Chapter 6
On Sunday morning, Georgie briefly considered pretending to be ill, but reluctantly discarded the idea.
Besides being impolite to her host, it would make Lord Peter look negligent for his houseguest to avoid attending divine service.
And now that Mrs. Barwick had trimmed Georgie’s hair, she felt much less awkward in her disguise.
Resigned, she dressed in the best suit of clothes she had brought with her and waited for Mrs. Barwick to finish tidying the kitchen before escorting the older woman the short distance to the church.
St. Alcuin’s improved even more on Georgie’s second look.
Its very modesty had likely protected it from the various religious changes over the centuries.
There would not have been much of material worth inside that could be looted and carried away.
Lord Peter greeted the congregants at the church door, dressed in his vestments, and smiled at Georgie as she arrived.
“Mrs. Barwick usually sits in the front left-hand pew, if you would like to escort her there.”
“Oh! Yes, of course.”
A call from behind made Lord Peter turn and smile broadly at someone who had come from inside the church. He waved the pair over and bowed to them before turning to Georgie.
“Mrs. Clarke, Mr. Lumley, this is Mr. George Morley, my houseguest. Morley, this is my curate and his sister.”
“How do you do?” Georgie bowed to each of them in turn, knowing she was awkward but doing her best.
“And from where are you visiting, Mr. Morley?” the curate’s sister asked.
She was a plump, cozy woman who was Mr. Lumley’s senior by at least a decade.
He was a tall, gaunt young man about Georgie’s age or a little younger who looked as though he was still trying to catch up with his own limbs.
He was dressed in his own vestments, clearly prepared to assist Lord Peter with today’s services.
“S… Shropshire,” Georgie said. Best not to make it too easy to trace her past.
Lord Peter quirked an eyebrow at her and she was suddenly afraid she had made a different answer earlier. She really ought to sit down and decide what her false background should be so she would not make any mistakes. She had never been much of a liar, and the strain was showing already.
“Well, we are glad to have you at St. Alcuin’s,” Mrs. Clarke said. “I have said for some time that Lord Peter needs a companion at the rectory, though you are not at all what I meant.” She gave Lord Peter an arch look, and he laughed.
“All in good time, Mrs. Clarke,” he said easily, and before Georgie could ponder what that could mean, a bell began ringing above and the congregation hurried to their seats with Georgie and Mrs. Barwick caught up in the general rush.
Georgie settled Mrs. Barwick into their pew with a gentlemanly gesture—really, she was becoming more comfortable in her masquerade each day—and picked up her prayer book. She allowed herself to be carried along by the familiar ritual, soothed in a way she had not known she needed until this moment.
And then Lord Peter stepped up to the pulpit for his sermon.
The subject was simple, but he was a man transformed.
Eloquent, witty, thoughtful—every good quality he had was magnified a thousandfold and channeled into his words.
She hung on every one of them as they soared to the ceiling and back again, holding the congregation in the palm of his hand as he explained God’s message to them and how it could be applied to their everyday lives.
She had known he took his responsibilities seriously, but had not understood until now how well-suited to them he was.
Georgie almost felt sick to her stomach. If the truth came out, and scandal followed, he would lose his career. Now she knew that would not only be a personal loss to him, but a great loss both to the Church and to Kilbythorpe.
She must prepare to be on her way sooner rather than later. As soon as possible.
After the service, he removed his vestments to chat and shake hands with everyone as though everything was normal, as though he had not opened her eyes that day.
Mrs. Barwick bustled off for a good gossip with some of the villagers as Georgie waited, drawing back to a spot where she could observe without needing to speak with the other parishioners.
Not that she needed to worry. Lord Peter was all but swarmed by them, with this one asking for a pastoral visit for his elderly mother and that one inquiring about charity for a son recently returned to the parish without employment or his left leg, lost to Napoleon’s army at Waterloo three years before.
He moved confidently through the crowd, stopping to speak with a solemn-faced man surrounded by a group of hollow-eyed children.
Surely this was the bereaved Miller family, come to their first services after the loss of their mother and wife.
