The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,20

Griffin

Mrs. Griffin,

I write with a somewhat mixed collection of news. First thing, the Scotswoman’s bee book is excellent—very tart and keen, and solidly observed, though naturally as a fellow enthusiast I have questions on some of the finer points. Which may in fact only be down to differences between our pleasant southern woods and the chillier, rougher climates of the north. I have a brother near Edinburgh—I shall write to him and ask. He’ll be delighted I finally have an interest in the weather up there, which is usually the only thing he manages to get into his (mercifully short and rare) letters.

Second thing—alas, the bees would have no use for your son on account of his being unfortunately male. Male bees, or drones as they are termed, are the largest and most apathetic of the species. They have but one purpose: to escort the queen on her mating flight, giving their lives so she may produce children. The rest of the time they doze on the threshold of the hive, feasting on honey but fetching none themselves, ever watchful for predators but incapable of stinging; they perish with the onset of winter.

Young men are always frustrating, in some way: I am the only daughter among seven siblings so I speak from tedious experience. But surely your son has more purpose than a drone, even if he has not yet perfected the art of political pragmatism as we wise and stoical elders have done. Does he help you in the print-shop, or is he a member of one of the scientific organizations that are so increasingly common?

There is so much scope for activity in our current age: even here in sleepy Melliton we have a debating club, a philosophical society, and a botanical association (really more of a gardener’s gossip club, but marvelously well-informed). We had a Hampden Club until Lord Castlereagh’s recent acts were passed—and if a few local former members still meet of an evening to share a meal and some conversation, and if their talk occasionally turns to the current debates in Parliament, well, surely they do so in all innocence and with an eye toward the legality and propriety of their behavior. (But don’t tell my lord Castlereagh, all the same.)

Sincerely,

Penelope

Agatha read this letter three times straight through, with an increasingly unsettled heart. She had no idea how she was expected to answer it.

It wasn’t only the joke about Castlereagh—though, to be sure, every printer and publisher in London this past winter had watched the trial of bookseller Charles Richardson and worried about being arrested and imprisoned next.

Griffin’s was a respectable, moderate press—but Agatha’s natural caution was currently at its highest peak.

But it wasn’t only that which made her pause. Mrs. Flood’s conversational tone in this letter, the length of it, and the delicate advice about Sydney, all of which meant she had taken Agatha’s earlier letter much more to heart than Agatha had anticipated . . .

This was a letter from a friend, or someone who was becoming a friend, and Agatha had no idea what to do about it.

It wasn’t that Agatha lacked friends. Mrs. Pestell at the Queen’s Larder was always affable, and Mrs. Barns, the bookbinder’s wife, always stopped for tea when she could. But in both those cases friendship had happened on account of existing connections—the way acid bit through a design you’d already carved in the wax. The curve and angle of the relationship was predetermined. Bounded by the lines you’d drawn.

In a word: safe.

She had no design where Penelope Flood was concerned. There was no larger purpose in the connection. Agatha couldn’t think of a single useful reason to write back.

Except that she wanted to.

But she couldn’t think of any reason why this should be so. She couldn’t think of anything she wanted Mrs. Flood to do for her, besides keeping an eye on the bees, or anything she could do for Mrs. Flood, now that she’d sent the Scotswoman’s book as a thank-you for the bee business. It ought to have been something she could put out of her mind until the next crisis came along—the bees stung someone, say, or pests got into the hive somehow. Then there would have been an excuse for a letter.

Not knowing precisely what you wanted from someone—well, that was the surest way in the world of being disappointed when you didn’t get it.

No, she thought sternly, even as one hand pulled a fresh sheet of paper in front of her and