Peter frowned at her tone. “Mrs. Barwick said you were out with Mrs. Clark. Besides, I didn’t think you would ever need to know. I did not imagine the scoundrel would approach you.”
Georgie could not decide what she was more irritated about: that Peter had concealed the fact that her cousin had called on him, or that he seemed to not understand why she would find that irritating. Just because she was acting as a submissive wife did not mean he should be concealing facts from her.
“There is very little he can do,” Peter continued. “I have already written to Sir Anthony Hoult to explain the situation and get his permission for us to keep the otters.”
Her irritation at his high-handedness was turning into anger. “You did not tell me that, either.”
“I did not wish to worry you.”
“Peter, I am not a child who needs to be coddled. I am your wife. Your helpmeet. I cannot help you if you conceal things from me!”
“Of course. You are right.” He smiled crookedly at her. “I was only trying to protect you.”
Georgie’s heart melted a little at his sheepish expression, but she was not quite over her anger. Peter’s conviction that he always knew best was already difficult to live with, and would only become more so as time went on. Still, she nodded her forgiveness and, after a moment’s pause, he returned to reading his book.
She had known marrying him so impulsively was folly even as she had done it, but she had allowed herself to be carried away by the romance of the moment and by her love for him. She had thought she knew him well enough to marry after their weeks together, but perhaps it was different knowing a man as a friendand knowing him as a husband. Perhaps marrying a man who had not said he loved her when he proposed had been a mistake.
It bothered her sometimes, deep in the night, that he still had not said he loved her. She feared saying it first in case he did not return her love. He would be kind, she knew, when he told her he did not share her feelings, and that very kindness would make her want to curl up and die. So she had not dared to say it.
And now, thanks to Peter’s silence on the matter, she had a new worry. What if Sir John convinced Hoult that he ought to be the one to keep the otters? He would not have the slightest idea how to care for them, and would not bother to learn.
They would be dead before the new year. Sooner.
Georgie set her jaw. She would not allow it. She would keep her otters safe, no matter what occurred. And no matter what her husband thought about it.
15
Almost before Georgie knew it, the Harvest Festival arrived in a final flurry of preparation, with the ladies of the village gathering to complete the decorations just in time. She could not help but be proud of their work and made sure to praise them lavishly, especially the Ladies’ Auxiliary.
Now she breathed a sigh of relief as she and Peter joined the crowd flowing onto the village green. The festival drew people from miles around, and the booths were doing brisk business while job seekers waved mops and other implements of their various trades. With Michaelmas and the end of the quarter nearly here, it was the season to find new employment and new employees.
She leaned a little on Peter’s arm as they walked, and he drew her near as a boisterous crowd of young men pushed past them on their way to the fair.
“Stay close,” Peter said. “I don’t wish us to become separated in the crowd.”
“All right,” she murmured, warmed by his protectiveness and his strong arm. It was easy to believe on such a beautiful daythat her gloomy thoughts about Peter’s feelings for her had been nothing but a passing fancy. He might not be ready to say the words yet, but his affectionate touches and warm glances gave her hope that he might do so soon.
“Corn dolly for your lady?”
Georgie turned her head to see a boy carrying a basket filled with intricately woven corn dollies made from the last sheaves of wheat harvested from the fields.
Peter grinned at her and rummaged briskly through the basket with his free hand, seeming to know what he was looking for. He pulled one out and presented it to her with a flourish and a wink, bowing low. She could not help the flutter her heart gave at his mischievous expression.
“Lady Peter. If you will.”
Blushing at the attention starting to be directed at them from the festival’s passers-by, she accepted the dolly with as much dignity as she could. It was about the size of her gloved palm, in the shape of two hearts woven together, the strands at the edge of each heart woven together so they could not be separated. Stalks of wheat crowned the top of each heart, bobbing gently in the breeze as Georgie tilted the dolly to look more closely at it.
Peter flipped a shilling to the boy, who doffed his cap and winked at them. “The extra stalks are for fertility, parson,” he said, and darted away into the crowd before Georgie could do more than blush. Surely the extra luck would not be needed. It was only a matter of time considering how they spent nearly every evening before falling into a blissful sleep.
“Insolent puppy.” Peter’s voice was a little strangled, as though he, too, was embarrassed. “Where is the pin?”
“Why would there be a pin?” Georgie asked even as her gloved fingers found one stuck into the top of one of the hearts.
“So I can pin it to your pelisse, of course.”
“Oh, Peter, no.” The blush came full force now, her face feeling hot in her embarrassment.
“We must. Otherwise the luck will not stay.”
