The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,66
these petty, worldly divisions do not foster deeper wounds in the soul of our little society.” His pale eyes were steely, unflinching. “My sister has been very insistent that the snuffbox is not in her possession. It would take only a very little convincing for her to make a formal complaint of theft.”
“Theft?” Penelope sucked in a harsh breath.
“If Mrs. Molesey took the snuffbox before the will was read, it could indeed be construed as theft under the law. How could she be sure it was really her property, after all, until she had heard it from Mr. Nancarrow?” He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, a schoolmaster with an intractable pupil. “It would be so much easier—for everyone—if this didn’t become a matter for the petty sessions.”
Penelope trembled, and felt that rebellious little flame flicker and snuff itself out. She wasn’t Isabella—she hadn’t the nerve, or the social weight, to make the vicar yield to her will. Bitterness filled her mouth like smoke as she said, “I’ll speak to Mrs. Molesey, Mr. Oliver.”
His smile returned like the sun cresting the horizon. “Thank you, Mrs. Flood. I know I can always count on you to do what’s right.”
Half of Penelope’s soul basked in the praise, even as the better half withered with shame.
Chapter Fifteen
Agatha stepped out of the workshop into the store to find Joanna Molesey, dramatic as ever in a crimson coat with touches of black, bent over the front counter beside Eliza and Sydney. The trio had a paper spread out in front of them, which the poet was quickly filling with lines in her fluid, hasty hand.
“Now then, what did you say the prosecutor replied—?” Mrs. Molesey looked up and straightened. “Ah, Mrs. Griffin! How lovely to see you again.”
“Mrs. Molesey,” Agatha replied, with a nod. She’d known the poet was leaving Melliton for the city, thanks to a letter from Penelope, but . . . “What brings you to our humble premises this lovely morning?”
Mrs. Molesey spared one brief glance for the gray drizzle outside the front window, then fixed her eye on Agatha and set her shoulders. “Rage, my dear woman—sheer rage, which must be expressed or it will poison me down to my very bones.”
“Mrs. Molesey came to see our selection of ballads,” Eliza hurried to explain.
“Your apprentice was extremely helpful,” Mrs. Molesey added. Confidence poured from every line of her fine clothes, and nodded with the plumes on her rain-dappled hat. “I was just on the point of asking how much it costs to have a small batch of broadsides made up?”
Her smile was portrait-formal, all assurance and serenity and lofty condescension.
It didn’t fool Agatha for a moment. “If you’re thinking of printing that one about ‘Lady S,’” she said repressively, “you’ll have to find another shop.”
Mrs. Molesey cocked her feathered head. “You don’t need the work, in these uncertain times?”
“There’s no payment you could offer that would balance out the distress such a job would cause Penelope Flood.”
The poet smiled, and there was a knowing gleam in her eyes. “You are a very ardent friend, though you’ve known her but a little span of time.”
Agatha crossed her arms and said nothing.
The poetess sighed gustily, as one long-suffering and much maligned. “Well, it speaks highly of you to refuse on such a principle—but I must do something. I am full up of fire and riddled with words like arrows, and no pleasing target to shoot them toward. At least, until now.” She plucked up the paper from the counter, and flourished it. “One of the ballads Eliza showed me. I was intrigued by the subject but disappointed by the composer’s expression, and sketched a few lines based on some other popular tunes.”
“It’s really quite good,” Eliza added. “Better than most of the ones going around.”
“And it’s about the witness testimony in the Queen’s trial,” Sydney put in. “You know how well Queenite ballads have been selling for us—especially with the Lords on recess while they prepare final arguments. Everyone knows that now is the time to speak as powerfully as they can in Queen Caroline’s defense.”
Mrs. Molesey smoothly put in her oar. “Things at home have been far too quiet; it’s bad for my nerves. If you’d like to bring these two young people to dinner tonight in Gower Street, I’m sure we could work out a few more verses.” She widened her eyes, her expression all innocent hopefulness. “Perhaps even one or two more songs, to sell as a set?”