Peter’s reliefat Mrs. Kilvington’s routing of Sir John crashed as he caught the eye of a man standing towards the back of the crowd.
It was Medforth. Paul’s steward.
And he was frowning.
Sensing his mood, Georgie put a supportive hand on his back. “Peter? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, forcing himself to look away from the other man.
The entire village had witnessed the drama.
Including Medforth.
Who would certainly send a messenger to Paul.
Who would then find out his scapegrace brother had married without telling anyone.
As he and Georgie stepped down from the stage, someone spoke to him from his other side. He turned and smiled at them, scarcely knowing what he said.
He had waited too long to write, and now time had run out. It would have been bad enough for them to arrive on a quiet day in the village as he had anticipated. Now they would land in the middle of yet another Avondale scandal.
One that was all his own fault.
The back of his throat burned even as he tried to laugh and joke with the villagers who came up to congratulate him and Georgie. He wanted his family to love Georgie as he did, but introducing her as the center of a scandal would only convince them to reject her, and him.
Paul had said this was his last chance, and now his own negligence had ruined it.
He must speak to Paul, not just write to him. Immediately. He must intercept his brother on the road and explain himself in person rather than having Paul arrive at Kilbythorpe with only Medford’s letter as explanation.
If he did not, his family would never accept Georgie.
16
Georgie realized Peter was in a most peculiar mood.
As they walked back to the rectory in the gloaming, he seemed abstracted, as though something was on his mind, but he denied it when she asked. Their joyous connection at the fair had faded, and Georgie felt distant from him in a way that frightened her.
The rectory was empty when they arrived. Mrs. Barwick and the new housemaid had stayed at the Harvest Festival to enjoy the rest of the evening—which Georgie had thought she and Peter would do as well—so they assembled a cold collation for themselves from the leftover meats and cheeses in the pantry and ate it in silence.
When they repaired to the drawing room, she tried to draw him into conversation, but he was uncharacteristically quiet, answering in monosyllables until she gave up and rose from her chair. Peter looked up at her, brows drawn together.
“I suppose I may as well get ready for bed,” she said.
He smiled at her ruefully, the first real smile he had given her since they left the festival, and extended his hand to her. She took it with ill grace.
“I am sorry, darling,” he said. “I haven’t been very good company tonight.”
“No, you haven’t.” But she was already halfway to forgiving him just from his repentant expression.
“I am trying to decide something,” Peter said. “And it is weighing on my mind.”
“What is it? Perhaps I can help.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.” The words were affectionate, but his tone warned her to drop the matter.
Georgie sighed in frustration. Once again, he was shutting her out, not telling her what was troubling him so she could help him find a solution. They must have a serious discussion about it, but she could see he was in no mood for one tonight.
“Then I may as well go to bed.”
