The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows

by Olivia Waite

  Even just standing outside was making Penelope’s heart race—or maybe that was just the proximity of so many people, moving so quickly, through narrow streets with buildings that towered far higher than the ones in Melliton did. If she craned her neck, she could see a sort of park around the corner; the sight of trees steadied her and reminded her to breathe.

  She regretted it almost instantly: London certainly lived up to its reputation where smells were concerned.

  Thus braced, she shouldered her bag, opened the door, and stepped into the shop.

  The odors here were a distinct improvement from the street outside: books and ink and the crispness of paper. Griffin’s storefront was a light and airy space, full of color and creamy paper and picturesque prints. Tables full of leather-bound books and urgent-looking pamphlets, stacks of manuscripts ready for binding, sheets of the latest ballads—she spotted “Inexpressibles” straight away—the richly hued latest issue of Griffin’s Menagerie displayed to advantage, and high skylights letting in what brave sunlight managed to make it this far.

  Surveying it all from behind a sturdy cherrywood counter was a boy the very image of Agatha Griffin. Same dark hair, same hawklike stubborn nose, same rich brown eyes. Those eyes lit as he smiled and hurried out from behind the counter to greet her. “You must be Mrs. Flood! I’m Sydney Griffin—it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “And you as well, Mr. Griffin,” Penelope said.

  “Please, call me Sydney.” They shook hands, his pumping eagerly up and down. Penelope hid a smile. He had all of Agatha’s energy, but had yet to acquire her wariness. “Mum tells me you’re in town to present an address to the Queen?”

  “Along with quite a few of the women of Melliton, yes.”

  “That’s marvelous! I hope I’m still so active in support of reform when I’m as old as you are.”

  Penelope blinked.

  Sydney Griffin went on: “Oh, but where are my manners? That bag must be weighing you down—let me take that upstairs to Mum’s room for you. She’s in the back, of course, but I’m sure she won’t mind if you go right on in. It’s through that door.”

  Before Penelope could gather her scattered wits, the boy had relieved her of her bag, hefted it as though it were nothing, and vanished up the stairs. To his mother’s bedroom, as he’d said.

  Which, apparently, Penelope would be sharing with Griffin.

  She hadn’t considered that, when she’d invited herself to stay. She’d imagined she would be displacing Sidney, or one of the apprentices. But Griffin had told her to come, anyway . . .

  Maybe there was some misunderstanding. She hadn’t left Melliton in so long, her nerves couldn’t settle. Nothing was familiar, so nothing was trustworthy. Penelope brushed her hands anxiously over her skirts, then told herself not to be such a ninny and went through the door Sydney had pointed out.

  She’d been in the Melliton print-works, so she knew something of what to expect. But just as the city was more densely packed and compressed than the countryside, the London branch of Griffin’s enterprise was a busy, cozy center of perpetual motion. There seemed to be far more people and prints and presses than the small size of the room could hold. It was barely possible to breathe; not even the tall windows at the back, thrown open to let in as much air as possible, could banish the industrial smells of metal and sweat and a persistent chemical tang.

  “Mrs. Flood?” A girl with brown hair pulled tight into a knot at her neck sat at a table punching musical notes into a block lined with staves. She smiled shyly. “I’m Eliza Brinkworth. Her apprentice. Mrs. Griffin’s just finishing up outside.” She waved at a door that let out to a small yard in the back.

  Penelope followed this direction and found herself on a small patch of a yard: hard-packed ground, high walls all around, yellow-green moss lurking in the corners and on the shadier stretches of stone. And, against the far wall, a table for the etching and cleaning of plates. Agatha Griffin was wrestling with one of these: wiping the plate with a cloth, buffing it clean of ground and mordant with turpentine, then a water wash. A thick leather apron marked with scrapes and scores was tied around her neck. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and her hands were strong and work-roughened. For a moment the copper in her hands caught the afternoon sun with a flash.

  Penelope was dazzled, and drifted forward helplessly.

