The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,57

muslin, laced tight around every dip and curve of sturdy Penelope Flood. All those snowy, delicate folds just waiting to be ruined by clutching, ink-stained fingers.

The only color Flood wore was a bright green rosette, pinned high on her shoulder in honor of Queen Caroline. It stood out against all that white like an emerald on ermine.

The beekeeper tied off the last lacing on her bodice and swirled the skirts back and forth experimentally. Petticoats shushed and settled. She shook her head and tucked one curl behind her ear. “Who on earth thought wearing this much white in sooty London was a good idea? I thought it was a joke when Mrs. Koskinen first suggested it—and I was stunned when Lady Summerville offered to fund the fabric purchase.” She frowned. “I fear I know too well where she got the money.”

“At least she’s doing something with it for the common good.” Agatha’s throat was dry and aching from yearning; she had to take a long swallow of tea before she could speak. “And it isn’t like they’re asking you to do field chores, Flood. It’s a procession. A spectacle.”

“Papa always said people went to London to make a spectacle of themselves,” Flood said with a small laugh. “I guess he was right.”

“You look absolutely splendid.”

Flood’s head whipped up, a blush rising in her cheeks.

Agatha’s fingers curled tight around the china teacup. She kept her tone brisk, pointed. “And spectacle can be an advantage: I should have no trouble spotting the Melliton ladies when you arrive at Brandenburg House today.”

Penelope’s blush bloomed further, so lovely that Agatha had to drop her eyes and struggle to keep her breathing even.

Lady Summerville had settled upon a meeting spot and arranged for a number of open carriages, to transport the women of Melliton in style along the roads to the Queen’s residence. They would all be wearing unrelieved white, with no ornament other than the green rosettes. Already Agatha’s fingers itched to draw such a scene, and she had to admit Mrs. Koskinen’s idea had been rather a good one. It was going to be impossible to miss their group, no matter how large the crowds.

Flood gulped down a hasty breakfast and took her leave. Agatha checked on Sydney and Eliza—who were adamant that everything had gone just fine yesterday evening, no problems at all, no surprises, no matter how many times Agatha asked them about it in new, more cunning ways.

The young folk were demonstrating competence. She was secretly, suspiciously proud, and trusted it not at all. Today would be another test for them.

Agatha left them her list of instructions and set out east to see the Queen.

Brandenburg House sat like a temple at the top of a small hill fronting the river. Its pale stone facade rose lordly over the teeming, colorful mass of humanity gathered in the cleared space around it.

Agatha had expected the crowds, and the noise, but she had not expected things to feel so . . . festive. Yes, there were banners being waved and political slogans being chanted—but there were also food stalls and peddlers and ballad sellers wandering the throng, making a fairly solid profit, from what Agatha could see at a glance. A clutch of boats on the river were bringing an address from the assembled watermen of London: their boats were decked out with ribbons and garlands and all manner of bunting, and surrounded by smaller rowboats and skiffs holding lords and ladies and society folk who’d come out this fine afternoon for a bit of excitement. Beaver hats alternated with summer bonnets and liberty caps; imported silks brushed up against printed calico and homespun.

There were so many women. More than at any election or procession or celebration Agatha had seen. White rosettes and handkerchiefs fluttered everywhere.

Agatha pulled out her sketchbook and made a few hasty impressions of the event for later refinement into proper etchings. Such a crowd meant it would be an hour at least for the Melliton coaches to make the journey by road. She sketched a few scenes to pass the time. One of the watermen disembarked and made his way through the crowd with an escort, holding a document in front of him. Agatha followed in their wake, until they reached the doors of the house and turned.

The man with the address read it out in a carrying voice, then offered it to a soberly dressed gentleman at the door, who made a courteous reply on behalf of the