Chapter 7
Peter was conferring with Mrs. Barwick after her market trip when Morley poked his head through the kitchen door.
“Were you able to get oysters, Mrs. Barwick?” Morley asked.
She sniffed, but Morley seemed encouraged, because he walked the rest of the way into the kitchen. “I did, and very dear they were, too, young sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barwick. I appreciate it more than you can know, and I’m sure the otters will as well.” Morley picked up the pail she indicated.
“What are you planning to do with them?” Peter asked.
“Come along if you want to see.”
He followed Morley out through the kitchen garden and up the small slope to the chicken coop. The boy had been a little standoffish after Peter’s attempt to discuss the book he had found, but a good night’s sleep seemed to have resolved the odd tension.
The small enclosed yard of the coop now held a large, dented tin washtub, likely abandoned in the attics by a previous resident.
Morley opened the gate to the yard, holding it for Peter, and crossed to the washtub.
Peter could hear the squeaks and frantic scrabbles of the otters from inside the coop as they heard activity outside that they were not a part of.
Peter peered into the tub, which was about three-quarters full of water poured over various sizes of rocks that Morley had clearly picked from the meadow and the nearby stream.
Morley set the pail down, took off his coat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
A thin bracelet made of faded red thread with a few silver beads glinted on his wrist.
Morley proceeded to pluck the oysters out of the pail one-by-one and place them in the water, tucking them under and among the rocks as the otters’ squeaks reached a crescendo.
His hands were quick and sure, graceful and elegant as a woman’s.
Morley stood back and observed his work before he noticed Peter watching him.
He backed away, rolled down his sleeves, and re-donned his coat, hiding the bracelet from Peter’s view.
“You may let them out now.”
Peter flipped up the latch on the door of the coop and the otters swarmed out, leaping and slithering over each other in their eagerness. Two of them jumped to the edge of the tub and immediately dove into the water while the third stayed perched on the edge, watching for any threats.
One otter surfaced with an oyster triumphantly clutched in her paws.
She proceeded to strike it against the edge of the tub, rattling it, until the shell finally broke open.
The other otter did the same a few moments later, but this one used a rock to pin the oyster against the side of the tub before striking it repeatedly to break the shell.
Fascinated, Peter sank to the ground, completely forgetful of the risk to his trousers. “What about the third one?”
“Bonny? She’ll go in for a few minutes, but she doesn’t like to get wet like her sisters do.”
Even as Peter watched, the other two otters wrestled their way through the water, sliding around the rim of the tub to tackle each other. Bonny dove in, returning with an oyster she neatly cracked open with the side of the tub, and ate the soft inside with her nimble paws while her sisters played.
“They are matriarchal animals, you see,” Morley said. “Like the smooth-coated otters of the Malay states.”
“So Bonny is the matriarch, and watches over her sisters while they play.”
“Exactly,” Morley said in a pleased voice, and Peter felt a small rush of satisfaction at having remembered.
Her snack finished, Bonny slid over to Morley and climbed out of the tub to perch on his knee while Morley stroked her head and back. The otter continued to look around, scanning for danger as her sisters frolicked.
“They’re fascinating little creatures,” Peter admitted. “I can see why you enjoy them so.”
“When you save something’s life, you can’t help but become attached to it,” Morley said. “Papa and I saved them, and they saved us in return. They gave us a purpose in our grief.”
“Everyone needs a purpose.”
“Perhaps that’s a subject for your next sermon.”
“Perhaps so.”
A call from Mrs. Barwick echoed across the yard, and Peter rose to his feet. “Mr. Patterson must be here. Shall I see you at supper? And then we can continue organizing my sermons after that.”
“Of course,” Morley said, and gathered up the otters so Peter could exit without having them dart out the door.
As Peter returned to the house, he realized they were settling into quite a routine, he and Morley.
Almost like an old married couple. They had begun the project of organizing his sermons, with Morley making quick, neat notes in the margins of the dates (when Peter remembered them) and the occasions when the sermons had been given.
Morley had shown him more sketches of the otters as well as a few small watercolors he had completed, and Peter genuinely thought Morley could have a career in nature illustration if he could expand his interest beyond otters.
