Chapter 7 #2
Her brother rushed to help her into a comfortable armchair before sitting with Georgie on the settee across from his sister. Lord Peter stood at the fireplace, observing the group with an indulgent smile.
“I am so glad to have an opportunity to get to know you better, Mr. Morley,” Mrs. Clarke said. “Where is it you are from, again?”
“S—Shropshire,” Georgie said, hoping she did not sound as guilty as she felt.
“I do not think I know of any Morleys from Shropshire.”
“We kept to ourselves. My father was very interested in natural philosophy.”
“Of course. And when was he in India?”
Georgie realized she ought to have known that would be a question, given that her Indian ancestry was written on her face. “He was with the Company for about a decade. He and my mother married there, and again upon reaching England.”
She could not allow Mrs. Clarke to continue asking about India.
Her father marrying a Hindu woman would have been unusual enough to be remembered within the small English community in Surat, especially since Georgie’s mother had converted to Christianity before their marriage.
“And what of you, Mrs. Clarke? Have you been to India?”
“Oh, dear me, no.” Mrs. Clarke looked at her brother, and they both laughed. “No, I can scarcely ride across an ornamental lake in a rowboat without becoming quite ill. But my dear Mr. Clarke was in India. Perhaps he and your father knew each other.”
“Perhaps,” Georgie echoed.
“He was Colonel Clarke then. Ah, the stories he would tell me…”
With encouraging noises and a fascinated expression, Georgie steered Mrs. Clarke into drifting off on reminisces of her own late husband, who did seem to have led quite an adventurous life before their marriage.
Georgie found herself unexpectedly spellbound by this second-hand view of her mother’s homeland.
The stories continued over supper, a simple but filling repast served by two village girls Mrs. Barwick had hired to assist her for the evening. Georgie caught each of them staring at her curiously more than once, and supposed she must be quite the subject of gossip in the village.
Yet another reason she must move on as quickly as she was able.
“Oh, dear, I do seem to have rambled on,” Mrs. Clarke said. “Where in Shropshire did you say your family lived?”
“Oh… the east. It was a small village. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
Mrs. Clarke bent a surprisingly shrewd smile on her. “You might be surprised, my dear.”
Georgie smiled weakly, her mind racing, and Mr. Lumley set his glass of wine down with a thump.
“That’s quite enough, Lizzie,” he said, his voice stronger than Georgie had ever heard it and slightly slurred. “You’ve talked everyone’s ear off all night. Leave the poor man be.”
Georgie was not surprised to see Mrs. Clarke glare at him, but she did not expect Lord Peter to shoot him a look as well.
Had Lord Peter put Mrs. Clarke up to this? She hated to think he could be so devious, but she could not quite blame him. He deserved better answers than the ones she was willing to provide.
From across the table, Lord Peter looked at her and gave her a rueful shrug and a small smile. She nodded back with a frown.
If he wanted answers to his questions, she would make him ask for himself.
Abruptly, she stood before the sibling conflict between Mrs. Clarke and Mr. Lumley could develop beyond a few glares. “I must beg everyone’s leave. I have some notes to complete before I can retire tonight. Good night.”
She bowed to each of them in turn, her bow to Lord Peter with a deliberate ironic edge. The corner of his full lips twitched up, and he inclined his head with matching irony.
“Good evening, Mr. Morley,” Lord Peter said.
Georgie turned on her heel and left the room, mind racing. Where was that damned letter from Caroline?
She hoped she would not have to decamp before it arrived, because she had no idea of where she might be able to go.
As the door closed behind Morley, Peter waited a moment before turning to Mrs. Clarke, who was still having a tense tête-à-tête with her brother.
“I am sorry our scheme did not work out the way we planned, Mrs. Clarke.”
With one last glare at her brother, Mrs. Clarke turned her attention to Peter. “I am sorry as well, Lord Peter. Mr. Morley is quite a slippery young man. He may still have been able to evade my questions.”
“We were questioning Morley?” Lumley said, his voice still a little over-loud. Clearly, he had drunk a bit too much wine with his dinner. “What were we questioning him about?”
“He has been very evasive about his background.” Peter frowned into his own half-empty glass of wine. “Surely he must have a family member or two out there looking for him.”
“Perhaps not,” Lumley said. “Perhaps they were glad to see him go. Not everyone comes from a happy family.”
Peter shot the younger man an ironic look. “And not every unhappy family is willing to let the others go.”
Lumley subsided, perhaps realizing at last that the wine had loosened his tongue too far.
Mrs. Clarke said, “There is something peculiar about Mr. Morley, though.”
Peter was immediately on alert. “Oh?”
But Mrs. Clarke only shook her head. “I think—no, it is too fanciful by far. I must consider what I say before I say it.”
Peter nodded, though he was impatient to know what the older woman had seen or sensed about Morley. “Perhaps you will be of better mind about it tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.” Mrs. Clarke frowned again. “It would be…” Abruptly, she rose to her feet, forcing Peter and Lumley to scramble to theirs.
“Good evening, Lord Peter,” she said. “Come along, Charles.”
Peter sighed as the door closed behind them. A moment later, it opened again, and Annie Martin from the village poked her head in.
“Mrs. Barwick says we’re to clean up now, your lordship.”
“Thank you, Annie.” Peter rose to his feet. “I’ll take myself out of your way, then.”
Annie giggled and curtsied as he brushed past her, but went straight to her work as Peter returned to the now-empty drawing room.
The fireplace was lit against the increasing chilliness of the late summer nights, but Morley’s chair stood empty.
Peter supposed he only had himself to blame. He ought to have been more honest and asked his questions directly rather than using Mrs. Clarke as his stalking-horse. Now he had a dull evening alone ahead of him.
Strange how that had never bothered him before Morley had arrived.
It had been far more pleasant to have a friend in residence than Peter had thought it would be.
Even the times in London when he had shared rented rooms with his brother Philip had not been as easy and comfortable as his time with Morley.
His eyes strayed to his desk, where the latest missive from his mother still lay unopened. He supposed she was right. He must marry eventually. But the prospect of a fashionable courtship conducted in ballrooms and drawing rooms with only the most superficial of conversations made him cringe.
It was a shame he could not forge the kind of friendship with a prospective bride that he and Morley had formed in only a few weeks, but their connection was of a kind that was born of daily life.
Hopefully, he would be able to find a bride whose company at breakfast was nearly as restful as his friend’s.