Chapter 12
Georgie’s wardrobe was certainly a puzzle for Peter. He could afford quite a grand one for her, but to his surprise, Georgie did not want it.
"After all," she said reasonably, "I shan't want to visit the cottagers dressed in silk and velvet. It would not only be impractical, it would be uncomfortable for them for me to dress so lavishly. I shall do quite well with muslin and cotton for summer and wool for winter like any other country rector’s wife. "
Peter finally agreed, with exceptions. “You will need a ballgown or two as well, and perhaps some dinner dresses. There are dances and dinners in the county from time to time. Invitations have arrived in the post now that word of our marriage has begun to spread."
It should be all right for her to get clothing she needed for her duties in Kilbythorpe in York, he decided. Once they returned to London as a married couple, he could buy a more suitable wardrobe for her.
Georgie agreed and Mrs. Clarke assisted her in sending her measurements and new requirements to the modiste in York who had been able to supply a few necessities on their journey back to Kilbythorpe.
Hopefully word of their marriage would not spread past the borders of the county, for Peter still had not written to his mother to tell her of his marriage.
Or his brother. Or any other member of his family.
He was unsure what to say, and unwilling to subject himself to their certain disappointment at taking such a momentous step without consulting any of them.
He knew in his heart he had made the right decision in marrying her, but the nagging worry his family would reject Georgie because of her upbringing and heritage was always at the edge of his mind.
His mother had a very specific type of woman she wished Peter to marry, which was why she had sweetened the pot in her most recent letter by offering an opportunity for him to live at the ducal townhouse in London for free, doing year-round charity work… if he had the right wife.
Peter knew exactly what his mother meant by the “right wife.” Well-bred, of course, with a sizable dowry and the social connections that would allow him to raise far more money for charity than he would be able to do himself.
Social connections that Georgie almost certainly did not have.
Her connections were to the Linnean Society, not the Beau Monde.
His twin Philip’s marriage to someone their mother considered “unsuitable” had put even more pressure on Peter to marry well, meaning in the way his mother preferred.
Philip had always been more rebellious, willing to thumb his nose at their parents when necessary, but Peter preferred his peace when he could have it.
This time, he had gotten so far as to pick up his quill to write the letter.
Peter stared at the piece of paper in front of him. In the last three days, he had written two words on it:
“Dear Mother.”
Perhaps he ought not write to his mother.
Perhaps he ought to write directly to Paul instead.
After all, Paul was the duke. He was the head of the family.
He could write to Paul and have him inform Mother.
In fact, perhaps writing to Paul first would soften his brother’s anger with him and allow him to return to London more quickly.
But then… Paul would inform Mother. And Mother would write him a rage-filled letter because Peter had not informed her of his marriage himself.
The quill dripped a large drop of ink onto the paper, spreading into a pool as it soaked in.
He would need to begin again with a new sheet of paper, and he had not written more than those two words.
With a sigh, he balled up the sheet of paper and threw it into the bin next to his desk. He lay out a clean piece of paper and picked the quill back up.
His mother had pictured a glittering marriage for him, full of the social round of dinners and balls and musicales.
He had pictured one that would allow him to plead his causes directly with members of Parliament and cabinet members at those events, using his connections and his charm to leave his mark on the world.
His wife would use her own connections to work on those men’s wives and mothers and sisters, allowing him to spread his influence even further.
Instead, he had married an obscure baronet’s daughter with what she assured him was a comfortable but not extravagant dowry that would provide her with a generous amount of pin money for country living if properly invested, but not enough for the kind of life in London his mother wanted for him.
Mother had wanted that life for him so vividly that Peter was only just now realizing she had made him believe her vision as well. Enough to make him feel a little regret it could never be.
He stabbed the quill back into its holder. He must decide what he wanted from his own life in order to explain himself to his family.
And he must decide before their arrival for the Harvest Festival.
He shook himself and looked around, frowning. Where was Georgie?
“I really am dreadfully sorry, my dear.” Mrs. Clarke blew her nose into her waiting handkerchief, clearly miserable from the ague she had caught. “I never should have kept my window open at night.”
