Page 1 of Otters and Obstacles
1
August 1818
As Georgiana Morlandslid open the stable door, she could hear the horses neighing softly to each other, the jingle of tack being polished, the scraping of shovels as stableboys cleaned the stalls… but she could not hear her otters.
They knew the sound of the door, and the sound of her footsteps. On any other day, she would hear their excited squeaks and trills over the rest of the noises as she approached the stall where her cousin had caged them after banishing them from the house.
She could not hear them today.
Her steps quickening, she strode to the door of the stall, only to find it standing ajar.
Empty.
Even the straw inside and the tub that held their water was gone, the floor swept clean.
“Looking for something?”
Georgie whirled to see her cousin John standing behind her. Could his face form any expression other than a sneer when he looked at her?
She glared at him. “Where are they?”
“That’s none of your concern. They—like everything else on this estate—belong to me now. And since they were my property, I disposed of them.”
The world went gray, and Georgie grabbed for the stall door as she swayed. She only vaguely heard the clang as the bucket in her hand fell to the ground, spilling the meat and fish scraps she had brought from the kitchen across the floor. Cursing, her cousin leaped backward to prevent the flood from getting on his polished Hessians.
“There’s no need for such emotion, cousin,” he sneered. “This is why no man in the county is willing to marry you. Even leaving your mixed blood aside, they all know your damned otters mean more to you than any man ever could.”
Georgie could barely hear his cutting words through the whirling in her head. Her father’s death and her cousin’s inheritance of the estate had taken everything she loved from her. Even her beloved pets, raised by her as orphaned pups after they had been given to her father by the Prince Regent himself four years ago, were not to be spared from her cousin’s ravages.
A hand came under her elbow, and she turned her head to see the head groom steadying her. She took a deep, horse-scented breath to steady herself and then straightened with a nod of thanks.
She had no time to faint.
“You’re a fool, cousin,” she said. “What will you tell the keeper of the Royal Menagerie when he next writes to ask about their health?”
John shrugged. “They are exotic animals living in England. I’m sure he’s accustomed to having the Regent’s specimens dieunexpectedly. Besides, I merely sold them to someone else. Your father’s friend Mr. Sloane.”
The name echoed in Georgie’s head, but she could not recall what it was about Mr. Sloane that would make him a suitable recipient for the otters, even in her cousin’s devious mind. Something nagged at her, but John was still speaking.
“Now that you will not be wasting your time on those animals, and I will not be wasting money on their upkeep, you will be able to concentrate on your duties in the schoolroom. The children are eager to continue their lessons with you.”
Georgie kept her face impassive. John had brought four children with him when he inherited the estate, all of them equally as selfish and spiteful as he and his wife. He had dispensed with their governess within the first week and declared Georgie would earn her keep by taking her place. Six months of that had already left Georgie with bruises from the unruly children and a sick sense of depression knowing this was to be her life from now on. Despite Georgie being well past her legal majority at the age of twenty-three, her cousin refused to release her inheritance to her. She had little recourse to force it from him as she could not hire a solicitor when she had no more than a few pounds of ready money, and no idea how to contact one even if she had the money.
Knowing she still had her otters to care for, something she could love that loved her in return, had kept her going. Until now.
“Go back to the house, cousin,” John said. “Your pupils await.”
Georgie spun on her heel and stalked back to her room, her mind turning the name of the otters’ recipient over and over in her head. The name was familiar to her from her father’s correspondence. She knew it, and knew she knew it, but couldnot rememberwhyuntil she closed her bedroom door behind herself.
Mr. Sloane was an elderly clergyman close to her father’s age who lived in rural Yorkshire. She had only met him once or twice at most, though she had read his letters to her father. He shared many of her father’s interests in exotic animals. Only…
Only…
He was even more fascinated with the new practice of taxidermy.
Georgie’s stomach rebelled, and she barely retrieved the chamber pot from beneath her bed before she was thoroughly sick.
Still shaking, she sat next to the bed, knees drawn up so she could rest her forehead on them. She and her father had hand-raised Bonny, Betsey, and Buttercup from sickly pups to mischievous adults, their care proving a welcome distraction from their grief after Mama and Freddy had died. The constant upheaval of the household had kept them on their toes, and observing the animals had provided fodder for many a letter to the Linnean Society in London, letters her father had been compiling into a book when he died.