Peter had a word with each one of them, even getting down on one knee to speak to the smallest one and lay his hand on the child’s head in blessing.
A mere conversation could not cure a grief so deep, but Mr. Miller appeared a little lighter after his brief conversation with Lord Peter, herding the children towards the lane to return home. The smallest one turned back for a moment to wave to Lord Peter, and Lord Peter waved back.
He seemed to take extra pains to converse with a man Georgie did not know, and then with a gentleman standing near Mrs. Dinsdale—surely her husband. Each man shook his head firmly at Lord Peter’s questions, but he only smiled and continued on.
Lord Peter finished his last conversation, clapped the farmer on the back with a laugh, and turned to Georgie, putting his hat on.
“Today is Mrs. Barwick’s half-day, so she’ll be with her cronies until this evening. Are you ready?”
“Yes, of course,” Georgie said, and they began the walk back to the rectory.
“Why are you wasting your time at a country parish in Yorkshire?” She was horrified by her own blurted question, but he only laughed, then sighed.
“I was angry at first, after… well, after I was banished here by my brother. I felt—I still feel—I can do so much more good in the world by tending to the working poor in London. But I shall put a good face on it and do my duty until I can return to where I am most needed.”
Georgie frowned. “I do not think I agree with you. The people of Kilbythorpe do not need you less simply because their problems are less… less spectacular. You could have even more of an impact here since there are fewer outside forces to contend with.”
“I…” Lord Peter looked thoughtful. “I suppose so. I must think on it. Either way, I must fulfill Paul’s requirements before I can leave, and I prefer not to leave the parish in the lurch. And once Paul is satisfied, the rest of the family will be as well.”
“Including your twin?” Unexpectedly, Georgie felt a sudden sharp ache at Freddy’s absence with this discussion of brothers, and the red thread bracelet felt heavy on her wrist. Everything would have been different for her if only he had lived.
“Philip is married now.” Peter’s brow knit. “Our relationship is different.”
“You don’t approve?”
“She seems to be a good woman, and Philip worships the ground she walks on. But they have many differences that will make their lives difficult going forward, so I did not approve when he told me. She is a merchant’s daughter, and an American, and of a different race.”
They walked along in silence for a few moments before Georgie ventured, “My mother was from India.”
“Yes, so you have said.”
“Do you disapprove of me, or of my parents’ marriage?”
Peter considered the question thoughtfully.
“It is not for me to judge your father’s choice.
And I have come to realize that it was not my place to judge my brother’s wife based on the things she cannot help about herself rather than her own character, when what I have seen of her character is exemplary.
” He sighed. “Now I face the awkwardness of having to admit to both of them I was wrong.”
“I’m sure they will forgive you. He is your brother, after all.”
“I hope so.”
Changing the subject to one less painful, Georgie said, “That was a wonderful sermon today. Who wrote it?”
Georgie could have sworn he blushed. “I did.”
“You did?” It was unusual for a country vicar to write his own sermons. Most picked a suitable one from their library.
“Yes. It’s something I enjoy, and it helps me feel more connected to the congregation and the week’s gospel.”
“You should publish your own book.”
“Perhaps I will.” He cast a glance at her. “Someone will need to assemble the notes for me.”
“I could do that,” Georgie said. “I organized all of Papa’s correspondence. We had hoped to publish a book of our own, about the otters, so there were many notes to keep in order.”
“I couldn’t ask it of you.”
“I don’t mind at all. It would permit me to repay your kindness in allowing me to stay with you.”
“I… very well. I accept. You may make free of my library for anything you require, either for the sermons or to continue your book on the otters.”
Georgie shook her head. “The manuscript has been lost, and it was primarily based on Papa’s notes. But I have thought… I shall see if there is anything suitable.”
She felt a glow of accomplishment as they walked the rest of the way to the rectory in companionable silence. At last, there was a way for her to help and not feel she was imposing on him as she waited to hear from Caroline.
With any luck, it would make him feel more kindly towards her if the truth came out.
