The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,52

smiles and plausible excuses.

No wonder all those lovers had left her, in the end. Passion was for the bold—and Penelope’d never been able to fling herself from the cliff while screaming Damn the consequences! She valued the town’s opinion a little too much.

She dropped the last shard from the window frame into the bin. “Has Lady Summerville found the Napoleon snuffbox yet?”

Mr. Oliver made no reply at first, his pale hair waving in the light summer breeze. “I have not asked her,” he said eventually. “My sister has been so often in London.”

Penelope frowned at the back of the vicar’s head. “That snuffbox was a particular bequest.”

His tone sounded pinched. “I was there when the will was read, Mrs. Flood. I remember.”

“I’m sure that having it will go a long way toward helping Joanna move on,” Penelope tried. For all she knew, it might be true.

“Are you so eager to hurry your guest out of your home, Mrs. Flood?”

Penelope blinked. “No, I . . .”

“I should think you would be happy to be less alone in that great empty house of yours. Too much solitude can be poisonous to the delicate female constitution.”

Penelope flinched, then was instantly relieved the vicar hadn’t seen her reaction to his words. He didn’t mean it like it sounded, she told herself firmly. He’s had a difficult afternoon. Anyone would be snappish in the circumstances.

If you cry for such a petty reason, you have no one to blame but yourself.

The vicar brushed the soil from his hands and stood, staring into the empty windows of the rectory. “I’ll bring it up the next time I see my sister,” he said, “but if she hasn’t found it yet there’s nothing more I can do.”

Penelope held her tongue, telling herself sternly that such consideration was more than she deserved.

Chapter Eleven

Lady Summerville returned on Tuesday, Penelope wrote to Griffin, and immediately paid for new glass for the rectory windows. She also invited me to tea—a singular occurrence—and for one brief, shining moment I really did believe she’d located the snuffbox, and had invited me over because it stung her pride less to give it to me than to hand it directly to Joanna herself.

But when I arrived at Abington Hall I found it wasn’t a social occasion: it was a political luncheon.

Lady S and a few other of the Melliton fine ladies had composed an Address to the Queen: they read it aloud and asked the rest of us women to sign it, and invited anyone who wished to go with them to London at week’s end to present it to Queen Caroline at Brandenburg House. I think Lady S is practicing her political hostessery for the day when her husband inherits the earldom and its seat from his father.

She dodged all my inquiries about the snuffbox, alas. Joanna is growing restive about it, and mutters about making a formal complaint to our local magistrate, but since that is also Mr. Oliver, I have no hope that will make the situation less awkward for any of us. It will all be an awful muddle until someone relents.

But! For what may be the first time in my life, I am excited about the prospect of a holiday! It’s been years since I’ve been to London, and I am both elated and terrified at the idea. The presentation itself will take the better part of a day, but I plan to do some exploring the evening before—dare I ask you to spare some time to show me the city, as an inhabitant and a trusted expert?

Would you object to my staying with you as a guest for a night or two? The other ladies have been offered hospitality by friends of Lady Summerville’s—but I would feel much braver about the whole adventure if I knew the person whose roof I would be sleeping under. I know it’s an awful presumption to invite myself and you have many demands on your time.

But could I, all the same?

Penelope chewed her lip and wrinkled her nose at the page. It was an unusually rambling letter, even by her admittedly loose standards.

But if she dithered over word choices and rephrasings, she’d never post it at all.

She signed it, folded it, and sent it at the earliest opportunity.

And received this beautifully brief note in prompt reply:

Flood,

You will always be most welcome. Come whenever you please.

Griffin

It was broad daylight when Penelope read those lines, but she shivered like it was a starlit evening and the invitation