The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,46
there. He rooms in a boarding house during the week, but makes sure to come home to take Nell and Arthur to church of a Sunday.”
“So he remembers church, but he tends to forget his wages in town on Fridays,” Agatha guessed.
Flood’s mouth pinched. “It’s disgraceful of him. Imagine having a husband who disregards one so completely. I’d be hungry to be noticed, too, in her place.”
Agatha looked at her sharply, but Flood’s face was turned up to the sun, untroubled. Perhaps that wasn’t an allusion to Mr. Flood at all. Perhaps Flood’s husband wrote marvelous letters, enough to bridge the gap of his long absences.
Perhaps Flood was simply loyal, and Agatha was pining hopelessly.
The path led them into the wood, then cut north and sloped upward. Agatha knew the route by now: they would emerge from the high wood outside Abington Hall, then turn west and walk down the soft meadows of Backey Green, where Mr. Scriven’s goats and hives coexisted in cordial mutual disdain.
For now, it was a relief to be in the cool, dark shadows of the trees, with bird calls echoing in the branches. Flood’s hair looked more gold than silver here, as she strode forward with easy swings of her legs in her brother’s baggy trousers.
Agatha’s heart was less serene. “Does Mr. Flood often send wages home?” she asked.
Flood nodded. “He and Harry both do, though not directly to me. Whenever they make landfall they both send money to Nathaniel in London: he’s head of the company—Stanhope and Sons, right there on the letterhead—and he takes in the profits from every venture and redistributes them to the shareholders. Of which I am one.”
One of the tight worries banding Agatha’s heart eased a little. “Your father set that up, I assume?”
Flood’s smile was sly and more than a little smug. “We’re a merchant family, Griffin—we know how to take care of our own. I wouldn’t call us wealthy—”
Agatha made a noise of disbelief. “Wealthy folk always say that.”
“—but we enjoy a very comfortable living.” She took another couple of steps, boots scuffing the dirt in the road. “That’s why John married me, you see—only family members can be shareholders.”
She spoke breezily, casually, but Agatha felt that fact strike her like a blow to the belly. Her feet walked on, while her brain went floaty with the realization: Penelope had been married for her fortune. “And John wanted to be a shareholder.”
Flood nodded, eyes on the path. “He and Harry wanted to get a ship together—Harry would captain, and John would come along to manage the books and cargo. He’s extremely good at it. Has a very efficient head for risk and figures, John does.”
“So . . .” Agatha swallowed against a dry, gravelly throat. “So it was not a love match, then.”
Flood snorted and shook her head, gold curls bouncing. “Not on his part or on mine.” Her voice softened, and her eyes gleamed as they rested on all the greenery around her. “John was terribly relieved, though. He and Harry are . . . close. Now they’re family in the eyes of the law.”
Agatha’s breath hitched when she caught Flood’s meaning, but she schooled her features swiftly back to nonchalance. She’d been trusted with a secret, here in the greenwood, and she had to let her friend know such trust was not taken lightly. “I’m glad they found their way to happiness,” she said, and paused a moment. “Only . . .”
“Only what?” Flood’s face was tilted up, watching the play of light through layers of leaves and branches. Gaze directed away, until the topic was not quite so dangerous.
These were delicate waters.
Agatha watched a slender beam of sunlight pass over the planes of her friend’s cheeks. It caught on the soft hair at the corners of her mouth, and the creases that spoke of the years she’d survived. The sight plucked the words from Agatha’s throat, unbidden: “Only it seems to be such a sacrifice for you, Flood. You deserve better than second place in someone’s affections. You deserve to know what it’s like to be loved by someone who worships the very earth beneath your feet, who adores you for yourself alone—and just what the hell is so damned funny?”
For Flood had stopped walking to double over at the waist, hands braced on her knees, hooting with helpless laughter until the only sound she could make was a strained wheeze.
Agatha planted her hands on hips. “Are you quite done?”