“It’s quite all right,” Georgie said stoutly. “Since everything is prepared, Molly can help me load up your gig and I can go myself.”
“Are you sure?” The older woman frowned. “I hate to send you off on your own.”
“I assure you, I am quite accustomed to such trips. I was used to do them with our vicar’s wife at home. Provide me a map and I shall be fine.”
“Take Robby from the stables with you as well,” Mrs. Clarke said in a resigned tone. “You will need someone to hold the horse and help you fetch and carry.”
“Of course.” Georgie kissed Mrs. Clarke’s proffered cheek. “We shall be perfectly fine, Robby and I.”
Robby was a stout, taciturn boy of fifteen summers, only just barely Georgie’s height. The village stablemaster who housed Mrs. Clarke’s horse and gig declared that the lad would be delighted to help, and Georgie accepted the boy’s shrug as assent.
For the most part, the visits went as she expected as she distributed medicine and food and clothing, taking notes as needed for requests only Peter could fulfill.
With no lady at the manor most of the year, the rector’s wife would distribute much of the charity needed in the parish, and Georgie was happy to do her duty.
As they stopped in front of shabby farmhouse, Robby frowned.
“Wonder where Knaggs is.”
Georgie looked around. “Does he live here alone?”
“Mostly. Has a girl who comes in to clean.”
It was the longest conversation Georgie had held with Robby all day, and she smiled at him encouragingly. “I suppose he needs our help, then.”
Robby shrugged and leapt to the ground as Georgie brought the gig to a halt. He held the horse’s head as she climbed down, rummaging through the remaining items at the back of the gig as the door to the farmhouse opened and Mr. Knaggs appeared, propped up on crutches.
He was an elderly man, but still vigorous despite the sprained ankle that had necessitated this visit. Mrs. Clarke had told her he was a childless widower who was normally able to tend his small herd of milk cows and keep a small garden for himself without much outside assistance.
Mr. Knaggs eyed Georgie suspiciously as she strode up the walkway. “Tha’s the parson’s wife?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve no time for tha. I’ve got animals need tending.”
"I am country-bred and quite comfortable around animals," Georgie declared. "Show me where I may help."
The farmer gave her a skeptical look, but shrugged and said, "All right, then, milady." He stumped along on his crutches as she followed behind.
Feeding the chickens was quite simple, even if they insisted on trying to get caught under her skirts until she tucked them up.
She did not venture into the pigpen and simply poured their mash into the trough from over the fence.
She preferred not to become too personal with them since they would likely end up on her plate as bacon and sausage over the winter.
She turned from the pigsty to find Knaggs regarding her with surprised respect. She handed the smelly bucket over to him and said, "Is there anything else?"
He shook his head in wonderment. "Naught comes to mind, Lady Peter—"
They were interrupted by a loud bawl, and the farmer turned. "Looks like Old Bess is having her calf. Not for a lady's eyes."
"Pish tosh," Georgie said, not feeling quite as brave as her words. "I must help Lord Peter with his—our—home farm once we establish it, so I may as well see it all."
Knaggs balanced one crutch under his arm, removed his hat, and scratched his bald spot before replacing the hat. "Well... I guess it's all right. But I don't want the parson lecturing me from the pulpit."
"I shall explain anything to him that needs explaining.
" Georgie followed him down into the small valley where the cow was penned, carefully picking her way through the grass. The cow lay on her side, panting, and Georgie moved to the animal’s head.
She carefully lowered herself to the ground and held the cow by the bridle as she stroked its ears and head.
She was a pretty little thing, white and brown with curly hair around her short horns, and Georgie murmured to her to keep her calm as Knaggs went to the far end and lowered himself to the ground with his crutches to check the progress of the birth.
“Looks like she might need some help. Avert tha’s eyes, if you please, your ladyship.”
“Of course,” Georgie said, but peeked from the corner of her eye anyway. After all, her interest in natural philosophy meant she was not squeamish when it came to the realities of farm life. And she was a married lady now.
“You’re such a brave girl,” she whispered to the cow. “So strong and brave. Another push, then?”