Chapter 17
Turning around was not as quick of a process as Peter had hoped.
They had been forced to continue on to the next posting house to exchange the horses for fresh ones before they could start back.
By the time the process was complete, the sun had crossed the sky and begun to sink.
It would be nearly dark by the time they returned to Kilbythorpe.
With every mile, Peter’s stomach clenched more. What would he say to her? How could he explain what impulse had driven him to abandon her? He did not quite understand it himself, except that he now understood that whatever his family made of his unexpected marriage, it no longer mattered to him.
Georgie mattered to him.
In fact, she was the only thing that did matter.
He must tell her that.
The sun sank lower and lower the closer they came to Kilbythorpe, forcing the driver to slow down so the horses could pick their way along the rutted lanes in the gathering dusk.
Peter gritted his teeth, knowing that trying to urge the coachman to go faster could lead to a broken wheel or a lamed horse and delay them even further.
At last, just as the final rays of the sun disappeared over the horizon, they arrived back at Mrs. Clarke’s cottage. Peter sprang from the carriage before the footman could properly secure the steps and flung himself towards the front door, skidding to a halt on the doorstep.
Even as he raised his hand to knock, he hesitated. Would she be angry? Would she refuse to see him? If he could just speak to her, he knew he could persuade her to return home with him.
He could hear women’s voices inside, and it made him quail even more. Gathering his courage, he rapped on the door.
After a long moment, he raised his hand to knock again, only to have the door open abruptly. Mrs. Clarke’s maid peered out, and he put on his most winning smile.
“Good evening. I’ve come to fetch my wife home.”
“I thought you was leaving.”
“I was. Now I am here.”
She glared at him until he found himself shifting from foot to foot under her ire. “May I come in?”
“Who is it, Molly?” Mrs. Clarke called from the other room.
“It’s the parson,” Molly called in return, still glaring at him.
“He’s back?”
“Yes, missus.”
Peter could faintly hear a buzz of conversation, but when he made a move towards the door, Molly frowned even more fiercely and put her shoulder against it, ready to deny him entry.
After another long moment and buzz of conversation, Mrs. Clarke said, “You may let him in, Molly.”
“Yes, missus.” With a final glare, Molly stepped back from the door and grudgingly opened it wider. Peter slipped through and removed his hat.
Molly made a gesture to take the hat from him, but he held onto it. “I should only be a minute. I’m only here to bring my wife home.”
“Aye, that’s what you said, all right,” Molly replied sourly, but led him to the open drawing room door. The women inside the room stopped talking and turned as one to glare at him as he stood in the doorway, fidgeting with his hat.
All except one. Georgie sat on a worn sofa in the middle of the group, flanked by Mrs. Clarke and Miss Welburn. Her eyes remained downcast. The basket that contained her otters was in her lap with the lid off, and the animals peered over the edge as the room went silent.
Instinctively, Peter bowed, realizing as he did so that they were all members of the Ladies’ Auxiliary. “Good evening, ladies.”
As a group, they nodded, but did not speak. The temperature in the room dropped several more degrees, and his stomach clenched even more.
“I… I have decided not to leave after all. I am here to take Georgie—Lady Peter—home.”
“I’m afraid not, Lord Peter.” He had never heard that icy tone from Mrs. Clarke before. “We are quite settled now and looking forward to Lady Peter’s visit. You should return to the rectory and come back tomorrow. If she is willing to speak to you.”
“But…” Peter looked around the circle of hard-faced women. Not an iota of sympathy came from them as they formed a semicircle around Georgie, clearly intending to shelter her from him. Even the otters placed their paws on the basket’s edge in a belligerent manner and frowned at him.
Until this moment, he had not realized he could feel even more of a heartless monster than he already did. His need to prove he did not need anyone’s help had wounded his wife, and he had no idea how to repair the damage.
His eyes went to where Georgie sat with her back ramrod straight. She glanced at him only once before she looked away, but her eyes glittered with tears.
“Georgie. Please.”
She said nothing. She only shook her head. The glow of happiness that had rested on her since their marriage was gone.
Would he ever see it again?
With a sigh, Peter slowly returned his hat to his head. “May I return tomorrow?”
Georgie looked to Mrs. Clarke, who pursed her lips. “We shall send word if you may. Good evening, Lord Peter.”