The more time they spent together, the less Peter thought Morley could be a mere boy. He might appear young, but his interests and conversation seemed closer to Peter’s own age of eight-and-twenty than Peter had first feared.
If Morley was at or past his majority of twenty-one years, it was unlikely an angry guardian would appear on Peter’s doorstep, but what about the otters?
Exotic animals could be quite valuable, and it seemed peculiar no one had come in search of them since it must be clear by now that they had gone astray from their intended destination.
He also had not received an answer from either Mr. Sloane or Sir Anthony Hoult about the otters.
Perhaps it was time to bring in additional assistance and invite Mr. Lumley and his sister to supper. If anyone would be able to winkle the truth from Morley while also keeping her own counsel, it would be Mrs. Clarke.
Guests for supper, Lord Peter had said at breakfast that morning with a smile. Very informal, only Mr. Lumley and his sister.
Georgie gazed into her mirror, the single candle next to it flickering as the light outside her window rapidly dimmed.
Her hair was already beginning to grow out after Mrs. Barwick had trimmed it into a more masculine style, and she found it hard to believe she had kept up her masquerade all this time.
People must truly see only what they wanted to see for her to not have raised anyone’s suspicions.
But she must do even better tonight. This would be her first sustained conversation with anyone outside of Lord Peter and Mrs. Barwick, and she must keep her story straight. The consequences would be dreadful if she slipped.
“Shropshire… parents gone… ” She muttered to herself beneath her breath as she descended the stairs and turned her steps towards the main drawing room at the back of the house.
Lord Peter had convinced her to show some of her work to Lumley and Mrs. Clarke, and Georgie had only been a little reluctant.
She was quite proud of what she had done in only a matter of a few weeks.
Her old drawing-master would be delighted to see how far she had advanced her skills.
Lord Peter was already in the room, examining the most recent watercolors she had left out to dry. Feeling her face grow hot, she bustled forward to collect them. He stopped her with a gesture.
“There is no need for such modesty, Morley. Your work is exceptional. You should be proud to show it to our guests.”
“Of course,” Georgie said, a peculiar flutter in her stomach at his words. Our guests. Not my guests.
Our guests.
She shook the feeling away as Lord Peter continued examining her work.
At last, he looked up at her, and the admiration in his eyes caused another flutter. He said, “Have you considered trying to sell some of your illustrations, or publish your own book with them?”
Georgie moved to stand next to him, their sleeves nearly touching.
She could not help the peculiar quiver that ran through her at his nearness.
“I am not certain I have the will to begin again after so much of the work Papa and I did was lost. I would need to reconstruct what we had done from memory since his notebooks are gone.”
Lord Peter nodded his understanding. “Perhaps you should reconsider. I think it would be a useful contribution to the world of zoology as well as a tribute to your father’s work.”
“Perhaps,” Georgie said. It was not a bad notion, especially if Caroline was unable to find anyone who needed a companion in Bath. It was at least an alternative path to making some money, and one that could be done by correspondence that need not reveal her true sex.
And if she did follow that path… it might mean she could stay here with Peter a little longer.
A sharp rap on the drawing room door startled them both, and they looked over as Mrs. Clarke bustled into the room, closely followed by her more diffident brother.
Lord Peter bowed low to her, and Georgie quickly followed suit.
“Good evening, Mrs. Clarke,” Lord Peter said.
“Good evening, Lord Peter, Mr. Morley. My, it has been an age since I was in this room. You have certainly changed it for the better, Lord Peter.”
Mrs. Clarke turned to Georgie with a smile. “It really was quite dreadful. Dead animals under glass everywhere, posed into the most unnatural tableaux. It made for a most gloomy atmosphere.”
“Of course,” Georgie murmured. She pushed down the image that tried to flash into her mind of her otters being turned into a mere display.
Lumley had already crossed the room to look at the watercolors. “I say, are these your work, Mr. Morley?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Splendid.” Lumley moved from one to the other, nodding as he went. “I have not seen the creatures myself, of course, but your illustrations of them are quite vivid.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Clarke cast a cursory glance over the paintings before saying, “Shall we all sit down?”