by Olivia Waite
Sydney rose and walked over and bent down, his lips brushing her cheek. “I’m sorry I was so angry,” he said. “If it helps, Eliza’s been raking me over the coals for a week now, for sulking when you were just being protective.” He rolled his eyes, giving Agatha a precious moment to dash the water from her own, unseen. “Don’t tell her I told you that. She’ll never let me forget it.”
“I won’t,” Agatha promised. She let her lips curve upward knowingly. “Is there . . . anything else you feel you should tell me? About Eliza?”
Sydney went so red it was all his mother could do not to laugh. “I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled, and escaped soon after.
Agatha turned back to her letter with a knowing smile. Penelope would enjoy hearing about this . . .
Chapter Eighteen
Penelope woke at dawn two days before Christmas, even though she could have slept later: the slumbering hives didn’t need looking at for a few days yet. The day lightened from black into a dull, leaden sort of gray, where clouds hung low like surly eyebrows and the air put clammy fingers down the back of one’s neck.
Penelope prowled around the house, counting the seconds as they ticked past on the clock face.
It got so bad that Mrs. Braintree started making broad hints about illness and fever and dosing Penelope with something from her terrifying stillroom. (Mr. Scriven said her great-great-grandmother’d been a witch in the old days.) Penelope allowed herself to be gently shooed out of the kitchens and back to the parlor by one of the new maids, hired for the holidays.
But finally, after ages had passed, it was late enough that Penelope could take her handcart to the Four Swallows and meet Agatha, Sydney, Eliza, and all their luggage in the main courtyard where the stage had deposited them before continuing along the road north to Carrisford.
The young folk were looking around with skeptical eyes, and Penelope had a pang of concern that they were not seeing Melliton at its best. Hopefully the holiday would bring the kind of cold, crystalline snow Penelope loved most, the kind that silvered every edge and turned the houses and crofts and cottages into rolling, icy fairylands.
But then she looked over to see Agatha Griffin taking a deep breath, shoulders lifting and a tightness in her face smoothing into something like happiness.
Penelope’s heart warmed in helpless response. “You can put your luggage right in the cart,” she said.
Griffin grinned. “I will—but let Sydney push the thing, if you please. He needs more wearing out than you do.”
Sydney made an affronted noise but grinned and took up the task willingly enough. Eliza tossed her bag on top of Griffin’s and sent Sydney a pert look.
Penelope gave the boy directions, and the whole group began moving east toward Fern Hall. Sydney and Eliza quickly drew ahead, talking constantly the whole time. Griffin watched them thoughtfully. “Two entire weeks away from the shop. I haven’t done anything so self-indulgent since—” She bit her lip, cheeks flushing. “Never mind.”
“Don’t hold back, Griffin,” Penelope said cheerfully. “Tell me all about your hedonistic past, where you never take even a fortnight away from work.”
“Pot calling kettle, Flood. How many beehives have you visited this morning?”
“None,” Penelope returned. “I was saving them all for you.”
Griffin went even pinker. Her booted toes scuffed at a rock in the road. “Will Mr. Flood be joining us?”
Penelope’s expansive mood withered somewhat. “He and Harry are spending one more night with Michael in Wales before they come east.” She sucked in a lungful of cold, wet air. “They’ll come bearing gifts from Christopher, and Lawrence and his wife. But for tonight, it’s only us.”
Griffin made a contented noise at that. The sound burrowed into Penelope and stayed there, glowing like an ember against the chill.
If Sydney and Eliza had been unimpressed with Melliton, they were gratifyingly delighted with Fern Hall itself. Penelope had put them in two of her brothers’ rooms, filled with ancient toys and musical instruments and trunks of clothing from past eras. Sydney flipped through old primers, recognizing a few woodcuts done by Griffin’s father. Eliza gathered up as much sheet music as she could find and carted an armful down to the parlor, where Penelope indulged them by picking out old tunes and carols on the pianoforte until it was time for dinner.
