was not an ideal she would subject herself to, for she fancied herself a woman who would not be an accomplice to domestic bliss. The running of her own household was a business in which she cared not a whit. But this had become a problem for our young lady of society: because Margaret Hooper had become downright scandalous.
She might have simply developed into one of those women who were mere curiosities in their old age, unmarried and a bit queer; but sadly, the problem of inheritance was one that her mother could not ignore. So Molly Hooper persevered in her study, with the steadfast wish to become a physician, no matter how unlikely that outcome was; while Mrs. Hooper just as voraciously employed all possible veins to entice a young man of good fortune to marry her odd daughter. The prospects had grown thin, and indeed, the possibility of marriage was beginning to look bleak, with or without any goodly sum of income.
It was with this in mind that Molly carefully stowed away this absolute marvel of a book, and resigned herself to an afternoon with her Mother's chosen company.