At Lord Peter’s insistence, Georgie moved her art supplies into the smaller drawing room at the front of the house, which was currently unused.
It became an impromptu art storage location as she became more comfortable leaving her watercolors in different stages of completion out to dry as she added to her new set of pencil and watercolor sketches in preparation to do larger illustrations.
She wished for people to see what she saw in her otters: their playfulness, their intelligence, their loyalty to each other.
Even their less pleasant side, such as their stubbornness once they had set their minds to something.
The furniture in the room remained shrouded in Holland covers, and Mrs. Barwick shook her head at Georgie’s inquiry.
“It hasn’t been used much since the rector’s wife passed away years ago, and Lord Peter doesn’t have use for it. It should stay free for you to use until Lord Peter marries.”
The words took some of the breath from Georgie’s lungs, but she nodded and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Barwick. I shall set up in here and if Lord Peter needs the space, he may have it back.”
With an invitation to make free of his personal library, not merely the leftover books in the drawing room, Georgie lost no time in perusing the shelves in his study to see what was available.
For the most part, it was what one would expect of a man of his class and Oxford-educated status: books in the original Greek and Latin, some theology books and sermons, essays and novels and poetry.
Very little appeared to be in the realm of natural philosophy, which was as he had told her.
He tolerated her otters—perhaps even enjoyed them—but he would never be a zoologist.
She pulled one book from the shelf with the intriguing title of A Tour of Aristotle’s Garden.
In her experience, books that used Aristotle’s name in their title were frequently related to natural philosophy.
The volume was lavishly bound in scarlet calfskin with gold foil, the paper creamy and thick as she ruffled the edges and opened the book at random.
Oh. My.
She had read some French novels, of course, surreptitiously passed from girl to girl at finishing school in Cheltenham until the pages were dog-eared and the bindings worn.
One year, the headmistress had caught them and they all had to pretend they had not understood what they were reading.
Georgie had been particularly convincing in her lies.
But this.
This was illustrated.
If she had had a little trouble picturing the acts and anatomy her novels had described, she no longer had to wonder. The illustrations were even hand-colored. As she paged through them, she wondered how true to life having the woman on top—
The book was snatched from her hands, and Georgie flinched as she discovered Lord Peter standing just behind her, the now closed book clutched against his side. He was beet-red, which confirmed for Georgie that this was, in fact, one of his own books.
“Er… it was a gift.”
“I see,” Georgie said cautiously.
“A joke. From a friend.”
It looked to be an expensive “joke,” but Georgie was herself too embarrassed to be found looking at it to ask any questions.
Lord Peter took a deep breath, then another, and then smiled at her. “Come, let us talk.”
Puzzled, Georgie followed him to his desk. He seated himself behind it and gestured her to take one of the two chairs set in front of it.
Clearing his throat, Lord Peter said, “It is, of course, only natural that you should look at such things. You are becoming a young man, and you are likely thinking of… of love.”
“I suppose so,” Georgie said cautiously.
“And so you must also be curious about… about marital relations.” Lord Peter folded his long, sensitive hands on the desk, clearly prepared to give a lecture.
As Georgie’s horror grew, Lord Peter began to warm to his subject.
“It is only natural, my boy. Divine providence has made us so we wish to be fruitful and multiply. There should be no shame or fear between husband and wife, but mutual enjoyment.”
“Please, Lord Peter.” Georgie’s face was hot, and she knew she was blushing almost as much as he had been earlier. “Let us speak of something else.”
Seeing her discomfort, Lord Peter immediately said, “Of course. I did not mean to embarrass you.”
“Of course.”
“If you have any questions at all, you may come to me at any time.”
Georgie’s only thought was of escape. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
Lord Peter nodded and rose from his chair, which freed Georgie from the conversation. She went off like a shot, scurrying up to her room, where she closed the door and locked it behind herself.
She leaned against the door, a little breathless from her headlong rush up the stairs.
Because, to her shame, as Lord Peter had spoken, she could not help picturing him as the man in the book. And herself as the woman.