The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,108

the sky around them. “I’ve never even met her.”

“But you’ve been singing her ballads for months,” Agatha countered. “And now you’ve landed in all this mess because of them.” She flicked her skirts, shaking off the dust. “We could make a reasonable argument that she owes you some consideration for having put you in this position.”

“We could tell her how much it would annoy Mr. Oliver if she helped you,” Penelope said.

“And Lady Summerville,” Agatha added. “Especially Lady Summerville.”

Penelope began to laugh, stretching her arms out as though she could reach to the horizon.

“Joanna’s an elderly woman, on her own for the first time in decades,” Agatha went on. “Surely she’s in need of a companion? One who is as quick-witted as she is, and who appreciates the sharper sort of poetry?”

“What do you think, Nell?” Penelope asked. “Would it work? Would it help?”

“Would I have to leave Arthur?” Mrs. Turner asked instantly.

Agatha grinned. “Let’s write to her and ask, shall we?”

Joanna Molesey, it turned out, was ecstatic to thwart both Mr. Oliver and Lady Summerville, especially if it meant gaining a lively and musical companion. Before the end of the week Nell and Arthur Turner were safely ensconced in Gower Street, with promises that if Mr. Turner tried anything by way of the law, Mrs. Molesey would find the most ruthless solicitor London had to offer. Mrs. Turner and her son were safe.

Penelope and Agatha were insufferably proud of themselves.

The happy glow lasted until Agatha’s return the following week. Penelope walked with her up the hill to Abington Hall, through the hollowed-out sculpture gardens (Penelope stole a kiss in every place where a statue had been). But when they turned the corner to the bee garden, they found it crowded with Lady Summerville and a half-dozen gardeners.

Abington Hall’s mistress stood beneath the stippled shadows of a lacy parasol, though the winter sun could hardly pose a threat even to the palest complexion. She frowned at Agatha and Penelope’s entrance, sniffing at their dusty boots and baggy trousers. “May I help you—ladies?”

Agatha noticed the slight pause, and bristled.

Penelope hurried to smooth things over. “We didn’t mean to trouble you, Lady Summerville: we only came to see about the hives.” She glanced around at the workingmen around her. “Are you planning some changes to the bee garden?”

“I am,” Lady Summerville confirmed. Her smile was vulpine. “I am getting rid of it.”

“What?” Penelope choked.

Lady Summerville waved delicately at the ancient medieval wall in which the boles were set. “I fancy a lawn and a prospect, so I am having this all knocked down and smoothed over.”

Penelope looked around wildly at the growth of centuries: the lavender, the hawthorn and hyssop, the knobby apple tree that had been bearing fruit since Queen Elizabeth’s day. And the bee boles, which had sheltered countless generations of loyal insects. “But—but you can’t,” she said weakly, breathless with the shock. Then, more firmly: “Those hives aren’t yours to dispose of. Not according to your aunt’s will.”

“Perhaps not,” Lady Summerville said sweetly. “She left you the hives specifically, if I recall.”

“She did.”

“But not their products, I think?”

Penelope looked at Agatha, who only shrugged, equally baffled.

“You’ve been harvesting honey and wax from them, have you not?” her ladyship went on, in that same sugary tone.

“I’ve been giving it to Mrs. Bedford,” Penelope retorted hotly.

“All of it?”

“I took one jar to Mr. Scriven, last fall, when his throat was poorly,” Penelope allowed. “But the hives—”

“From a legal standpoint, Mrs. Flood, that could be considered stealing.”

And Lady Summerville smiled, as though she’d said something pleasant.

Penelope’s blood was running painfully hot in her veins. “And what does the law call it when you destroy someone else’s property for your own selfish gain?”

“Improvement,” said Lady Summerville.

A seventh gardener appeared. With an ax. Which he placed carefully near the roots of the apple tree.

Penelope thought she might be sick. “You have no right to touch those hives,” she bit out.

“Perhaps I don’t,” Lady Summerville allowed. “The will was so very clear, after all. But how do you think those hives will fare, when there are no more flowers here for them to feast on? Surely it is kinder to put them to the sulfur now, rather than leave them to suffer or to wander the countryside in high summer with no place to call home. I understand it would be difficult at this time of year for them to make enough honey to last through the winter.”

Penelope thought of starving bees, and shivered. “Why