The Ghost of Winn Peterson

25. Winn

November 15

Quite a number of things have occurred since the visit of the mysterious but kind-hearted Lord Carroway deCourt, which have all but prevented me from so much as lifting my pen. The foremost situation is that Dr. Radcliffe has returned to his grim home, but the circumstances surrounding this most miserable affair require far more explanation, which I shall get to shortly. I must first make mention of the improved relationship between myself and Evie, which, while a most wonderful thing indeed, isn't nearly as healed as I hoped it would be. Despite my profuse apologies for being so insensitive (who could have guessed that I, Winnifred Yulia Peterson, would be capable of something so base as insensitivity? It truly makes me question the sense in travelling from home to home. The effect on my nerves!), she maintained a pained, stiff sort of distance from me, not quite angry enough to forgo an embrace or a smile every now and then, but decidedly still hurt. 

I'll ruin it if I write any more before the initial circumstance, so my narration after the unfortunate run-in with Atticus continues as such: My delivering the tea to the sitting room where Lord deCourt sat to rest his legs revealed that Evie had been summoned, no doubt by the sound of an unfamiliar voice, in the time Atticus had distracted me. By the grace of God alone was I able to keep my grip on the tray which held the cups and the kettle and the sugar, though my arms did quake most miserably at the shock. 

"Ah, Winnifred." Evie inclined her head upon seeing my frame in the doorway, only to return her attentions to the smiling face of Lord deCourt. The pain in my heart at hearing her use my full name was likely just as crushing as she'd hoped it would be, to which I realised I fully deserved. Fortunately for my ruined state, the Lord turned his wonderful smile on me and beckoned me into the room. 

Mortified, I focused on not tripping and sending the tea over our guest, whose white attire would no doubt suffer at the stain. Settled safely, I attempted to shake my hair loose, a natural veil, to pour our tea without having to look at how easily Evie ignored me. 

"I was just telling the Lady of the state of my horse farm, Ms. Peterson!" Lord deCourt eagerly pulled a cup towards him and heaped several generous spoonfuls of sugar into it. "You both really must see it; I am afraid I am no great architect or visionary, but I trust I am well acquainted with more than a few to keep the place looking marvellous! And, of course, the horses are the finest Thoroughbreds you'll find in all of England. " I flashed a look towards Evie and blushed under the protection of my hair. 

"I really couldn't, Sir. I'm afraid I'm of no standing to visit such a place as this!"

"Nonsense!" He lifted his cane and tapped it enthusiastically several times on the floor. "We aren't nearly as barbaric as you might think, and you are no serving girl. An acquaintance must go where her friends go; would the Lady not agree?" This last question was directed towards Evie, who had remained silent since I entered. She blinked in surprise at having been spoken to, only to bow her head slightly. 

"If Winn would like to go, I see no reason she should not." 

The answer was brief and on the whole, totally impersonal, but I still felt my heart trill not only at the use of my shortened name once more, but the invitation. From someone who had essentially banished me from her presence, this was a great improvement. Perhaps we would even be able to talk with one another in the safety of a new environment. 

Having settled the matter already in his head, the Lord beamed and took in great mouthfuls of his tea (I was unaccustomed to the mannerisms of the upper class here, as I shall no doubt say a hundred times more, but was quite certain it was rather messy of him to do so), humming an indeterminate song in the midst of the uncomfortable pause in speech. Desperate not to feel so foolish, I poured Evie and myself a cup, pressed hers into her hands, and sat in a burning lump of awkward flesh. If only she would talk to me as a normal person, then apologising would be easy and we could get on like the best of friends once more. You will likely understand why this was not something I brought about on my own, though, and hopefully find it in your leathery pages to forgive this cowardice on my part.