The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,53

had been purred into her ear. Of course Griffin hadn’t meant it like that—but Penelope couldn’t resist wishing that she had. And imagining what Griffin might ask her to do next.

There was no use even thinking about such impossibilities. But they haunted her dreams for the next three nights, until the afternoon she packed her things, marched up to Abington Hall, and spent a rough and rackety hour bumping over the roads and into the heart of England’s capital city while making the smallest of talk with Lady Summerville and Mrs. Midson, who was far too eager to entertain them both with tales of her great-nieces and -nephews. Penelope suffered through several amusing childhood traumas and was grateful to be let off with her luggage outside a gemlike building a-glitter with windows, where a sign proclaimed Griffin’s Print-Shop in stern, sober letters.

Even just standing outside was making Penelope’s heart race—or maybe that was just the proximity of so many people, moving so quickly, through narrow streets with buildings that towered far higher than the ones in Melliton did. If she craned her neck, she could see a sort of park around the corner; the sight of trees steadied her and reminded her to breathe.

She regretted it almost instantly: London certainly lived up to its reputation where smells were concerned.

Thus braced, she shouldered her bag, opened the door, and stepped into the shop.

The odors here were a distinct improvement from the street outside: books and ink and the crispness of paper. Griffin’s storefront was a light and airy space, full of color and creamy paper and picturesque prints. Tables full of leather-bound books and urgent-looking pamphlets, stacks of manuscripts ready for binding, sheets of the latest ballads—she spotted “Inexpressibles” straight away—the richly hued latest issue of Griffin’s Menagerie displayed to advantage, and high skylights letting in what brave sunlight managed to make it this far.

Surveying it all from behind a sturdy cherrywood counter was a boy the very image of Agatha Griffin. Same dark hair, same hawklike stubborn nose, same rich brown eyes. Those eyes lit as he smiled and hurried out from behind the counter to greet her. “You must be Mrs. Flood! I’m Sydney Griffin—it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you as well, Mr. Griffin,” Penelope said.

“Please, call me Sydney.” They shook hands, his pumping eagerly up and down. Penelope hid a smile. He had all of Agatha’s energy, but had yet to acquire her wariness. “Mum tells me you’re in town to present an address to the Queen?”

“Along with quite a few of the women of Melliton, yes.”

“That’s marvelous! I hope I’m still so active in support of reform when I’m as old as you are.”

Penelope blinked.

Sydney Griffin went on: “Oh, but where are my manners? That bag must be weighing you down—let me take that upstairs to Mum’s room for you. She’s in the back, of course, but I’m sure she won’t mind if you go right on in. It’s through that door.”

Before Penelope could gather her scattered wits, the boy had relieved her of her bag, hefted it as though it were nothing, and vanished up the stairs. To his mother’s bedroom, as he’d said.

Which, apparently, Penelope would be sharing with Griffin.

She hadn’t considered that, when she’d invited herself to stay. She’d imagined she would be displacing Sidney, or one of the apprentices. But Griffin had told her to come, anyway . . .

Maybe there was some misunderstanding. She hadn’t left Melliton in so long, her nerves couldn’t settle. Nothing was familiar, so nothing was trustworthy. Penelope brushed her hands anxiously over her skirts, then told herself not to be such a ninny and went through the door Sydney had pointed out.

She’d been in the Melliton print-works, so she knew something of what to expect. But just as the city was more densely packed and compressed than the countryside, the London branch of Griffin’s enterprise was a busy, cozy center of perpetual motion. There seemed to be far more people and prints and presses than the small size of the room could hold. It was barely possible to breathe; not even the tall windows at the back, thrown open to let in as much air as possible, could banish the industrial smells of metal and sweat and a persistent chemical tang.

“Mrs. Flood?” A girl with brown hair pulled tight into a knot at her neck sat at a table punching musical notes into a block lined with staves. She smiled shyly. “I’m Eliza Brinkworth. Her