The Ghost of Winn Peterson

26. Winn

16 November

The end of the year is growing to a close; the autumnal air, crisp and delicious and tinged with the scent of apples, has begun to slowly make its way into the stinging, foggy mannerisms of the snow. Even this morning, a gentle mist of icy dew settled on the Radcliffe house, and coated everything outside of my window in a near-crystalline residue. It was hard indeed to recognise the day from the one prior, which had been delightfully warm. How the horses of Lord deCourt fared in the sudden decline of the weather nagged at my mind for the better part of the day, and of course, at the state of the joints of the disabled Lord.

In the aftermath of our excursion, he kissed me on the hand and bowed low to Evie, who, woefully uncomfortable with any addresses to her new station, merely blushed and frowned before inclining her head in return. Myself having never been touched by a man other than my father or a doctor (or the more recent grasps of the desperate Atticus), I found I was terribly pleased by the show of respect and attention. Blushing myself, for an entirely different manner than my friend, it was with a warm countenance and the resolve that Atticus was completely unwarranted in his warnings that I made my way back into the depressing walls of the Radcliffe house.

I likely should have known that nothing good ever lasts, no matter how short the period of pleasantry. Entering my unfortunate new home, I found a scene that made me wish at once I had not descended from the steps of the carriage. Atticus, glowering in the corner behind the wall separating the kitchens from the main hall, was giving me the sort of look that said quite plainly that I told you so. The reasoning for his grim expression was immediately ascertained by the light-sucking presence of Dr. Radcliffe.

Having spent only a little bit of time in his presence, in the grand scheme of my time in England, I found I was grossly unprepared for a surprise visit with the doctor. His hair was swept back in a messy pile, as though being recently departed from the company of the wind, his eyes dark and filled with a panicked look.

"Where...!" was all he could cry, rushing forward and grasping his newlywed by the shoulders, pulling her into an embrace that belied his simmering anger. Pushing her back in remembrance of propriety, he turned to me and his entire person seemed to ripple with a rage I had only seen in slivers. "You! You ought to be in bed! Your health... you know you are incapable of wandering the outdoors without severe consequences." His voice trembled and he approached me quickly and suddenly, lowering his voice so that only I could hear it. "I brought you here for Evelyn, young lady, as a kindness and so that you might find some peace in your health at last, and you continue to defy my orders for your recovery. You will go up to your room at once, and you will remain there until I have cooled my impatience with your obstinance!" There was nothing else for me to do other than flee as quickly as the confines of my dress would allow, tears blinding my path the whole while. 

How stupid I was to travel to this country of eccentrics and vile men! So eagerly did I rush upstairs that I tripped over the hem of my dress three times, the third propelling me into the door of my room, which I took great satisfaction in slamming as hard as I could. I did not even find it in myself to maintain a sense of dignity; I wept, long and loudly, until the sun had completely disappeared beyond my veiled window, until I fell over in tear-depleted exhaustion behind the door. It should not require any explanation on my part as to why I was so vexed, but I will note that yelling of any sort ought to be outlawed everywhere that people have voices. Never has an argument been solved or a point made clearer by the shrill exhalation of a maddened set of lungs. It is not any great surprise that I should find myself more so vexed at the presence of a yelling. Even at my clumsiest, my most thick-headed moments, my mother, ever the disciplinarian, refused to raise her voice beyond the stern shaking of correction.