The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,114

wave of surprise that rippled over the crowd, their anger breaking like a wave against the cheer in her voice. “I’ll give you until the count of five.”

“Until what?” Mr. Downes called back.

“Until you wish you’d left when I told you to,” Penelope said. She pulled the muslin down, veiling her grin, and took the first clay jar out of her bag. “You all know I spend my time seeing to the beehives of the town,” she said. “The bees know me quite well at this point. They’re fond of me. They haven’t stung me in years. I wonder . . .”

She shook the jar, and the first few rows of people took an automatic step back when it began buzzing furiously.

Penelope said, as loud as she could: “I wonder if these bees know not to sting any of you.

“One.”

Mr. Downes was already making his way toward the entrance, his eyes wide and wild at the edges. Mr. Thomas had a hand over his mouth, and Mr. Kitt was laughing silently, eyes sparkling with vicious glee. Agatha, grinning, must have told them Penelope’s plan.

Penelope grinned back. “Two.”

Squire Theydon had pulled out one of Burn’s volumes and was hastily flipping through it, even as Mr. Oliver grasped his arm and glared at Penelope in mute rage.

She shook the jar again. “Three.”

One boy pelted out of the barracks, two other lads hot on his heels. The rest of the crowd shifted anxiously, muttering to one another. Knuckles went white on fists, and the soft mush of squashed vegetables squelched between tightened fingers.

Penelope raised the jar high. “Four.”

Mr. Oliver dropped Squire Theydon’s arm and started for her.

“Five!” Penelope looked the vicar dead in the eye, and hurled the jar to the ground at his feet.

It burst open in spectacular fashion, and a cloud of angry bees poured out.

The mob exploded into movement. People were running; people were screaming. Bees zipped every which way, bright gold and black against the earth and brick, all the more terrible for being so visible. The swirl of the crowd dragged Mr. Oliver away, until he had no choice but to turn and flee with the rest, legs pumping as he sprinted for safety, head clamped over his broad-brimmed hat. Penelope kept herself anchored with one hand on John’s shoulder, as the crowd scattered itself to the four winds.

A strangled cry from her husband; Penelope looked down to see him waving away a furious bee, which buzzed aggressively around his head. “It’s alright,” she said on a laugh, crouching down so only he could hear her. “They’re only drones.”

“Drones?” he echoed, head swiveling to stare up at her.

“They’re stingless. They won’t hurt you. They won’t hurt anybody.” She grinned. “But don’t spoil the fun just yet.”

For the next few hours, she stayed by her husband’s side. Every time someone approached, she would heft another jar in her hand and start counting.

Nobody lasted past three, after the first time.

It was almost anticlimactic, Penelope thought wildly. She’d made six bee bombs, and only gotten to use one. Later she could open the jars and let the unexploded bees find their way home again—but for now, best to keep all her ammunition intact in case she needed it.

But evening came on, and Mr. Oliver and the special constables returned to let John out. His punishment had technically been served under the law, after all.

Penelope considered a curtsey, but she was wearing trousers, and feeling more triumphant than polite. “Good evening, sir,” she called instead. “I take it you’ve come to release the prisoner?”

The vicar fingered the key to the stocks for a moment.

“I should warn you,” Penelope said, “if you dare proclaim my actions a breach of the peace, you’ll have to say the same of everyone who came here hoping to throw something at my husband.” She shrugged. “It might not hold up to a thorough examination, but any decent solicitor could make weeks of work out of it, I’m sure.”

Mr. Oliver’s face roiled with loathing, an expression so cold Penelope felt her triumph falter a little. There was open hatred there, such as she had never seen—and she knew, with a sinking in her soul, that this was the end of an old, old friendship.

Mr. Oliver tossed the key down to the ground. “You’ll pardon me for being chary of coming too close, Mrs. Flood,” he said, as Penelope bent to snatch the key from the dirt. The vicar’s pale brows slashed down in his rage-reddened face. “You should