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.

Was it even my place to undertake such a task? It really wasn't, not by any moral or societal standards. I had met Evie only in August, and while I felt I knew her heart and mind well, nobody would expect me to throw my life and reputation away fighting for her freedom. The Lord was kind enough to explain to me the challenge of a woman obtaining her freedom from a husband, and how I wished Evie had been married in America! Still, I cannot lament what simply is. It is a far easier task to free my friend than to change the laws of an entire country. As for following these laws, releasing the bonds of marriage requires special circumstances, and I've been forced to contemplate all manner of foulness to achieve them. If, for example, the doctor could be enticed into a public display of cruelty or violence, we could sway public opinion and find a witness or two. As the doctor is no fool, and quite cautious, the other options would be reduced to destroying Evie's character forever by accusing her of horrid things like adultery. What husband wants a wife who's been unfaithful?

At a crossroads, I could only pray that an answer presented itself while we visited the rector.

After another round of drinks, we were off. The ride was indeed close enough that I could have walked the entire time spent waiting on the driver to chase drink after drink and relieve himself! Still, better to wait on a drunk than walk in the cold.

The snow had slowed down some, and left the entire countryside bathed in a heavenly blanket of pure white. Nothing had marred the surface of the collection of flakes. I pressed my nose to the carriage door to admire the view, only to wince as the cold pane spread the frost across my face.

Pulling to a stop after a short while, the carriage rumbled with the thumps of footsteps above us. "Out, out! I'll be back for you in an hour, lest ye freeze to death waiting on the old man. Out!" Eagre to be rid of us, the driver thumped the roof again and before we could enjoy any more of the (albeit minimal) warmth, Lord DeCourt and I were shivering in the whitened front lawn of St. Peter's Church of Winterborne Came, watching pathetically as the driver fled as fast as his horses could run.

"Well. Onward, I suppose."

"Yes, onward."

Stepping past the little gravestones that dotted the lawn (even mostly buried under snow, they remained visible, like little gnomes preparing to bite the ankles of intruders), the Lord and I walked briskly to the door and pounded on the ancient wood. Thankfully, we didn't need to knock long before padded footsteps approached, swung the door open, and pulled us inside. A small creature resembling a maid in a white frock and gown gaped at us in astonishment.

"Whatever are you doing here in this weather?"

"We must speak with the rector of this church," the Lord said severely, his hands trembling. "It is of utmost importance." The maid looked at him and seemed to take in his whole appearance in a few blinks.

She nodded, bowed her head, and waved us along. "I am afraid Reverend Barnes is in an unstable condition. He will likely be too ill for you to speak much with him, but you are obviously not going to be turned away if you would hurry to us in times like these." Sparing a terse glance over her shoulder, she continued, leading us past the small, but no less beautiful, nave of the church. We made a cramped turn and found ourselves in a tiny room, the walls a stained white (or perhaps, gray? The original colour had been lost with time, damp, and mold), the only window covered in frost and webs. In the corner of the room, there was a lone desk (upon which rested only a few vials of medicine), a rocking chair beside it, and a smallish little wooden bed.

Resting on the bed was none other than the reverend, who was very much asleep. To say he was soundly resting or perhaps deep in slumber wouldn't have been entirely accurate. There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow despite the cold; his fingers were clenched around a thin sheet over his body; even his mouth could not stay still as he mumbled and moaned in rasping breaths.

"I am sure neither of you will be surprised to learn that he is dying. Please be respectful. I will be in the next room if he needs anything." Bowing her head once more, the maid ducked out of the room after sparing a final miserable look towards the man she must have had to care for in the dwindling months of his life. Concerned for my companion, as the cold was producing a visible strain on his limbs, I bade him sit in the chair while I approached the rector, my hands shaking.

Hesitant to touch him, I settled on gently shaking the shoulder of the withered old man. I was startled by the feverish warmth he exuded. "Reverend, sir. Please, wake up." I shook him once more before his eyes shot open and he groaned aloud.

"No more!" he cried in a rasping voice. "No more!"

The Lord and I shared a panicked look. Was he lost to the grip of dying insanity? A sense of desperation overcame me. This was my last hope, Evie's last hope. Insanity be damned, I resolved to make the old man talk.

"Please, still yourself. We come asking for your help, Rector." He seemed to calm down at that, though he looked about the room with a confused and nearly vacant expression. He appeared very much like a little child who has been awoken by a bad dream in the night.

"Help? Nobody can help," he whispered, hands gripping my arm. I looked desperately to the Lord for help of my own, and he slid the chair closer to take one of those papery hands in his marble-like ones.

Patting the hand, the Lord smiled at the rector warmly. "I understand we haven't much time left, but sir, if you have any hope to rid the world of one more evil, then I beg you - tell us what you know." The rector looked into his eyes and blinked back tears.

"You want to know about him, don't you?" The Lord spared an excited, panicked look with me before nodding at the rector.

"Yes, yes we do."

"You... don't know what you're asking for. If you know him, you're too late."

"Please, we must know. A young woman's life is at stake, an innocent woman!"

Sitting closer, I took the rector's other hand and pressed it to my cheek. Tears had filled my eyes and spilled down my face as I listened to the Lord's plea, and I was determined not to let them go to waste! "My friend has been wed to Dr. Radcliffe. We fear for her life, without any assistance you can give us." My emotional display was not in vain - the rector closed his eyes and shuddered. He freed his hands and reached for the desk, pulling a green bottle to his lined lips and drawing a long drink. When he had finished, he clutched the glass tightly, the remaining liquid shaking as he did.

"Your friend will die," he said at last, in a trembling voice, hardly above a whisper. "As all of the others have, so she will."

"No! She will not if you can tell us what he plans to do with her!" Even as I pleaded, I felt a sense of satisfaction in knowing I wasn't insane - the doctor meant nothing good by his marrying my friend, and her life was forfeit the moment he took her hand. Of course, I would have rathered been wrong about it all, but what was, was. There was nothing I could do to change that, except change what would be, and I was not going to sit idly by as the time on Evie's life shrank!

"I know not what he wants with them," the rector explained, shrinking back into his pillows and seizing the blanket with a clawed hand. "He takes one, and then another, and then another, always with the same foolish hope that they'll be..."

"Be what?" Lord DeCourt leaned forward with tears in his own eyes and just barely restrained himself from grasping the dying man.

"Brides! Healthy, perfect brides. I don't know what for." The rector began to sob, rocking back against his pillow, little hands clutching the bottle as though it would spare him the misery of having to remember. "I can't move from this bed, and he tells me about them all while I am restrained here... Poor women, destitute, desperate women... Anyone who can't leave him, who must rely on him. Nobody would think twice on the matter... If your friend has been caught, then you must leave!" The sobs grew louder until the door smashed open and the maid rushed inside, pushing us away. Even as another maid hurried in to pull us out of the room, the rector still called out after us, screaming about brides and doomed witnesses.

Once the Lord and I had run outside, we stood in the small graveyard and panted, avoiding looking at one another for a moment. Had we really learned anything new? Was the entire dangerous escape merely a confirmation of what dangerous thoughts we had all harboured about the doctor?

I shall quit my narrative here. We have since returned to the inn with grim and gray expressions, no hope in our futures. I am determined to return to the church in the morning and discover if the rector has any knowledge on these past brides of the doctor. I am determined, I repeat, not to leave this miserable, corpse-infested town until I learn enough to send to Atticus, enough to free my friend and any other unfortunate women imprisoned by her dreadful husband.

Freezing my toes off,

Winn