The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,113

proceedings. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“No,” Penelope admitted unhappily, making Agatha’s lips quirk, “but we’re out of time, so let’s go.”

The stocks were in the old Melliton barracks, a ring of squat brick buildings which had stood empty since the end of the war. Mr. Thomas had once been stationed here, before he’d gone on half pay. He was here now, standing far back against the wall, with Mr. Kitt very close by his side; Penelope couldn’t tell which of them was holding the other up, but they both looked nauseous. A small crowd had already gathered: Penelope spotted Mr. Buckley and Mrs. Plumb, but also Mr. Downes, Mr. Scriven, and a gaggle of village children. Mr. Painter and Squire Theydon stood by a barrel full of what looked like moldy beetroots, knobby radishes, and spring potatoes that bristled with too many eyes.

Agatha’s gaze took in all of this, but she said only: “Do you want me to come up there with you?”

Penelope shook her head. “Better if it’s just me,” she said. “Valiant wife defending her husband, and all that.”

“Very romantic,” Agatha replied, and gave Penelope’s arm a supportive squeeze. Then she faded back to stand with Mr. Kitt and Mr. Thomas.

Penelope slipped through the crowd toward the stocks, just as John was led out. God, but he looked ragged: hardly surprising after the night he must have had. His wild eyes ran over the crowd—then stopped, as if snagged, on where Harry stood at the very front, brow thunderous, great arms folded. A look strung between them: anguish and faith and grim understanding, all mingled together.

It nearly broke Penelope’s heart. Then hot steel flowed into the broken places. Her head came up, her breath came faster, and she wound around clumps of villagers until she was standing at her brother’s elbow.

“Afternoon,” she said to him.

He glowered in her direction—not at her, she knew, but at the general glower-worthiness of the whole event. The constables were fastening John’s feet into the stocks now, two thick wooden pieces trapping him in a sitting position on the hard-packed ground. Harry’s brow furrowed at this, then furrowed twice as deep when he took in Penelope’s beekeeping garb, and the bag over her shoulder. “What’s all this, Pen?”

She gave him a tight smile. “I’m here to uphold my marriage vows: mutual society, help—” she tapped the first jar, which buzzed in response “—and comfort.”

For perhaps the first time in his whole life, Harry was struck speechless.

Penelope wished she had the time to enjoy it. She patted her brother’s arm, and turned back to John.

Whatever office Mr. Oliver had to recite, he’d finished it, and retired to a safe distance. Penelope waited, hoping against hope that perhaps she wouldn’t even need to—

But no, someone in the back called something foul, and someone else laughed. Mr. Oliver had his best vicarish face on, but there was a satisfied glow about him that Penelope resented.

A radish flew from the crowd and thunked against the wood by John’s right ankle. He flinched, clenched his jaw, and then shouted a retort.

More insults came at once—they would have, Penelope knew, even if John had held silent in the face of abuse. This wasn’t something he could stop: the point of this punishment was to make him a target, and everyone knew it. He was now a man people were officially permitted to do violence to.

Someone was bound to take advantage. There were people like that everywhere, even in Melliton.

Penelope had come today to stop those people from getting what they wanted.

She didn’t want to wait for things to get worse, either. She stepped forward, ducking a little as more vegetables flew out of the crowd. A puzzled murmur rose up—you weren’t supposed to get between the crowd and the person in the stocks. John’s eyes widened, and his mouth went slack with surprise, as she stepped up right beside him, and turned.

Her breath froze in her chest.

It was vastly different standing here, the focus of every eye, the center of this circle of angry folk and the hollowed-out remnants of a war. For a moment the steel in her spine softened, melting beneath the heat of the mob’s regard.

A flash of blue. Agatha Griffin, at the back wall, raising a hand.

Agatha Griffin, saluting. As one would to a general.

Just like that, Penelope could breathe again. Just like that, courage fountained up within her.

“Hello, everyone,” she called, her voice echoing off the red brick around her. She grinned, enjoying the