  She didn’t think she’d made a sound, but Griffin must have heard something, because her head snapped up and those brown eyes drank in Penelope, standing there gaping. Creases folded the soft skin at the corners of Griffin’s eyes and mouth as she smiled. “Welcome to London, Flood. How was the journey?”

  “Worth it,” Penelope replied.

  Griffin laughed, set the plate on the table to dry, and rolled her sleeves properly back down to her wrists. Penelope squelched a sigh to see forearms vanish behind cotton again.

  Griffin frowned lightly down at the gleaming metal. “I had hoped to get one more plate finished before you arrived—and there’s two more jobs to proof, and another set of Thisburton caricatures to color . . .”

  “Oh,” said Penelope, and swallowed hard against a wave of dismay. “I understand. I’ll just wander a bit on my own then, and then meet you back here later?” She twisted one hand around the other, the fine leather of her traveling gloves so much thinner and less protective than what she wore for beekeeping. “Is there somewhere nearby you recommend for an early supper? I was too excited to eat much before setting out.”

  Griffin cocked her head, her expression turning from frustrated to wry. “Flood, how long has it been since you visited London? You mentioned it had been a while. How long precisely?”

  Penelope thought for a moment. “1804? During the war, certainly—I came to spend Christmas with Edward, and I distinctly recall he insisted on reading battle reports aloud over breakfast every morning.”

  Griffin shook her head. “So many years? The city might as well be an entirely new place to you.” She untied the apron from around her neck, and hung it on a peg beneath an overhang of roof. There was a mischievous gleam brightening her eyes, and a sly tilt blooming on her lips. “Letting you wander around like a babe in the wood would be downright irresponsible. After all, I have a duty as a hostess, do I not?”

  Penelope’s heart was a bubble, rising eagerly up through the water to bob on a sunlit surface. “What about all your work?”

  Griffin’s long mouth crooked in a devious smile. She looked evil and stern and Penelope shivered to see it. Anticipation ripened Griffin’s tone into something rich and alluring. “Oh, I think we can find someone to take care of the work.”

  She marched through the doorway, eyes seeking out and finding her apprentice. The girl shot up from the bench, and Penelope wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she’d saluted.

  Griffin took this obedience in stride: “Eliza, when Crompton is done with the Thisburton prints, you start the color work and have him begin printing the Egerton plate.”

  The girl straightened her shoulders. “Of course. Is the Egerton finished?”

  “It’s drying in the yard; should be ready when you need it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Griffin cast Penelope a smile over her shoulder. “That’s the bulk of it sorted.” She settled a bonnet like a helm on her head, then tugged her gloves tight over her hands like a general arming for battle. A lovely, sinister kind of mirth came over her. “Just one more thing to do . . .” She marched back into the storefront, Penelope trailing irresistibly after.

  Sydney looked up from the counter, then blinked at his mother’s attire. Griffin strode for the exit without a moment’s pause. “I’m going out, my dear,” she announced blithely. “Make sure everything’s closed up properly, and don’t bother to wait up—we won’t be back ’til quite late.”

  Penelope caught one glimpse of Sydney gaping like a hooked fish before she scurried out the door to keep up with the longer-legged Griffin. The engraver strode purposefully arou
nd the corner until the shop windows were out of sight—then spun on her heel and put her hands against her mouth. “Oh dear,” Griffin said, shoulders shaking. “Oh dear, that felt far too good. I almost didn’t make it through with a straight face.”

  Griffin, Penelope realized with delight, was laughing. She couldn’t help grinning back. “What have you done to your son, you awful woman?”

  “Nothing he hasn’t well earned, I promise you.” Griffin pushed away from the wall, brushed her hands together, and cocked a head. “Well, Flood? Which shall we start with: fun, or food?”

  “Food,” Penelope replied. “Definitely food.”

  Griffin led her through crowded streets, weaving around slower walkers and darting down convenient shortcuts. Penelope was used to walking, but the press of people and the endless, ever-shifting, and indescribable smells made her breathless as she hurried to keep up with the printer’s sure strides.

