The Ghost of Winn Peterson

44. Winn

16 August

I write this in the panicked dark of the night. There is too much to describe. The events of the day have been more evil than I could have ever anticipated; I once thought I should never forget the day I met the rector of the little church in Dorset, but such nonsense will find no space in my memories when compared to the tragedy that befell not only myself, but all I have met in England. Had I but died! I wish for it, pray for it, beg for it, anything to give back what has been lost today, but as it stands, I am nearly alone and filled with nothing but remorse for what my life has become.

We fled as fast as we could from the inn between my two homes, hardly wasting any time to thank Mr. Bakersfield for his enduring hospitality. I would give him everything I ever owned for the rest of my life as thanks, if only I could return to Evelyn and find her safe. Lord DeCourt had the foresight to send the carriage driver ahead of us, leaving behind a horse so that we might follow, in the hopes that he could prepare the way and deliver news of our impending arrival to our friends. We packed as quickly as we could, but there was hardly anything holding us to the inn. Surely, neither the Lord nor myself could have expected to be imprisoned for anything more than a week, much less the majority of the year!

Was it silly of me to regret having missed the spring season? If the pattern of my life continued, spring would be a fantasy better dreamt about than anything I could hope to experience myself in this country. Would I remain for it? It was a curious question, but one I had no time to devote my fancies to.

By midnight of the fifteenth, the Lord and I had departed, riding away on his silver-brown horse into the warmth of the summer air. Even as we fled, I marvelled at the weather. Gone were the mountains of snow and the endless landscapes of white! It felt like only yesterday that I had been surrounded by winter in every aspect. Where was I now, that grasses grew green and trees swayed with fresh arms of coloured leaves? I tell you, even knowing what I do know and having seen the terror that awaited us in Cambridge, the change of seasons in my sickened slumber still give me cause confusion and wonder.

The ride back swift. We stopped for nothing, waiting on no one. There was nothing for us between the inn and the house, at any rate, and the scenery gradually grew more civilised as the hours rushed by. We arrived at Cambridge early in the morning, when the birds still slept in their nests, when the people still hid in their homes under the guise of snoring away their dreams. It was a surreal experience, to bounce on the back of that sweating horse on the empty streets. Only a cat watched us ride by, its yellow eyes watching impassively as we neared our doom.

"He's bound to have opened the gates," the Lord muttered under his breath. Though we were (oddly, strangely!) in the summer, the night was still cool and bade him shiver under the milky light of the moon. He looked the very picture of a ghost, and I was glad not to have seen him out of my window that night. He said no more, but urged the horse onward, eyes staring hard into the foggy gloom. Even as we approached the boundaries of his magnificent estate, he pricked his ears and flinched at every sound, as though he knew of what waited for us in the dark of his house. Nothing, however, moved. There was no sign that anything was different, that anything had changed. All was as it had been eight months ago, excepting, of course, the snow.

As we approached the house, the wind picked up some, rustled the trees around us as if to welcome us home. "Careful now," the Lord murmured, sliding down awkwardly and holding his hand out for mine. I wondered what he'd looked like some twenty years past, when he was whole and healthy and as intimate with the knowledge of the horse as his own body. I stared at him, picturing him in his handsome youth, but there was no sign of the frivolous, spoiled boy now. His eyes were narrowed, focused on something I couldn't see.

There was no time to ask him what it was he looked for. Once he made sure I was safe on my two feet, he quickly tied the horse to a nearby tree (taking a quick second to pat it gratefully on the neck and point it to a nearby pool of water) and pulled me along, limping severely without the use of his cane. What a sight we must have looked like! My hair loose and flowing like my muddied dress, his entire visage rippling like moonlight across the long field before the house. Once we had run to the front door, he hammered on it before throwing his meagre weight against the magnificent wooden frame. "Dammit all!" he swore, beating his fists against it. "He hasn't unlocked it... Where is he?" Just as the Lord made to turn and find some other entrance to the house, the door groaned and gave in, eerily swinging into the thick darkness that lay in wait. The carriage driver had not opened the door, that much was obvious, but someone had. I pulled on his sleeve with a horrified expression (how recently had someone trespassed on the property?), but the Lord merely moved on, stepping over the threshold and staring at what should have been a welcome sight after a long, hard journey.