The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,122
confirmed. “We can have something legal drawn up with very little trouble. A proper contract, official and dependable.” She tapped a finger on the counter meaningfully. “But something you could always dissolve later, if you two decide to—to part ways.”
It was not an easy thing for Agatha to say, but she knew it was the right thing, and that helped her get over the awkwardness of it all. My son, you have my blessing not to get married.
Eliza’s mouth hung open for half a minute before she whispered, “But ma’am . . . are you . . . What would you be doing?”
Agatha pursed her lips to keep from smiling too broadly and giving the game away. “I find myself more and more intrigued by your suggestion about sheet music. We could probably open a whole second shop for that—maybe with a little poetry and broadsides as well. But London rents are so very expensive . . . Perhaps we should look at premises nearer the other press-works, so I can still check proofs and keep the queue moving.”
Light dawned in Eliza’s eyes, as she caught Agatha’s meaning. “Somewhere like Melliton, perhaps?”
Agatha nodded primly. “I know of a building near the high street that would do nicely.” Mr. Turner would be happy enough to sell at any price, she was sure.
Eliza’s grin had gone from a candle to a bonfire. “Do you think we could have it ready in time for Mrs. Turner’s next batch of ballads?”
“We can certainly try.”
Eliza squealed in pleasure, and clapped her hands over her mouth for a moment in sheer joy. She got hold of herself before too long, and schooled herself almost back to her usual semi-demure helpfulness. “Mrs. Flood will be happy to have you so close by, I’m sure.”
Agatha’s buoyant mood deflated a little. “I hope so. She asked me to—but I . . .” She paused, eyes narrowing at her soon-to-be-former apprentice. Who winked, the chit. “You know about Mrs. Flood and me?”
Eliza arched a knowing brow. “Did you two think you were being subtle?”
Agatha laughed until her sides ached.
Two days later, Agatha took the stage into Melliton. Even though she wasn’t expected at Fern Hall for another few days.
She wanted this to be a surprise.
She left her things in the care of Mrs. Biswas at the Four Swallows, and went walking the circuit toward Fern Hall to find Penelope. It felt wrong, striding along the familiar roads and paths in skirts rather than trousers. The fabric of her dress caught on quite a few more briars and branches than she was used to; her light cotton hem was rather dusty and her petticoat a bit torn before long. No doubt Penelope’s romantic soul would enjoy the idea, but not the reality, of Agatha showing up in tatters to beg for forgiveness. Penelope Flood was a pragmatist at heart, for all her love of poetry.
Just one more reason to love her, really.
Agatha walked as quickly as she could, but it wasn’t fast enough to suit her impatience—so as she walked, she plucked flowers: columbine, hyssop, kingcups, dog roses, and more. Names and natures she’d learned from Penelope, along with all the local plants most beloved by bees. To this bounty Agatha added a long, twisting tendril of enchanter’s nightshade—which, Penelope had said, referred to the witch Circe, who changed men into beasts. Agatha’d meant to ask more about that; she was curious about the full story.
If she could only find where the damned woman was!
She walked past the Turner place and up, across Squire Theydon’s sloping fields to the small copse beyond: a shady, curving bowl of trees, with a small spring and a carpet of lily of the valley.
And there was Penelope. Brown coat, men’s trousers, so beautiful and so very herself that Agatha had to stop and press a hand to her heart until she could breathe again.
No pointing apologizing if you were only going to faint before the thing was properly done.
Penelope didn’t look up from the hive as Agatha approached, her hearing muffled no doubt by her veil and the joyous buzzing of three hives’ worth of bees.
Agatha could relate: her own heart felt overfull of noise and wings. She had no idea how to begin, so she chose something utterly banal and said: “Hullo.”
Penelope froze, then slowly pivoted. The smoker at her side puffed once as her hand clenched tight, and her eyes went very wide as she took in Agatha with her hem in shreds