The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,109

are you doing this?” she asked plaintively.

The viscountess pressed a hand to her chest, as though Penelope’s question had pained her. “Because you have chosen the wrong side, Mrs. Flood. You traipse about the countryside without a husband’s oversight. You encourage the lower orders to follow the most vulgar customs, which ought to shame any God-fearing parishioner. I organized a very proper, ladylike procession in support of our Queen—and you exploited that day to gain attention for yourself, with help from your scribbling friend. You have defended indecency, encouraged the worst kind of irreverence for the law, and interfered with those who would keep Melliton respectable and Christian and pure. And now I must ask you to leave my grounds.” She spun the parasol handle ever so gently, making the shadows pass over her face like birds fleeing a storm. “Before I have you removed for trespassing.”

Mr. Oliver, poring over the Aeneid at the long table in his study, was quite apologetic when Penelope and Agatha stormed in to report this news. “My sister has rather objected to your friend’s defense of Mrs. Turner, I gather,” said the vicar.

Agatha’s mouth set in a regretful, anxious line. Penelope clenched her jaw and rolled her eyes: this wasn’t Agatha’s fault. This was Lady Summerville’s malice, unpredictable and merciless.

“I could perhaps offer you a sum equal to the value of the bees,” Mr. Oliver went on. “In recompense.”

Penelope slapped one hand down on the varnished wood. “I do not want money,” she all but hissed. “I want to care for those hives. As your aunt wished me to do.”

His brows peaked apologetically, like hands at prayer. “If my sister will not allow you on the estate, I don’t see how it’s possible,” he said. “It is a question of following the law.”

“To the point of absurdity?” Agatha scoffed.

Mr. Oliver sent her a scathing glance, then recovered his face. “If you and my sister cannot work out some compromise, Mrs. Flood, I’m afraid I will have to agree the hives must be destroyed. You know as well as I do that they will not survive once she has made her improvements to the garden.”

Penelope ground her teeth so hard she feared they’d crack. “They can if they are moved.”

But the vicar was already back among the Latins. “I will give you until Sunday to come to some mutual agreement.”

Penelope stalked out of the vicarage, hands clenched into fists, arms stiff at the sides of her trousered thighs. Mr. Oliver, she knew, was expecting her to behave as she always had with him. He thought she’d be reasonable, biddable, and yielding.

He thought she’d be good.

She’d been good for years. Decades. Partly because it was her nature, partly because Mr. Oliver had stepped into Owen’s vacant place. Sometimes she was still surprised to see his face at the pulpit in place of her sunny, softhearted brother. She’d been giving him Owen’s share of deference, she realized now, expecting something like Owen’s love and graciousness in return.

It had never happened.

It was never going to happen.

Rage and embarrassment at such a fundamental error thundered in her soul, and she turned from the road to strike one hand flat against the tall, sleek trunk of a mountain ash. “Damn him!” she cried, her eyes squeezing shut in shame.

In an instant, Agatha’s arms were around her, turning her, wrapping her tight and holding her close. Penelope clutched at her beloved, shaking, burying her face in the familiar smells of sweat and skin and old, soft cloth. She felt stricken, like a wounded thing, even as she looked back and saw clearly that the blow had been struck years and years ago. She just hadn’t felt it until now.

She had wasted too much time fretting over doing good. It was time to do what was right.

She let herself enjoy Agatha’s embrace for one breath more, then pulled away and dashed the tears from her eyes. Agatha was watching her closely; Penelope met her gaze and said: “I have another conspiracy for you.”

Agatha’s eyes flashed, her lips curved in sly hope—and she saluted.

Together they marched to the Koskinen’s farm, just below Backey Green. Mrs. Koskinen greeted them at the door, though her confusion was plain enough.

“We need your help, Emma,” Penelope said, getting straight to the point. “How does one go about arranging for an action in secret?”

Mrs. Koskinen’s face lit up, as her husband shook his head in resignation.

Small beer, it turned out, could be used in place of ink on