Page 11 of Otters and Obstacles
St. Alcuin’s was an ancient church that had survived the Normans and the Tudors alike, carefully maintained by generations of villagers to its present mellow golden-brown state. Headstones surrounded the building, looking almost as though they had grown out of the soil along with the building itself.
“Mr. Banner’s shop is another few dozen yards that way,” Lord Peter said, pointing towards a fork in the lane that cradled the church. “He keeps the mail for when the supplementary rider comes through. Will you be able to find your way back to the cottage from here?”
“I believe so.” Georgie turned to look back the way they had come, and then towards the split in the road. “I generally have a good sense of direction.”
“If you have any trouble, you can always ask one of the villagers. Good day.”
Lord Peter bowed, and Georgie returned the gesture before turning to make her way towards the village shops, her mind still spinning at their conversation.
She had known Lord Peter was far above her, the orphaned daughter of a mere baronet, but she had not realized quite how far until now. Clearly, any romantic dreams or secret longings must be shut firmly away before they could develop, even without her disguise.
He was not for such as her.
Peter stifleda yawn as the local apothecary, Mr. Coverdale, droned on about their need to raise funds to repair the roof of the sacristy and the upcoming Harvest Festival. The other men in the room nodded along, seemingly fascinated by Mr. Coverdale’s discourse. Many of the villagers were familiar to Peter, as he was to them as one of the sons of the manor house, but he had rarely had close contact with them and their daily lives until Paul had asked him to fill in for the ailing rector.
All right, not asked.Required. Paul had been quite angry that Peter had inadvertently dragged his twin brother Philip into a dangerous situation that led to Philip being kidnapped. In Peter's eyes, that had merely been an unfortunate side effect of catching a smuggling ring operating near the London church where he had been a curate, but Paul had taken a dimmer view of it in his own measured way.
"How could you let things go so far?" Paul had asked.
"My parishioner needed help," Peter had replied, and Paul had rubbed his forehead with a groan of frustration.
"The people of Kilbythorpe need your help much more than anyone in London. I have just received word that the rector forSt. Alcuin’s is ill and needs to regain his strength in Brighton. His curate is far too young and inexperienced to run the parish by himself. I want you to do it."
"But— "
"It is not arequest, Peter." Paul's eyes had blazed, and Peter had only then realized just how angry his even-tempered brother was. "If you cannot curb your impulsiveness, you must be removed from temptation. By force, it appears. Do this, or find yourself cut off."
Peter had opened his mouth and closed it again, dropping his eyes from his brother's glare. Gossip about the incident with the smugglers had made its way around England, and likely Wales and Ireland, too. Another scandal added to the family’s ledger. The likelihood of being able to defy his brother and find another living to be appointed to so he could support himself was very low after this newest scandal. And he had never trained for another career. Never even considered it.
So now here he was. Sitting in St. Alcuin’s, listening to middle-aged men bicker over how to repair a roof rather than tending to the souls of the poor in London who desperately needed his help.
"... isn't that right, Lord Peter?"
Peter looked up to see the whole group looking at him expectantly. "Er... yes. Yes, of course."
His response only seemed to set off another round of bickering, and he nodded along as he tried to follow what seemed to be several generations of a feud over the roof and who was to provide the materials to repair it.
“You see, my lord, Mr. Wynpenny’s family has always provided the slate for the roof,” said Mr. Coverdale, the local apothecary. “But their descendants were forced to sell some of their shares in the local quarry, and the Dinsdales bought themup. It worked quite well for a time and the families cooperated with each other.”
Peter nodded.
“But then,” Coverdale said, “young Mr. James Wynpenny snubbed Miss Celeste Dinsdale at the Harvest Festival last year when everyone had thought they were to make a match of it and re-join the shares. He ran off to join the army, and Miss Dinsdale is a spinster yet. So now the Dinsdales are refusing to allow the Wynpennys access to the quarry to secure the needed slate.”
“Could we not purchase the slate elsewhere?” Peter asked. A general groan arose around the table.
“It would not be the same, Lord Peter,” said Mr. Horsley, the local physician. “The slate has always come from the Wynpenny quarry.”
“Of course,” Peter said, repressing an ironic comment. He thought for a moment. “So we must reconcile the Wynpennys to the Dinsdales in order to secure the slate needed to repair the roof of the church.”
“You have it exactly, my lord,” Mr. Coverdale said.
“Allow me to think on it, gentlemen,” Peter said. “Perhaps I can speak to each of them and see if I can reconcile both sides.”
The other men nodded happily, and the subject turned to the fall harvest, which was just beginning. Peter nodded and smiled and allowed his thoughts to drift again.
It would not be for much longer. Paul would find someone else to run the parish in Mr. Sloane’s absence once his temper cooled. Then Peter could leave these petty family feuds behind and return to London to do some real good in the world with the desperately poor people who needed his assistance far more than these comfortable villagers.
Georgie locatedthe local shop from where letters could be sent and pushed the door open, angling her hat low on her forehead.
