The Ghost of Winn Peterson

39. Winn

3 January

It is a busy month already and the year has only just begun. I write this at the end of my day, curled into the bed at the inn, a mug of tea steaming at my side. Nothing can banish the cold, as much as I try. The knowledge that weighs over my heart will never again allow the warmth in, I'm afraid.

No sense in delaying answers - I've already written my findings to Atticus and hidden the message as best as I could. The Lord offered to forge another letter to Evie, but I feared the doctor would sniff such a circumstance out at once. Regardless. I must convey to my personal notes here, lest I forget in my old age or find someone who can use this information to help save my friends. There is, I fear, no real possibility that I'll forget what I've learned today, but one can never be too sure.

Taylor Bakersfield roused the whole of our merry, frozen crew in the morning and pressed warm apple pie in our hands by way of hello. None of us complained - the driver had moaned the night before of the irreparable damage to his fingers, and Mr. Bakersfield had done more than enough by now to cure that. As we crunched on burnt crusts and popping apples, the Lord explained to his friend our plan.

"Miss Peterson needs information, and she needs it quickly. We have a matter of a defenseless woman's honour at stake." He paused to throw back a heavy gulp of hot cider. "The woman in question, an Evelyn Thomas - Radcliffe if we're going by the sham of a marriage - met the mysterious gentleman we're hoping to expose at, what's it called, St. Peter's Church? Yes, and there noted a rector in the care of the doctor who so quickly stole her away. This rector must know something more of the man who's been haunting their lives, and we must make haste."

"Evelyn said he was dying, and that was months ago." The group looked at one another with an air of veiled bravado. It didn't take much looking to see the shaking mug of the Lord or the trembling tray of pie in the hands of the driver (I do feel poorly for failing to remember his name, but he really only grumbled here and there about the cold and being paid well for his troubles. If he ever reads this, then I beg his forgiveness).

Mr. Bakersfield rubbed at his chin and made a sound in his throat. "What are we expecting to find with this man of God?" There was a brief, albeit uncomfortable, silence.

"Evidence of a prior marriage." I hated bringing attention to myself, but I forced myself to remember Evie, cold and gray and miserable. My mild discomfort was nothing compared to the tragedy her life had become, although this discomfort was subtly made a reality when Mr. Bakersfield gave me an odd look. Was he evaluating my skin as well? With a start, I remembered that I was not in a book of fanciful women with romantic whims guiding their influence on society. I was in England in the late 1800's - no doubt, my female presence was enough of a shock. Why would I be running around with grown men in the dead of winter, unsupervised and unaccompanied by another woman? I could only be grateful that the Lord was of a more forgiving nature and disposed towards helping those that reminded him of his dead sister.

Mr. Bakersfield frowned. "We aren't far off from the church you speak of, only a mile or so down the road, but I fail to see the relevance. Why should this man have evidence of a marriage between more women than merely your acquaintance?"

"Evelyn is not a mere acquaintance," I answered with a frown of my own. "Ms. Thomas and I are friends, and as such, I wish to rescue her from the slavery of this cursed and unholy union!"

"Ms. Peterson." Lord DeCourt pressed my arm briefly, giving me a concerned smile. I mumbled an apology and sat back against the counter. If the men wanted to talk without the bother of a woman desperate to spare someone from a terrible situation, then so be it!

Excluded from much more planning, I looked on as Mr. Bakersfield gave instructions to the church. He himself promised to remain at the inn (owing more to the fact that this was his place of employment than out of a desire to aid our quest by maintaining a hub of operations), though he would see to it that we were well-fed and warmed upon our return. I don't know the nature of his friendship with the Lord DeCourt, but I am only too grateful to have it secure our food! The plan for the evening was drawn out on a paper (at my request for the purposes of this journal - I shall keep it in the back fold of the cover): we would travel to the church, question the rector, and regardless of our findings, beg for assisting in the dissolution of the marriage between Evelyn and Dr. Radcliffe. Our final feat was Herculean, as I was reminded sternly by everyone around me, and the case against the doctor was slim at best. Was he not helping Evelyn in the aftermath of the death of her mother? Was he not providing for her, well above the means which she had grown up under? The doctor was a respectable man, by society's account, with a steady and honest profession. His home was large and enviable, as was the land that surrounded it. Indeed, even I began to feel dismayed at the growing evidence that I would fail my mission in being unable to rescue Evie.