Between Mrs. Braintree’s excellent table and her even more excellent spruce beer, they had a merry evening of it. Penelope returned to the pianoforte after dinner was cleared; she was horribly out of practice and struck countless wrong notes, but nobody seemed to mind. Eliza and Sydney pulled the most outrageous articles from the attic’s dress-up trunks—faded brocades and velvets, lustrous waistcoats spangled with silver thread, ghostly lace that floated like cobwebs at collar and cuffs—and performed what they insisted was a gavotte, but which Penelope was fairly sure was a dance of their own devising.
Griffin mocked them with a fierce fondness as she sat on the bench beside Penelope, turning pages, the long warm length of her pressed up against Penelope’s side.
If only they could have stayed like this forever: well-fed and warm, glowing with laughter, happy in one another’s company. Like any other celebrating family. But the dark, cold night drew close at last, and they candled their way to bed.
Penelope got at least one wish: she woke the next morning to find the world outside frosted over with a light fall of snow. Enough to make everything sparkle, but not enough to delay the afternoon coach from London, and the arrival of Captain Harry Stanhope and ship’s purser, John Flood.
They came up the road as a pair, matching one another’s rolling stride, the leather straps of their seabags slung over opposite shoulders, their hands between them brushing but not quite daring to clasp. As always, the sight of that easy connection both pleased Penelope and made her envious, in some unnameable, uncomfortable way.
Penelope waved from the window, then turned to peer anxiously at Griffin. “Last chance to escape.”
Sydney and Eliza had already gone trooping out into the woods behind Fern Hall in search of greenery—it would be a plausible enough excuse if Griffin wanted to chaperone the pair and keep them out of trouble.
The stern glance Griffin leveled at Penelope, however, was like an anchor for her seasick heart. “What kind of friend do you take me for?” she said. “I’m staying with you, as I promised.”
The printer smoothed out her skirts, rose from the sofa, and marched toward the foyer.
Penelope squared her shoulders, wiped her clammy palms, and followed.
Harry flung open the door with a bang and wrapped his sister in burly arms. She hugged him tight in return, inhaling the cold, salt scent of him. “Welcome home,” she squeaked, and when he let go she turned to John. “And welcome home to you, too, John.”
John was taller than Harry, but shyer; he didn’t embrace her, but he did take both her hands in his and bend down to buss her cheek. “Hullo, Penelope,” he said. His eyes flicked to Griffin, who was standing at the foot of the stairs like she’d been planted there to guard them from invaders.
Penelope couldn’t help a small smile, seeing how fierce Griffin looked. She turned, tucking John’s arm into hers. He was always at his shyest around new people. “John, Harry, may I present my very good friend Mrs. Agatha Griffin?”
“Pleased to meet you,” Griffin said, holding out a hand.
Harry, bless him, bypassed the hand entirely and wrapped her in a hug as warm as the one he’d given Penelope. Griffin’s eyes boggled a little as he squeezed. “It’s an absolute delight,” he boomed. “Pen’s told us so much about you. All good things, of course.”
“Surely not, Captain,” Griffin replied, a little breathlessly.
“You’re calling my sister a liar?”
“I’m calling her brother a shameless flatterer.”
Harry threw back his head and roared, his laughter bouncing off the stones of the hall. “I can see why sh
e likes you. Now, I have to head to the kitchen—I have some excellent Highland spirits to bring to Mrs. Braintree—but don’t you go anywhere. I want to hear all about you when I get back.” He stomped happily toward the kitchen, and as usual the hall seemed suddenly smaller and emptier when he’d left.
Griffin blinked, slow to recover, as anyone was when meeting Harry for the first time.
John slipped his arm from Penelope’s and stepped forward, hand out. “Don’t mind him too much, Mrs. Griffin—the joke on board ship is that Harry has to take to sea because it’s the only place he won’t deafen everyone around him.”
Griffin clasped his hand, her expression softening. “At least you’ll never lose track of him, with a voice like that. That must be very reassuring.” The words were innocuous, but there was a knowingness to her voice, just a hint of a certain hue, that spoke volumes.
