The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,104

voice of wounded surprise. “Think of your neighbors, and how they will whisper of your miserliness. Think of the law, which mandates that those coins you hoard are mine to dispose of as I see fit.” His voice sharpened; instead of a broadsword brandish, it now turned as sharp and intimate as a knife. “What will Arthur say, when I tell him his mother refused to honor his father in such a small request?”

Nell winced, as this struck home.

This was too much for Mr. Biswas. “Get out, Mr. Turner,” he growled, making the people nearest him jump in startlement. “You’ve collected your subscriptions—that will have to be enough.”

“I’ll leave when my wife does, Mr. Biswas,” Mr. Turner said, and put his second knee down. He stayed there, smiling at Nell, as behind him the audience murmured in mingled discomfort and fascination.

Nell sucked in a breath and began playing—halting notes on the guitar, attempting her usual verve but falling short. Penelope’s heart ached for her; Nell was used to putting on a show for the crowds, but not like this. Not where the entertainment was her humiliation.

Mr. Biswas moved forward, but stopped when Mr. Painter aggressively cleared his throat.

Harry and John glanced at each other, and stood up in a single swift motion.

Mr. Turner had his back to Penelope’s table, so he didn’t see the two men move until they were next to him. Harry’s stocky, sturdy body was fairly vibrating with suppressed anger, while John’s height let him loom over Mr. Turner in a way nobody else in the room could have done.

Mr. Turner kept his eyes, liquid and soulful, fixed on his wife.

“Come now,” John said in gentle tones, while Harry bared his teeth in an expression nobody mistook for a smile. “Let her be. We’re all enjoying the music, Mr. Turner.”

The man’s hands clenched into fists on his knees. “This is private business, Flood, between a proper husband and wife—I’ll thank you not to interfere.”

Penelope’s stomach twisted at the implied insult. She didn’t dare look away from John, even as Agatha muttered outrage by her side.

John looked at Harry with a question in his eyes—Harry nodded, and together they reached out to seize Mr. Turner.

They hauled him to his feet—easy enough, for two sailors, either one of whom outweighed the man they held. Mr. Turner looked right at Penelope, and smiled—that same smug, pleased expression that sent a bolt of pure terror lancing through Penelope’s gut.

Then he dropped.

It was so swift and total a collapse that Mr. Turner had to have done it on purpose: his legs simply gave way beneath him. John let go of him in surprise, and Mr. Turner clutched at one arm and began shouting agony and assault.

It was a shocking performance, and half the crowd whistled and hooted in reaction.

Mr. Painter bounded forward, sweaty and florid, and after a moment Mr. Turner permitted himself to be helped slowly to his feet. Mr. Painter scooped the subscription bag from the floor, glaring at John, while Mr. Turner put on his best stoic air as he walked toward the door, calling out to be taken to the physician.

A few scattered hands clapped, and one by one the usual conversations slunk back into the room.

Penelope walked over to Harry, who was speaking to Nell Turner in low, careful tones. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Do you need a place to stay for the night?”

“I’ll have to,” she said. “He’ll give me and Arthur no rest tonight if I don’t.” Her eyes were still fixed on the door, as if she expected her husband to return at any moment and harass her further. One hand crept protectively into the pocket where she’d poured tonight’s tips. “I was there when Lady Summerville’s steward asked him to take up the subscription,” she said. “They promised him a cut of however much he brought in. An inducement to exert himself, they said.” Something in her expression hardened, and her singer’s voice burned low and hot, a note in the same key as the fury in Penelope’s chest. “He was going to take everything I’d earned, and give it to people who already have more than enough.”

“What do you want to do?” Penelope asked.

“What else?” Nell lifted her head, eyes bright as fire. “I’m going to sing.”

She grabbed her guitar, moved to the musician’s corner, and plucked the opening notes of “Lady Spranklin.”

The audience shouted in recognition—cheers mostly, though a few dissonant notes were heard. John began stomping time, and Harry’s