  Finally, Griffin led her to a tavern whose door was set several steps lower than the street; even from outside, the smell of roasting meat and bread and sauces made Penelope’s mouth begin to water.

  Inside, everything smelled so tasty that Penelope in her hunger was hard put not to start gnawing on the back of a spare chair. The place was unimpressive to look at but spotlessly clean, and quieter than the usual tavern; everyone seemed engrossed in their meals. Griffin ordered for them both: turtle soup and fish to start, followed by partridge pie in mushroom gravy. To drink they poured a cider that fizzed tart and sharp to keep Penelope’s palate clear as she tucked in, and later, to pair with the pudding, a sweet port that went right to Penelope’s head. She sat back with a sigh and set her fork down with a wistful regret that she had no room for more.

  Griffin was at her ease, canted sideways, one elbow up on the back of her chair. The other hand spun the stem of the port glass on the table in front of her. Her eyes were liquid as wine in the low light. “Well?”

  Penelope didn’t hold back. “That may be the single greatest meal I have ever had.”

  Griffin grinned. “I thought you’d approve. Walcott’s is one of the best-kept secrets in London.”

  Penelope leaned forward. “What other secrets can you show me?”

  Griffin froze for an instant, her eyes flashing gold in the candlelight. “That depends,” she said, raising her glass to her lips. The port shimmered like rubies. “Would you prefer something edifying, or something decadent?”

  Penelope watched Griffin’s throat work as she swallowed the last droplets of rich, heady liquor. “Decadent. Definitely decadent.”

  Griffin’s answering smile was a wicked, wordless promise.

  Penelope’s pulse leaped, and she wondered what she’d let herself in for.

  In the eyes of most decent folk, Agatha knew, Vauxhall was the absolute pinnacle of public London depravity. It could be the ruin of any high-born debutante who dared wander down its shadowed lanes and elude her chaperone in search of the sultry, sordid pleasures of the flesh.

  But Agatha and Flood were two middle-aged women free from the rules of high birth and fortune. They had no peerless pearl of reputation to safeguard.

  Even if they had, Agatha thought it might be worth a little ruin to see the brilliant lights reflected in the sparkle of Penelope Flood’s blue eyes. They shone almost silver in the darkness, pools of liquid light as she tipped her face back to watch the fireworks bloom and burst against the night sky above.

  A lithe woman in a dazzling costume, crowned in feathers, danced down an endless tightrope above them as colored stars popped around her. Penelope gasped as the rope dancer twirled on one foot, seemingly unconnected from earthly gravity. She looked liable to fall at any moment and yet she danced on, the spangles on her costume flashing in defiance as she drew gasps and cheers from the riveted crowd below. Beautiful and untouchable.

  Agatha looked away from the rope dancer as Penelope Flood laughed in sheer joy.

  Beautiful. Untouchable.

  The liquor had long since gone to Agatha’s head—not only the port with dinner, but the burnt champagne she’d bought for both of them from a stall in the pleasure gardens. She felt as though she stood on a part of the world that was turning faster than it should, the ground itself threatening to sweep her unsteady feet clean out from beneath her. When the rope dancer’s finale was done, she and Penelope meandered through the grounds, past fountains and musicians and the private rooms where the gentry held their masquerades. Diamonds flashed on a debutante’s wrist as she toyed with the ties of her mask and leaned close to whisper a secret into the ear of a giggling, glittering companion.

  Flood tugged her down to be heard above the crowd. “Have you ever been to a masquerade?” she asked.

  Agatha shook her head. “It’s expensive, and I have no genius for disguise,” she replied.

  “What?”

  Agatha leaned closer.

  Flood tilted her head obligingly.

  Agatha’s lips could almost—just almost—brush the edge of Flood’s ear. “I have no—” she began to repeat, but got no farther, as a laughing body bumped into her from behind.

  She staggered forward, taking Penelope Flood with her.

  Flood’s gasp of surprise spurred Agatha into action. Her hands came up automatically, catching Flood by the elbows and steadying them both against the press of bodies in the darkness.

