Chapter 3
That evening after supper, Georgie hovered irresolutely on the threshold of the study as Lord Peter preceded her into the room. She was unsure about the propriety of spending time alone with him in a darkened room at night, even if he thought her to be a man.
She nearly laughed at her own absurdity. She had left propriety far behind and was thoroughly ruined at this point. She may as well take advantage of her new status as a young gentleman.
Lord Peter crossed to a small table by the fire that held a decanter and two glasses. “Sherry?”
“No, thank you. I don’t drink spirits.”
“Do you mind if I do?”
“Not at all. It was Papa’s habit as well.” She abruptly stopped speaking. To her own ears, her voice was obviously feminine. Had he noticed? Should she do more to disguise it?
As Lord Peter poured a small amount of golden sherry into his glass, he gestured to the armchairs set in front of the gently crackling fireplace and Georgie took one after a final hesitation. Lord Peter settled into the other with a sigh, and they sat in silence for a long moment.
Unexpectedly, Georgie felt tears welling in her eyes.
It was so like the evenings at home with Papa, him sipping his brandy while she read the latest responses from his scientific colleagues aloud and helped draft his replies.
Some evenings, she would read him a novel.
Papa enjoyed Fanny Burney, while Georgie preferred Maria Edgeworth.
The only thing missing were the otters lightly snoring in a basket next to the fireplace, exhausted after another day of mischief.
“Are you all right?” Lord Peter said.
Georgie drew a shuddering breath. “I miss my father.”
He set his glass down and leaned forward, his eyes full of sympathy as he propped his elbows comfortably on his knees, hands clasped as he prepared to listen. “How long ago did he die?”
“Nearly six months.” It seemed both far distant, and only a few days ago. It was a small reason to resent her cousin, but she had added it to her list of grievances: she had nearly been ready to discard her blacks for half-mourning when she had been forced into men’s clothing.
But for whom would she have worn it? Her cousin clearly had no interest in finding her a husband since he expected her to be an unpaid nanny and governess for his ever-expanding family.
She couldn’t find work on her own as a governess.
Her education was too narrow, and unfeminine into the bargain.
At best, she might find a girls’ school that needed a German or Latin teacher, but the odds were against her.
And she had no references to help her gain that sort of employment in the first place.
A thought she had been pushing away since her reckless flight from Sussex sprang out at her again. A companion—or a teacher—who arrived with three wild animals in tow might well be turned away on the spot. Very few such positions would allow an employee to keep any pet, much less an exotic one.
Even if she accepted failure and returned to Sussex, it was no longer home for her, no more than it was for her otters. And none of them would be safe there.
The thought only depressed her more.
“I’m sorry,” Lord Peter said, the deep timbre of his voice soothing her. “I didn’t mean to stir up sad memories.”
She sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. “It’s in the past,” Georgie said with assumed briskness. “There’s nothing left for me there now. I must make my own way in the world.” She meant the words to sound bracing, courageous, but they sounded like bravado even to her own ears.
Lord Peter hesitated, then said, “I don’t understand why you did not inherit your father’s estate. Do you have an elder brother?”
“I…” Georgie frantically wracked her brain for a possible explanation before saying stiffly, “That is none of your business, Lord Peter.”
He regarded her for a long moment with a compassion that both wrung her heart and made it pound with panic. At last, he said, “I hope you will come to trust me. I only want to help.”
“I know,” Georgie said, and clamped her mouth shut.
She wanted to pour out all of her fears and worries, to have him soothe and comfort and advise her.
She had had no one to confide in since Papa died, and Lord Peter’s gentle concern made her want to crawl into his lap and let him hold her while she told him everything, her whole story. Her whole life.
But picturing his horror at her masquerade stilled her tongue. Even if she did tell him everything, what could he do other than send her away as quickly as possible? She would have to pack her bag that very night and move on… otterless.
After another long pause, Lord Peter said, “Would you like a game of chess?”
“Yes,” she said with relief. “Very much so.”
Chess would be a good distraction from her bleak future.
The next morning, Georgie woke with a start, sitting bolt upright when she realized she lay in a strange bed instead of drowsing upright on a hard coach seat.
Clutching the covers to her throat, she looked around the room.
She was no longer on the road being jostled by the other passengers in the mail coach.
She had found a safe haven… for the time being, at least.
She had not been able to see the room very well the previous evening by the light of the single candle the housekeeper had allotted her. Looking around in the daylight, it was small but neat as a pin, meticulously swept and dusted. She had never stayed in a rectory before.
A small voice whispered to her that it was terribly scandalous—even ruinous—for her to stay under the same roof as an unmarried man, even if he was a clergyman.
Georgie repressed that voice with the same firmness she had used to repress the voice which had told her how scandalous it would be for her to go in pursuit of her otters.
She already knew that, by doing so, she had given up any claim to be a lady when society found out what she had done.
One additional scandal could not further harm her already ruined reputation.
What about his reputation?
Georgie sighed and pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she contemplated that problem.
Her relief at discovering he was another man entirely and her otters were in no danger had been so great, she had not taken a moment to think through all the implications of staying with him.
Her joy at finding Bonny, Betsy, and Buttercup not only alive, but well, had overcome her good sense as well.
She would need to keep her distance and continue her disguise until she determined her next course of action.
If he never found out she was a woman, he could not be tarred with her misbehavior.
