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 herwatercolors 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 ofA 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 wasillustrated.
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.”