John’s gaze flickered back to Penelope, startled; Penelope smiled reassuringly. Her husband blinked twice. Then some unnamed weight shifted off his shoulders, and the smile he aimed Griffin’s way grew by inches. “Not a chance,” he agreed, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Harry clings to the ship like a burr, no matter the weather. He’d stay up there in a hurricane, if I let him.”
They moved to the sitting room: Penelope took a seat on the sofa and John sat beside her, while Griffin took up her favorite position in the overstuffed armchair by the fire. Harry burst back in carrying brandy and eggnog, a maid following behind with a tray of mince pies.
Penelope took a pie and shook her head wryly when her brother poured Griffin a frighteningly generous amount of brandy. She took only the slightest sip of her own drink when John passed her a cup: the brandy was barely detectable in all that egg and cream.
She supposed it was wise to remain sober, at least until they had all gotten used to one another, but it still rankled for reasons she couldn’t quite put words around. She bit rather aggressively into her mince pie.
Griffin smiled at Harry. “So how long until you two are back pursuing the whales of the northern seas?”
Penelope choked on a mouthful of mince. Beside her, John went still and spiky as an iceberg, visibly unsure where the conversation was tending.
Harry cocked a head, his smile bright, but there was something shrewd glittering in his gaze. “At least four months. The ship needs a few repairs, and that’ll take time, and I’ve a mind to take a bit of rest, but after that . . . To be frank, Mrs. Griffin, we aren’t quite sure ourselves. Decisions must be made. The northern fisheries are getting rather thin these days. And the bounties are hardly worth it—not when the country is bringing in so much seed oil to light their lamps and clean their wool.” He looked across at John. “We’ve talked about heading to the southern grounds, to hunt for sperm instead of right whales.”
“It would be a big change,” John added.
“It would be a bigger profit.”
“And a longer journey—by years, perhaps.”
“But we’d not get icebound and have to sit idle and wait to see if we’d be crushed.”
“We’d just have to risk storms and doldrums and a much greater loss if we were wrecked.”
Penelope coughed. “I see this is already an old argument.”
John rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. “You know what he’s like when he gets set on something.”
Harry harrumphed. “I refuse to risk losing the captaining of my ship, John. You’ve seen the numbers from this last voyage—we’re butting up against the bitter edge of breaking even. Soon we won’t be able to afford to provision a ship long enough to bring back any whales at all. And where will that leave you and me?”
Penelope broke in: “Have you talked to Michael about increasing the budget from the company coffers?”
“He won’t have it,” Harry said. “Said all the liquid assets are tied up at the moment, and he can’t go moving things from one branch to another without a lot of pains and paperwork.”
“Even when I offered to help him with the paperwork,” John agreed, and sighed. “That’s when he said he’d set me up as a clerk for one of his other enterprises, if the whaling was getting as dire as that.” He looked across the room at Harry. “But I won’t leave ship until the captain retires.”
“And I’m not the retiring kind,” Harry purred in response.
Penelope’s face flamed.
“Gentlemen,” Griffin interrupted. “Are you really going to argue about bank accounts on Christmas Eve? You haven’t even given Mrs. Flood her gifts yet.”
Harry slapped a hand to his forehead. “Damn if the lady’s not right—skewered us right through the heart, sharp as any harpoon.” He bounced to his feet and waved at John. “Come, there’s at least two armfuls to bring down—maybe we won’t make Pen open them yet, but we might as well pile them on the table to be admired, since Kitty did such lovely things with the wrapping of them.” He bounded out of the room, John trailing after with one wry glance at Penelope.
Griffin shook her head. “I see why you might feel overwhelmed.”
“Do you?” Penelope asked.
“Certainly. Harry’s rather a whirlwind, isn’t he?” Griffin rose and brought over the brandy, adding a healthy dollop to Penelope’s glass of eggnog. “Are all your brothers like him?”
“More or less,” Penelope replied. She took a sip of her drink and sighed, as the brandy cut through the thickness of the cream in just the way she liked. “Harry was only the second most talkative, until we lost Owen.”
Griffin’s mouth tightened. “That’s right, you’ve mentioned losing a brother.”
