The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,107
all those whom he shall have just cause to suspect to be dangerous, quarrelsome, or scandalous; as of those who sleep in the day, and go abroad in the night; and of such as keep suspicious company; and of such as are generally suspected to be robbers, and the like—’”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Theydon,” the vicar said. “I don’t know about ‘dangerous,’ Mrs. Turner—but ‘quarrelsome’ and ‘scandalous’ certainly seem to fit. Let the surety be set at: ten pounds.”
The singer gasped in horror. Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth.
And Agatha—well, Agatha felt grim certainty roll over her like the tide. The sum was astronomical, far more than Mrs. Turner could earn even if she sang for a year straight. This was deliberate. This was meant to ruin her.
It was pure and petty tyranny, done for spite’s sake.
“She cannot pay that, Mr. Oliver,” Penelope objected. “You must know she cannot.”
“Then she will be imprisoned,” Mr. Oliver said pleasantly. “Until such a time as she has worked off her debt. With her child, of course,” he said, nodding. “We are not monsters.”
This was too much. Agatha rocketed up out of her chair as though someone had lit a firework under her seat. “The surety will be paid, Mr. Oliver.”
Everyone swiveled to stare at her, even Penelope.
Agatha felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but barreled onward. “I will vouchsafe the sum on Mrs. Turner’s behalf.”
“You know the money will be forfeit if she errs again,” cautioned the vicar.
Agatha almost laughed in his face, but managed to turn it into a cough and a demure widowly nod. “Mrs. Turner has been a successful composer of ballads for my press,” she said. “I value her work and have every faith in her character.”
Mrs. Turner blinked.
Mr. Oliver read out the closing ceremony for the session. Penelope was up as soon as he closed the book, nodding smartly and taking poor Mrs. Turner by the elbow.
Agatha clasped her hands behind her back—the better not to wrap them around Mr. Oliver’s comfortable neck—and followed the other two women out of the vestry.
Sunshine and birdsong and a blossoming world, every sweet note and scent of it an affront. The three women walked down the road: Mrs. Turner’s gait timid, as though she didn’t dare draw more of the world’s attention, Penelope’s stomping louder than you’d think possible without her sturdy boots.
And Agatha, lagging behind. She made her feet hurry until she drew even with the other two. “I’ll have Mr. Downes send the surety to Mr. Oliver by the end of today,” she said, for lack of anything better to offer.
Mrs. Turner nodded, but anguish still clouded her features. “I don’t know how I’ll pay you back, Mrs. Griffin.” Her mouth curved in a bitter twist. “I don’t suppose I can consider this an advance on the next fifty or so ballads?”
“If you like,” Agatha said, helpless to find any better response. “But I won’t be holding you to that, if it causes you pain.”
“Probably wise,” Mrs. Turner went on. “I don’t know when I’ll find the time to write even the next one, now. It’s just all so—impossible.” She stopped, hands clenching her sides. “I can’t escape him, not under the law. My husband’s never laid a hand on me in anger. He just—he just takes, that’s all. Whatever I try to hold back for Arthur or myself he swallows up, and asks for more.” She wrapped her arms around her torso, holding herself together. Her voice lowered to a sadder register. “I wrote love songs for him once, you know.”
Penelope smiled, and said: “I remember.” Mrs. Turner looked at her. “They were more beautiful than he deserved.”
They walked on. Agatha’s eye was caught by a bumblebee trundling blissfully over the hyssop blossoms by the side of the road, rounder and larger than any of Penelope’s honeybees. Her fuzzy legs were caked thick with pollen, almost full enough for her to carry back to the hive, where her sisters waited to help with the work—and where her brothers lounged in the doorway, like lazy lords, waiting to be attended . . .
“What if we could get you away from him?” Agatha asked.
Mrs. Turner’s step faltered. “What’s that?”
Penelope stopped dead in the middle of the road. “Griffin . . . By all the stars, Griffin, do you have an idea?”
“I might,” Agatha said. “Look, Mrs. Turner, I’ll have to ask her about it—but what if you moved in with Joanna Molesey?”