Besides, he was a man, and at least a marquess’s son if he was addressed as “Lord Peter.” It was likely he would ride out any scandal far more easily than she.
She could only hope he would not denounce her from the pulpit when—if—he discovered her true identity.
With that decided, she slid from the bed and crossed to the window, Freddy’s nightshirt flapping around her knees.
Her room overlooked the kitchen garden, with the chicken coop that housed her otters visible a little distance away beyond the low wall that enclosed the garden.
They were safe for now, but how would she care for them in the future? What was her future?
A sharp rap sounded at the door, and Georgie dove back under the covers before calling, “Come in!”
The housekeeper—Mrs. Barwick, that was her name—bustled in with a steaming pitcher of water, setting it on the washstand. “Good morning to tha, young sir.”
Georgie cleared her throat and tried to lower her voice. “Good morning.”
“The vicar was called out early this morning to tend to poor Mrs. Miller, so he won’t be at breakfast. I’ve brought you some water for washing.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barwick.”
“Does tha require aught else, Mr. Morley? A razor?”
Georgie kept the blankets clutched beneath her chin. “No. Thank you. I shall be down shortly.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Barwick bustled back out, but Georgie did not trust the older woman’s shrewd eyes. She waited for the door to close completely and the footsteps to fade down the hallway before she sprang from the bed and turned the key in the lock.
Binding her breasts for her journey had proven quite uncomfortable despite the necessity.
After she washed, she experimented with another way to tie the length of cloth to allow her to breathe more freely.
Fortunately, she was not overly gifted in that area, so she decided she would not need to tie it as tightly as she had while traveling by mail coach.
Not only would the layers of her waistcoat and jacket disguise her figure, she felt certain she would be safe from any unwanted advances even if Lord Peter discovered she was a woman.
It still felt peculiar to step into her brother’s clothes, but she was becoming more used to them by the day.
There was something rather freeing about being able to stride around in boots and trousers rather than worrying about too-narrow skirts right when one of the otters was flinging itself into danger.
Once dressed, she made her way downstairs and peeked into doors until she came across the small room that seemed to serve as the breakfast room.
Two places were set at the table with a folded newspaper lying next to one.
Georgie seated herself at the other spot as Mrs. Barwick came in bearing a plate of muffins in one hand and a pot of tea in the other.
“Eggs will be done in a few minutes, young sir. How many would you like?”
“Oh! One would be fine to start, Mrs. Barwick. Thank you.”
The housekeeper sniffed, but swept back out of the room without another comment.
Georgie poured herself a cup of tea and looked longingly at the newspaper. Lord Peter wasn’t here to read it, so it couldn’t do any harm for her to read it first. Could it?
It was the Morning Chronicle from London, only three days old.
For a moment, she contemplated how expensive it must be to have it sent to this corner of Yorkshire in such a short amount of time.
It had taken at least half a day for the hired coach to bring her here once she had reached the city of York itself.
After another moment’s hesitation, she pulled the newspaper to her place and began to read.
She glanced up slightly when Mrs. Barwick came in with her soft-boiled egg, but otherwise remained glued to the paper, scanning the political news before looking at the employment advertisements. They were depressingly few, and all seemed to require references she lacked.
There was one friend she had retained from her abbreviated season in Bath: Caroline Swanton, now Caroline Langdon. Georgie would write to her and see if she knew of anyone seeking a paid companion.
The door opened again and Lord Peter came in, looking disheveled and exhausted. His chestnut-brown curls were tangled, as though he had been running his hands through them all night. He sank into his chair at the head of the table, elbows askew and jacket front unbuttoned.
Silently, Georgie poured him a cup of tea, and he nodded his thanks before draining the steaming liquid in a long draught that made her wince.
“How is Mrs. Miller?” she asked tentatively, but he shook his head, his face blank. Mrs. Barwick chose that moment to return and regard Lord Peter sympathetically.
“Two eggs, my lord?”
“Please, Mrs. Barwick.”
As the door closed behind the housekeeper, Georgie murmured, “I’m not quite sure what to say. People said a great many things after my mother and brother died, but none of them were particularly helpful.”
His head bowed, Lord Peter chuckled, a dark and ironic sound. “At times like these, I’m not sure what to say, either. She was hale and hearty two weeks ago, and now she’s gone. Only a miracle would have saved her, and I could not produce one.”
He sighed, and raised his head. His hazel eyes were reddened and ringed with dark circles. “All I can do is eat a hearty breakfast and sleep until her widower arrives to arrange the funeral.”
Georgie saw the burden his vocation could bring to him etched on his exhausted face.
His willingness to be called out of his bed to comfort a dying woman and her family was admirable.
A surprising number of clergymen might have refused to do the same, or sent a curate in their place.
But Lord Peter had stayed by her side, and remained to comfort her family when she was gone.
“I can read the newspaper to you, if you like,” Georgie said tentatively, and Lord Peter smiled at last.
“I would appreciate that. Thank you.”
It wasn’t until she was three paragraphs into the first story that she remembered to lower her voice. She peeked over at him, but he already seemed half-asleep, mechanically munching on a slice of toast as his eyelids drooped.
She really must be more careful. She had known the man for barely a day and she was already far too comfortable with him.
If he discovered she was a woman, she would be thrown out of the vicarage, and if she was lucky, he would allow her to take the otters with her. If she wasn’t…
Self-consciously, she cleared her throat and tried to keep her voice low as she continued to read aloud.