As Griffin had, too, Penelope remembered too late. She hid her face in her cup. “I imagine it’s easier to lose one when you have six to begin with.”
Griffin only shook her head and said gently, “Of course it isn’t.”
“No.” Penelope stared into her drink, rolling the thick liquid around and watching it slide down the side again.
“Was Owen also involved in the family business?” Griffin asked.
Penelope’s lips curved up. “Oh no,” she said. “He was a poet.”
Griffin sat straight up in her chair. “You have a poet in your family tree and you never warned me?”
Penelope’s smile widened into a grin. “Well, technically Owen was a vicar—he held the St. Ambrose’s living before Mr. Oliver did—but he was always writing and reading verse of some kind. He liked the Church because he said prayer was a kind of poetry.” She leaned her head back against the chair, remembering. “His sermons were some of the most beautiful I’ve ever heard. Even if Harry always said it was just an excuse for Owen to get in an extra hour’s talking on a Sunday.” She smirked. “As I said, Harry was only second most talkative.”
Harry himself now returned as if conjured, his arms weighed down with boxes and packages in brown paper and ribbon, John following hard on his heels. “Where do you want these, Pen?”
“In the window seat, I should think,” Penelope replied. “We’ll open them tomorrow after church.”
Harry strode across the room and began arranging gifts to show to best advantage. John, blushing, went to help. They argued at great length and volume about which one to stack where, but if you ignored the words and the tone it was easy to see how their movements mirrored one another, as if they were merely two extensions of the same soul, rather than two separate people.
As if they had a little bubble of happiness, which wrapped around the pair of them, and left everyone else out in the cold. Penelope didn’t know why it should suddenly bother her so much.
Griffin set down her glass with a clink, the sharp sound cutting through the deep burr of Harry’s wind-roughened voice. “I was thinking about going over to Mrs. Stowe’s,” Griffin said comfortably. “Would you be up for a walk, Flood?”
Griffin had been right: the whole tangle of Penelope’s loneliness and worry came loose with a single pull.
She wasn’t alone. She had a friend. It was simple, but not small.
>
“I would enjoy that,” Penelope replied. “I have a jar of blackberry honey to bring to Miss Coningsby—her favorite.” She set her empty glass aside and rose from her chair. “Harry,” she called in a louder voice, “Mrs. Griffin and I are heading out for a little while. Will you and John be alright on your own?”
Harry’s grin was lightning-quick. “I think we’ll rub along together just fine, thank you, Pen.”
John’s ears went red at the edges, and he kept his eyes downcast.
Penelope fought a fond urge to roll her eyes.
“Lord,” Griffin said as soon as they were on the path, “they aren’t half in love with one another, are they?”
“They’ve been like that since they met,” Penelope said with a laugh. “They pass as brothers or friends well enough, but I know they enjoy not having to watch themselves so closely when they’re home.”
“I can imagine.” Griffin’s boots crunched on the frost, her thick wool skirts swirling around her ankles.
“Were you and Thomas like that? Lost in one another?” Penelope asked, because apparently she enjoyed torturing herself.
Griffin smiled wistfully. “At first, when we were young. When we were still a little unsure of how we felt about each other. But then we had a son, and we started the Menagerie, and we had to turn our faces back to the world.” A robin trilled out from a nearby branch as they passed, then launched itself into the air in a burst of snow. Griffin’s keen eye tracked it until it vanished against the winter sky. “I wonder, though, how things would have been different if we hadn’t been able to marry. Keeping a secret love alight takes a great deal more effort, I should think. Like trying to keep a torch from being extinguished by the rain.”
“Perhaps it depends on the couple,” Penelope said. “Certainly Harry and John never seem to lack for fuel.”
Griffin snorted.
“And Isabella and Joanna—well, they weren’t like Harry and John, but they always seemed to sort of . . . drift toward one another. There was always a sort of pull between them, keeping them tethered. You only noticed it if you spent a long time watching, though—I’m still not entirely sure how many people in Melliton knew the truth, and how many just saw a very old, very deep friendship.”