Page 13 of Otters and Obstacles
It was the Ladies’ Committee of St. Alcuin’s.
Springing to her feet, she ran to the door so she could slip away, only to have Mrs. Barwick open it. They nearly collided on the doorstep, and Georgie instinctively took hold of the tea tray as it tipped dangerously.
“There you are, Mr. Morley! The vicar was looking for you.”
“Afraid I can’t stay, Mrs. Barwick. The otters need their midmorning meal.”
“Put the tray on that table.”
Georgie meekly obeyed, and turned back to the door to see it was already too late. The ladies had begun to enter the room, with Lord Peter bringing up the rear, a pretty young blonde woman on his arm.
Georgie dropped into a chair, and then sprang to her feet, belatedly remembering she was a young gentleman. The woman at the front of the group gave her a peculiar look, and Georgie bowed.
There were five of them, led by a tall, gray-haired lady with a hawkish nose whose need to walk with a cane did not seem to impair her much.
“Ah, there you are, Morley,” Lord Peter said. “Ladies, may I present Mr. George Morley?” He nodded to indicate each woman as he spoke. “Mrs. Kilvington, Mrs. Dinsdale, Mrs. Moxon, Miss Welburn, Miss Dinsdale.”
Georgie bowed to each of them in turn, her head already whirling at the onslaught of names. She would never be able to keep them all straight. The ladies nodded in return, with calculating expressions. Clearly, they were already trying to decide if Georgie would be an eligible husband for one of their daughters.
“Charmed, Mr. Morley,” one of the ladies—Mrs. Moxon?—said. “Are you staying long?”
“Only a few more weeks,” Lord Peter said. “Morley must return to Oxford at Michaelmas when the new term begins.”
A little astonished at how easily lies slid from the tongue of a man of the cloth, Georgie bowed again and murmured something even she didn’t find coherent.
The ladies settled themselves on the settee and chairs, and Georgie found herself taking the gentleman’s position of propping up the mantle of the fireplace, unlit on this warm August day. A breeze blew through the open French doors, bringing the very particular scent ofLutra cinereawith it.
Mrs. Dinsdale wrinkled her nose. “What on earth is that smell?”
Georgie looked to Lord Peter, whose smile was only slightly strained. “Mr. Morley brought some scientific specimens with him. A trio of otters.”
“Oh! How charming!” Miss Dinsdale had been batting her eyes at a seemingly oblivious Lord Peter, and turned her attention to Georgie instead. “Papa bought me a muff of otter fur last Christmas and it kept my hands ever so warm all winter.”
“How nice,” Georgie said, repressing her wince as best she could.
“Do you mean to say, Lord Peter,” Mrs. Kilvington said, “that you are keepingwild animalsat the rectory?”
“Oh, no, notwild, Mrs. Kilvington.” Georgie said. She stood up straight as she began to speak with enthusiasm. “They are quite tame. My father and I raised them from small pups. And they are locked away in the chicken coop, at any rate, not living in the house.”
With a start, Georgie realized she was gesturing in a way that was not very masculine, and had forgotten to drop her voice to a lower register into the bargain. The back of her neck grew hot, and she subsided, twisting her hands in front of herself before shoving them into her coat pockets.
“Poor things,” Miss Dinsdale said wistfully, and turned to Lord Peter. “Do you suppose we might see them?”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” Georgie said, just as Lord Peter said, “I don’t see why not.”
They each stopped, and Georgie glared at him. “They can be quite boisterous when they play. I should dislike for you to be scratched or bitten, Miss Dinsdale.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Morley,” Miss Dinsdale sighed, and batted her eyelashes again. “I very much appreciate you looking out for my safety.”
Uncertain how to respond, Georgie finally produced a rather stiff bow, and Mrs. Dinsdale beamed at her.
“Shall we begin the meeting?” Mrs. Kilvington intoned, clearly done with the otter discussion. Georgie took two steps towards the drawing room door before being speared by a glare from the older woman.
“Please do us the courtesy of remaining, Mr. Morley,” she said. “We should like to hear what activities the younger generation would enjoy at the Harvest Festival.”
Georgie looked at Lord Peter, who barely concealed his horror, then met Mrs. Kilvington’s stern eye again and wilted. “Of course, ma’am. Pleased to be of assistance.”
“Kindly be seated, Mr. Morley.”
