The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,82
Scriven was helping to cut slices of cold ham and bread and cheese to set beside Mrs. Biswas’s curried pies. Before long Mr. Thomas, Mr. Kitt, and the Koskinens had all hurried inside, shutting the door carefully to avoid any noise.
“How long ’til midnight?” Mrs. Koskinen whispered.
“A quarter of an hour,” Mrs. Biswas replied. By now she and Penelope had, with Griffin’s help, wrapped green-dyed muslin around several lamps, and stretched long swaths over the windows. They fluttered lightly, seaweed-like. Mr. Koskinen brought out the guitar he played only once a year, and Mrs. Biswas handed small bells to Eliza and Sydney, as the youngest in attendance.
They waited, breathless, until the bells of St. Ambrose’s rang midnight, and Christmas.
The whole group cheered. Spectral green lights blazed up as Penelope lit the muslin-masked lamps. Mr. Koskinen began singing a carol in an eerie minor key in his rich and resonant baritone. Eliza and Sydney kept time with the bells, a shiver of accompaniment. Mr. Thomas and Mr. Kitt bowed to each other and began dancing, singing along, as Mrs. Bedford handed round cups of cider and servings of bread and meat and cheese, then laughed as Mr. Scriven pulled her into a dance alongside the younger men. Harry and John were quick to make the third couple of the set, as easy on their feet as though the wooden boards beneath were the deck of a familiar ship.
Anyone passing by outside the tavern would have seen only an eldritch green glow, and shadowy figures flitting through it. Mr. Koskinen’s guitar was imperfectly tuned, and he had a way of sliding his hands along the strings to make it wail in a way that always raised the hair on Penelope’s arms in a most delicious way.
She watched as the realization dawned on Agatha Griffin’s face, transforming it from wary puzzlement to sheer, mischievous pleasure. “It’s the ghost Christmas,” she said. “Jack Calbert’s pirate treasure.”
“The very same,” Penelope said with a wild laugh. “Now empty your pockets!”
The pile of coins on the table grew and gleamed in the marine light, as they ate and sang and danced for a good hour. Then, as soon as the bells struck one, they hurried to snuff out the lamps and pull down the gauze and slip home as quietly as they could.
Mr. Biswas would pretend to discover the coins as a mystery when the tavern opened the next day, and the money would be distributed to those in sharpest need.
“It’s Mrs. Biswas’s family tradition,” Penelope explained in a whisper to her guests on the walk back. “Been doing it a hundred years, at least—every Christmas Eve in the Four Swallows, at midnight. It’s how the season always begins, for us.” She flicked a glance at Griffin, whose grin was shining like the moon. “That’s why people can never agree on the number of ghosts,” she said. “There’s always one or two who can’t make it from year to year—times when Harry and John are at sea, or when Mrs. Bedford goes to visit her family on the coast.”
“Did the ghost story come first, or did the feast?” Sydney whispered.
“Only the dead know,” Penelope breathed, and chuckled when the boy shivered.
He rolled his eyes, scorning to be scared, but she’d had him for that moment and he knew it.
They doffed coats and hats and crept up the silent stairs. Penelope was stopped at her bedchamber door when Griffin put a hand on her arm. The candlelight on her face was stark and slanting, only one hawklike eye and the stern arch of her nose visible above the soft plane of her cheek. Half a smile curved the reluctant length of her mouth. “That was marvelous, Flood,” she breathed in an undertone, low enough to set Penelope’s veins buzzing. “Thank you for sharing it with us.”
Penelope swallowed hard and nodded. Griffin vanished into the bedroom—just one room over, so nearby. The whole house was asleep, or would be soon enough. The sheets on Griffin’s bed would be cold, and perhaps make her shiver as she slipped between them.
Penelope had heat to spare. Her heart was racing and her blood sang wildfire in her veins. She shut the door softly, leaned back against it—and bit hard into her clenched fist until temptation passed.
Chapter Nineteen
Everyone in Melliton wore their finest for Christmas services. Mr. Koskinen looked uncomfortably scrubbed and ruddy, Mr. Thomas and Mr. Kitt were elegant in blue and bottle-green, and Mr. Scriven had trimmed his whiskers so fiercely