8. Ms. Porter
Chapter eight
Ms. Porter
Cole Wetherby stormed past her in a fit of rage, and she politely stepped aside, offering a soft, “Good morning,” that went unanswered.
She didn’t take it personally. The boy had grown into a handsome man, but his temper…
now that was new. Once the golden child of the house, forever perched on his mother’s hip, beaming at any and all scraps of praise, he now moved through Winterridge like a powdered keg waiting for a spark.
Lily would be distraught if she were alive to see it.
She prided herself on her family and the closeness she’d cultivated like her prized roses. But even Mrs. Wetherby, for all her strengths, had her blind spots.
The Wetherby family wasn’t perfect; they were just very good at pretending to be.
Those doors they hid behind seemed to be blowing wide open. If she knew anything after four decades in this house, it was that once one opened it was only a matter of time before they all creaked off their hinges, dragging every secret, every lie, and every buried truth out into the daylight.
She just hoped that by Christmas, the Wetherbys would all still be standing.
She adjusted the tray of cinnamon scones and clotted cream on her arm and made her way through the corridor. The faint sound of laughter drifted from the Main Hall, and as she passed the archway, she paused.
There they were, Carter and Miss Ashley, decorating the tree as if no time had passed at all.
It had, of course. Eight long years.
Eight years since the family had all gathered under one roof. Since that awful winter. Since the funeral.
No one ever talked about what happened that day. Not properly. Not openly.
But Ms. Porter remembered. She had seen Ashley leave the house with her chin held high and her heart in pieces, suitcase in one hand and tears in her eyes.
She’d seen Carter stone-faced and silent, standing on the back steps like a ghost who’d already buried himself.
And she’d seen Master Gabe Wetherby—Mr. I-know-best-because-I’m-the-oldest—march into the stables just minutes after Ashley had slipped out, his jaw set like steel and his voice raised enough for the horses to spook.
No one talked about that day. Not what really happened. Not what broke them.
But Ms. Porter knew. She always did.
She’d been the one who found Ashley’s scarf tangled in the hay. The one who saw the look on Carter’s face that night, shattered but determined to pretend otherwise. She’d seen Gabe that morning, smug and self-righteous as if he’d done the world a favor.
Ashley had left. Carter had stayed.
Whatever had passed between the two young men in those stables had sealed it.
If Ms. Porter had to wager a guess, she’d bet her silver-polishing gloves that Gabe had more to do with Carter’s cold goodbye than anyone realized. Maybe more than Carter would even admit to himself.
Gabe had taken his role as the oldest too seriously. Deciding what was best for everyone, especially Ashley. Reminding them what Lily would have wanted, as if her ghost had appointed him keeper of the family’s moral compass.
Ms. Porter clucked her tongue softly and resumed walking, her shoes silent on the runner as she descended the rear stairs toward the kitchen.
They were all back now. Some for the first time in nearly a decade. Some like ghosts slipping through familiar halls, trying not to stir the past.
But the thing about Winterridge. It remembered.
The walls held secrets. The floorboards whispered stories.
Ms. Porter had heard most of them.
She placed the tray down with care on the service counter, then made a note on the clipboard: Dining room linens still not pressed. Nate’s room needs firewood. Marilyn broke another glass.
The house was already a tinderbox. One more spark and poof.
Those doors they were hiding behind weren’t going to stay closed much longer. She hoped the Wetherbys were ready for what would come through.
Because Winterridge didn’t forget.
And neither did she.