The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,27

toward Agatha. The veil seemed suddenly more opaque than before.

Agatha felt her face flush, and hoped it wasn’t obvious beneath the muslin. “Maybe I simply don’t have the necessary capacity for poetry, to understand its true merits.”

“Maybe you simply haven’t encountered the right poem,” Mrs. Flood countered. She angled her face to peer down into the hive entrance, blowing lightly on the few bees still buzzing there, then straightened.

A knife appeared in her hand, long and sharp; she offered it to Agatha handle-first. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Agatha grasped the knife, made sure it was steady in her gloved hand, and took a deep breath. Under Mrs. Flood’s direction, she placed one hand on the top of the jar to steady it, and slid the knife blade between the lip of the jar and the wooden board beneath. It cut cleanly through the base of the honeycomb, and Agatha tipped the jar up and stepped back.

Mrs. Flood was ready with a new vessel to place atop the hive, then showed Agatha how to blow away the few bees remaining in the jar in her hands. They spun irritatedly into the air and made brief, angry orbits around Agatha’s head before returning to the security of the hive.

Mrs. Flood waved her gloved fingers at them as they departed.

A bit of cheesecloth tied tight around the neck of the jar came next, and then Agatha was officially possessed of what felt like several pounds of rich, golden bounty.

“Congratulations,” Mrs. Flood said. The two veils between them hid most of her smile from Agatha’s eyes, but it was there in her voice, as lush as the honey weighing down Agatha’s hands.

Agatha stood there with her hands full of wealth, in Mr. Flood’s borrowed clothes, and realized she wasn’t ready to go back to ordinary life. She wanted more of . . . whatever it was they were doing here. The two of them, together. “Is that it?”

Mrs. Flood stiffened, then turned away to set the skep dome back on the hive to protect the empty jar from sunlight and rain. The laughter had fled from her voice when she finally replied, “It’s really not that difficult a task.”

“No, I meant . . .” Agatha sighed and set the honey down at her feet. Her gloves came off next, and the veil with them. Color returned to the world around her, painfully vivid, searing her eyes for a moment before they recovered. “You said you have other hives you look after, around Melliton. Couldn’t we . . . couldn’t I help you with that?” She tugged on the cuffs of Mr. Flood’s jacket. “I’m already dressed for it, after all.”

Oh, it was hard to tell what Mrs. Flood was feeling, behind that muslin veil. But then she lifted it, and her mouth was solemn, but her eyes glowed. “I would like that,” she said. “Very much.”

Agatha bent to pick up the honey jar again. Relief made it weigh half as much as she’d thought before. She felt she could have lifted the world, if she’d been asked. “At your service, Mrs. Flood.”

Mrs. Flood’s mouth crooked at the corners. Those blue eyes moved leisurely down from Agatha’s face, to the blue jacket, to the loose trousers, and the leather boots. Then away.

Agatha shivered, as if the sun had ducked behind a cloud. You’re wearing her husband’s clothes, Agatha reminded herself, and felt extremely queer about it.

They bundled Mrs. Griffin’s dress and petticoats into a cloth bag and added it to the gear in Penelope’s wheelbarrow. They made a brief first stop at Mrs. Stowe’s house, so Mrs. Griffin could leave her things there for the night.

Mrs. Stowe was deadheading her roses. She took her daughter-in-law’s masculine attire in stride and admired the honey, before Mrs. Griffin went inside to ask Miss Coningsby where best to put her things.

“I’d have introduced you years ago,” Mrs. Stowe said, “if I’d known you could make my daughter-in-law a beekeeper so quickly.” She sent Penelope a sidelong wink that made the heat flare up in her face.

Mrs. Griffin returned before Penelope could reply, and Miss Coningsby waved shyly to Penelope from the kitchen window. Then Penelope and Mrs. Griffin were off again.

It was a good day for checking the hives: clear but crisp and not too hot. The spring blooms were yielding pride of place to summer flowers, scents of lilac and cherry blossom fading in favor of lavender and rose. Penelope introduced Mrs. Griffin by name

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