Mechanically, he bowed to each lady in turn, reserving his last, lowest bow for Georgie.
Not that she saw it. She could not even bring herself to look at him.
Outside, the coachman looked at him from his seat on the box as the footman jumped down to open the door.
Peter sighed. “She’s not returning with me. Take the coach back to the house. I’ll walk to the rectory.”
“Very good, Lord Peter,” the footman said. He closed the carriage door and leapt up to his seat. The coachman’s whip cracked, and the coach trundled its way back to the manor house.
The walk from the village back to the rectory had never seemed longer.
Peter drew the collar of his greatcoat more tightly around his throat as the wind whistled down the lane.
Wispy clouds raced over the half-full moon, making the light flicker as he walked, and he realized after the second time he stumbled over a rut in the lane that he ought to have brought a lantern from the coach with him.
It was of no matter. He had hurt Georgie, and he could not think how to repair the wound.
He fumbled in his pocket for the key and unlocked the front door. It was black as night inside, with not even a thin line of candlelight coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Barwick must have gone to stay the night with her sister rather than remain alone in the empty house.
He could not blame her. The rectory nearly echoed its emptiness without Georgie there, bustling around with her projects and her painting, sweeping in and out of the door as she visited the otters and returned with late summer wildflowers to scatter in vases around the house.
Picking his way through the hallway—and nearly upsetting one of the vases as he did—Peter made his way to the drawing room and shut the door. He crossed to the fireplace and took down the tinderbox to light the fire that had been laid for their eventual return.
As the fire caught, he sank into his chair, not daring to look at the empty one across from him.
Staring at the ceiling of Mrs. Clarke’s guest room, Georgie could not help but wonder how they had come to this.
She had known Lord Peter Avondale had made a sacrifice when he married her, the countrified mixed-race daughter of a mere baronet, but she had not truly understood until now how great Peter himself felt the social divide between them was.
He must feel that way if had not even told his family of their marriage!
And how far would he have taken it? Would he have expected her to stay at the rectory while he visited them?
Would he have told the villagers to stay quiet about the marriage if Cousin John had not caused a scene?
Would he have succumbed to family pressure to find a way to set her aside despite their having been wed by an archbishop, leaving her alone once more?
Her stomach roiled with anger and grief until she felt dizzy.
Instinctively, she reached for her wrist to rub her fingers against her red thread bracelet for comfort… but it was gone.
She sat bolt upright to stare at her bare wrist, rousing one of the otters to peer up from their basket near the hearth. Frantically, she fumbled around the bedsheets. Perhaps it had merely fallen off and was nearby.
But it was not in the bed. Or on the floor. Or in her bag. Or in the otters’ basket. Or anywhere at all in the room.
She sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
The bracelet was gone.
Her last tie to her family was gone.
Her loneliness—her aloneness—struck her like a blow. As kind as they were, her friends in Kilbythorpe had only known her for a few weeks, including Peter. She had no family to support her. No mother, no father, no brother. No one.
Tears welled in her eyes and she gasped, trying to hold back her sobs, but it was too late.
All her pent-up loneliness and grief and sense of being abandoned poured out in a storm of weeping that only eased when Bonny scrambled up the coverlet and onto the bed, chirping her own distress until Georgie was forced to laugh and stroke the otter to reassure her.
She heard quiet conversation outside her bedroom door, and turned her head as it creaked open a bare inch. Mrs. Clarke peeked through the gap. The older woman’s expression grew sheepish as Georgie’s gaze met hers.
“I am sorry to bother you, my dear. Miss Welburn and I were unable to sleep, so I decided to see if you would like a cup of warm milk as well.”
Miss Welburn peered around Mrs. Clarke’s shoulder to give Georgie an encouraging smile and, unexpectedly, some of her despair waned as Bonny slithered out of her arms and back into her basket, wary of the strangers.
Georgie scrubbed at her cheeks with her palms to wipe the tears away and sat up, reaching for her dressing gown. “Thank you. I would love one.”
Mrs. Clarke beamed at her and pushed the door open wider. “Then let’s all go down to the kitchen for a natter and some warm milk. I do believe there are a few leftover cakes from our nuncheon as well.”
Georgie was not alone, not in Kilbythorpe. She had friends here. Even if… if the worst happened, she had friends.