The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,112

“They’re being terrible, simply because they can. It is not in the least your fault.”

It was shameful that this made Penelope feel better. Her feeling better was useless, because it did nothing whatsoever for John. The stocks were better than the pillory—if only just—but they were still dangerous. People died in the stocks. “Mr. Scriven says that some of the Mendacity subscribers plan to bring bushels of vegetables for the people to throw at him.” Her mouth twisted. “For entertainment.”

Because of who he is. Because of who he loves. They didn’t have to say it aloud. It was written in Harry’s unwonted silence, and the anxious clasp of Penelope’s hands.

Mr. Oliver couldn’t prove that, either—but he’d sent Harry away for the same reason, so many years ago. And now, with John, he had an excuse for a punishment he thought the man deserved—even if it wasn’t what he’d been convicted of in the records.

Agatha’s hands closed around hers. “They’ll run out of vegetables eventually.”

“Then they’ll turn to bricks and stones,” Penelope said grimly. “Whatever’s handy. Because by then they’ll be in a mood for throwing.” She gulped at her tea, feeling the bite of hot alcohol burn down her throat. “And that’s when it becomes dangerous. My god—I wish I could just do something!”

Agatha cocked a head. “Like what?”

“Like . . . like throw something back. Stand there facing them down, and defend my friend. My family.” Penelope stared out the window. From here she could just see the edge of the red tile roof that sheltered her leaf hive. Worker bees clouded the hive entrance, guarding it against intruders and thieves, anyone who would threaten their queen and their colony.

What wouldn’t Penelope give for a stinger of her own?

“The Romans used to use bees in war,” she said grimly. “I read the accounts in Isabella’s library. They’d throw whole hives over the walls of besieged cities before they attacked.”

“I imagine that was very effective,” Agatha said.

Penelope grimaced. “I wish we could do the same to anyone who dares show up tomorrow, while John is in the stocks.”

Agatha sat up straight. “Can’t we?”

Penelope snorted. “We could, but someone would be sure to get stung—John, most likely, and that would defeat the whole purpose of defending him. And people have been known to die from being stung.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t live with myself.”

“And you call yourself a beekeeper.” Penelope’s head whipped up, but the shock of the insult melted away when Agatha went on: “All you need, my dear, is bees without stingers.”

“Bees without—” Penelope snapped her mouth shut, as the full force of the idea washed over her, brilliant as the dawn. “Griffin,” she breathed, “you genius. If Pompey’d had you by his side, he’d never have lost to Caesar.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that.”

Penelope laughed and dragged her into the apiary.

They did the circuit at record speed, hurrying through the twilight woods and across fields turned blue-green by the coming night. By the time they returned to Fern Hall they had half a dozen clay jars, with a little comb for sustenance, the jar mouths closed over with net to allow for airflow in and out overnight while the bees were sleeping.

Penelope herself lay awake until nearly dawn, clutching Agatha’s arms against her waist, the warmth and strength of the woman like armor against Penelope’s back. Penelope had a husband, if in name only, and she’d had lovers before—but this was the first time she’d had someone who felt like . . . What was the word?

A helpmeet, that was it. She’d always thought love was about feelings, and feelings were very fine things—but a helpmeet was all about doing something for someone. Putting in work, and effort, and support.

Until Agatha, Penelope had never had someone offer her that. And now she wondered that she’d managed to live so long without it. She smiled against the darkness in self-deprecation: clearly her greediness knew no bounds. Once she would have given everything just to love and be loved. Now she wanted love, and something more besides.

She’d be wanting everything, before long.

Morning brought a gray dawn, and a chill deep down in the pit of her stomach. Penelope dressed in her usual kit, gulped some tea and toast, and bundled up her jars.

Agatha waited by the door, in her blue coat and gloves. She helped Penelope pin on the bee veil—even though the veil shouldn’t be necessary, they’d decided it lent a certain authenticity to the