  It took her a moment to realize they’d stopped moving. Agatha’s face was buried in Flood’s hair, curls sweeping her eyelids and cheeks and tickling her nose. Flood’s hands were clutching Agatha’s shoulders, and she huffed out a little laugh, her chest rising and falling as the sound echoed through her body and into Agatha’s.

  Agatha turned her head, brushing her lips against Flood’s temple. It was not a kiss. It was a wordless worry, a touch seeking reassurance. It had nothing to do with how sweet Flood felt to hold, or how good she smelled: bergamot and violets. “Are you alright?”

  “I am now.” Agatha felt more than heard Flood’s sigh as Penelope tilted her head up with a smile. Her eyes flickered with torchlight, and her cheeks were rosy with excitement. Agatha felt the earth spin away ever farther beneath her—

  The diamond-decked debutante laughed again, and the spell was broken.

  Agatha dropped her hands and stepped away, tugging at her cuffs, smoothing her dress, face flaming in a way not even the champagne could explain.

  Flood blinked, and shook her head. “Perhaps it’s time we went home,” she said.

  Agatha nodded, and they left the pleasure gardens behind.

  Now they lay in Agatha’s bed, wrapped in darkness deep as velvet—and Agatha couldn’t sleep.

  Penelope had no such trouble. She had all but passed out as soon as her head touched the pillow and was now snoring softly, a homely, intimate sound that made Agatha’s heart ache and her fingers twist in the sheets to keep from reaching out.

  Strange to hear another person breathing in this room again. Dangerously tempting to have someone so close. The single hardest part of widowhood for Agatha had been learning to sleep singly: no one to steal warmth or blankets from, no one to talk to in that sweet, safe time between getting into bed and slipping into slumber. No one to simply be there, whenever Agatha woke up on the wrong side of midnight from some half-remembered dream. The loneliness of the bed she’d once shared with Thomas had felt like an insult to her very soul, and she had never really grown resigned to it.

  But now that emptiness was filled with the round, cozy form of Penelope Flood, sailor’s wife and beekeeper and Agatha’s dearest friend.

  Her presence reshaped the bed’s intimate geography: the extra dip of the mattress, the unwonted tension in the blankets, the ebb and flow of the currents in the very air around them. Agatha’s eyelids grew heavy, and the looming prospect of unconsciousness kicked up her heart into a sudden panic.

  What if she fell asleep, and let down her guard, and they woke up entwined? Her arms around Flood’s waist, one of the other woman’s thigh
s sliding between her own? Warm breath and tangled hair and thin sheets and soft skin . . .

  She could all but hear her friend’s teasing snort. Been that long since someone shared your bed, has it, Griffin?

  And Agatha would have to pretend to laugh, and let Flood go, and feel weak and desperate and pitiful. Flood might have asked for secrets, earlier in the evening—but only as a game, a brief diversion. A good few fucks, she’d said, and that was fine for some, but it was not a game Agatha was suited for, especially not with people she wanted to keep as friends. She had too great a tendency to devotion.

  Even when that devotion wasn’t wanted.

  So Agatha rolled onto her belly, tucked her hands firmly underneath her chest, turned her face to the wall, and prayed for a sleep like death.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sermons were wrong. Hell wasn’t fire and brimstone. Hell was a dress of soft white muslin, laced tight around every dip and curve of sturdy Penelope Flood. All those snowy, delicate folds just waiting to be ruined by clutching, ink-stained fingers.

  The only color Flood wore was a bright green rosette, pinned high on her shoulder in honor of Queen Caroline. It stood out against all that white like an emerald on ermine.

  The beekeeper tied off the last lacing on her bodice and swirled the skirts back and forth experimentally. Petticoats shushed and settled. She shook her head and tucked one curl behind her ear. “Who on earth thought wearing this much white in sooty London was a good idea? I thought it was a joke when Mrs. Koskinen first suggested it—and I was stunned when Lady Summerville offered to fund the fabric purchase.” She frowned. “I fear I know too well where she got the money.”