The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,25

over to young Ashton.

Agatha almost had to step back, as that smile hit her with all the force of a blow.

Mrs. Flood’s eyes were sky blue. Had Agatha forgotten, or simply not noticed? Her grin was wide and warm, and her gold-and-silver curls tossed lightly in the soft morning breeze.

Agatha gasped through the vise squeezing her chest as the reality stole her breath: this was no longer the face of a stranger, but of a friend and confidante.

“Mrs. Griffin!” Mrs. Flood gave a little laugh and held out a hand.

Agatha took it, unable to resist. Palms clasped warmly together, then Mrs. Flood let go. Agatha’s skin chilled at once—too soon. She’d barely had time to register the touch.

“Mrs. Flood,” she said. Surely it was the dust of the road that had her voice sounding so low and rough. “So good to see you again.”

“You as well. Are you ready to harvest your first honey crop?” Mrs. Flood asked. “Or do you have things to see to first?”

Agatha looked behind her. Mr. Downes had already begun directing the journeymen to unload the silk samples from the wagon. He met her gaze and nodded, dark, curly hair bobbing, to let her know he could take things over from here.

Agatha flexed her hands to stop their shaking and turned back to Mrs. Flood. “Where do we start?”

Mrs. Flood cocked her head. “You change, if you’re going to be working with the bees.” When Agatha hesitated, Mrs. Flood pulled several garments out of a bag in her wheelbarrow. “I usually borrow my brother’s things, as he’s near my height, but as you are a fair bit taller, I’ve brought you some of Mr. Flood’s to wear for the occasion.”

They were sturdy garments but not shabby: a light sailor’s jacket in deep blue, a linen shirt, and a pair of country trousers.

Agatha hesitated, conscious of the weight of her skirts and the eyes of her curious employees. “I am a respectable widow, Mrs. Flood.”

“The bees don’t care about that at all, Mrs. Griffin,” Mrs. Flood said, but then went on in a quieter tone. “I understand if it seems improper—but bees have a terrible habit of getting caught in skirts and petticoats, and stinging one badly in self-defense. Better to be safe, if a little eccentric, than to suffer so much unnecessary pain. And the bees don’t know you yet—when you’re better acquainted, you’ll be able to dress more as you’re used to doing.”

Agatha accepted the clothing with hands made awkward by novelty. “Better safe than stung,” she said, more bravely than she felt.

Mrs. Flood laughed, and Agatha’s heart jolted to hear it. “Exactly right.”

She changed in Mr. Downes’s office. It was odd, undoing the buttons on her brown cotton and putting a man’s long shirt over her light stays. The jacket buttoned high but hung rather loose, and the trousers bagged down to the knees and tucked easily into the tops of Agatha’s own leather boots—which were tough enough to deal with London cobbles, and so could probably weather a day or two on the soft earth of Melliton’s roads and fields.

She met Mrs. Flood back behind the print-works, where the morning sun sparkled on the waves in the river. Every step across the turf felt like a new one, with no long panels of fabric swirling around her as she moved.

“I haven’t worn trousers since I was a girl,” she explained, swinging one leg back and forth experimentally. “Sebastian—my brother—used to lend me an old pair of his so we could sneak out into the city at night.”

Mrs. Flood chuckled. She was leaning against the brick wall, one leg bent, the smoker dangling from her hand as she idly pumped to keep it lit and puffing proudly. “Hopefully this afternoon’s work will involve a trifle less mischief.”

“Only larceny,” Agatha replied. “As promised.”

Mrs. Flood laughed again, the sound finding a thrumming echo somewhere deep in Agatha’s belly. “Let’s begin.”

Mrs. Flood was already wearing her gloves and a hat with a veil; she instructed Agatha how to tuck the fine muslin tight—but not too tight!—at the neck, and began pumping the bellows of the smoker more frequently while Agatha pulled on a pair of thick gloves. The muslin veiling her face was very fine, and only seemed to cast a light morning mist over the scene before Agatha’s eyes.

“First thing to do when harvesting,” said Mrs. Flood, “is to smoke the bees. It takes a few minutes to have an effect.” She placed the spout