The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,54

apprentice. Mrs. Griffin’s just finishing up outside.” She waved at a door that let out to a small yard in the back.

Penelope followed this direction and found herself on a small patch of a yard: hard-packed ground, high walls all around, yellow-green moss lurking in the corners and on the shadier stretches of stone. And, against the far wall, a table for the etching and cleaning of plates. Agatha Griffin was wrestling with one of these: wiping the plate with a cloth, buffing it clean of ground and mordant with turpentine, then a water wash. A thick leather apron marked with scrapes and scores was tied around her neck. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and her hands were strong and work-roughened. For a moment the copper in her hands caught the afternoon sun with a flash.

Penelope was dazzled, and drifted forward helplessly.

She didn’t think she’d made a sound, but Griffin must have heard something, because her head snapped up and those brown eyes drank in Penelope, standing there gaping. Creases folded the soft skin at the corners of Griffin’s eyes and mouth as she smiled. “Welcome to London, Flood. How was the journey?”

“Worth it,” Penelope replied.

Griffin laughed, set the plate on the table to dry, and rolled her sleeves properly back down to her wrists. Penelope squelched a sigh to see forearms vanish behind cotton again.

Griffin frowned lightly down at the gleaming metal. “I had hoped to get one more plate finished before you arrived—and there’s two more jobs to proof, and another set of Thisburton caricatures to color . . .”

“Oh,” said Penelope, and swallowed hard against a wave of dismay. “I understand. I’ll just wander a bit on my own then, and then meet you back here later?” She twisted one hand around the other, the fine leather of her traveling gloves so much thinner and less protective than what she wore for beekeeping. “Is there somewhere nearby you recommend for an early supper? I was too excited to eat much before setting out.”

Griffin cocked her head, her expression turning from frustrated to wry. “Flood, how long has it been since you visited London? You mentioned it had been a while. How long precisely?”

Penelope thought for a moment. “1804? During the war, certainly—I came to spend Christmas with Edward, and I distinctly recall he insisted on reading battle reports aloud over breakfast every morning.”

Griffin shook her head. “So many years? The city might as well be an entirely new place to you.” She untied the apron from around her neck, and hung it on a peg beneath an overhang of roof. There was a mischievous gleam brightening her eyes, and a sly tilt blooming on her lips. “Letting you wander around like a babe in the wood would be downright irresponsible. After all, I have a duty as a hostess, do I not?”

Penelope’s heart was a bubble, rising eagerly up through the water to bob on a sunlit surface. “What about all your work?”

Griffin’s long mouth crooked in a devious smile. She looked evil and stern and Penelope shivered to see it. Anticipation ripened Griffin’s tone into something rich and alluring. “Oh, I think we can find someone to take care of the work.”

She marched through the doorway, eyes seeking out and finding her apprentice. The girl shot up from the bench, and Penelope wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she’d saluted.

Griffin took this obedience in stride: “Eliza, when Crompton is done with the Thisburton prints, you start the color work and have him begin printing the Egerton plate.”

The girl straightened her shoulders. “Of course. Is the Egerton finished?”

“It’s drying in the yard; should be ready when you need it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Griffin cast Penelope a smile over her shoulder. “That’s the bulk of it sorted.” She settled a bonnet like a helm on her head, then tugged her gloves tight over her hands like a general arming for battle. A lovely, sinister kind of mirth came over her. “Just one more thing to do . . .” She marched back into the storefront, Penelope trailing irresistibly after.

Sydney looked up from the counter, then blinked at his mother’s attire. Griffin strode for the exit without a moment’s pause. “I’m going out, my dear,” she announced blithely. “Make sure everything’s closed up properly, and don’t bother to wait up—we won’t be back ’til quite late.”

Penelope caught one glimpse of Sydney gaping like a hooked fish before she scurried out the door to keep up with the longer-legged Griffin.