The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,59
away for Agatha to hear clearly. Certainly Lady Summerville’s address was a more florid speech than the one the watermen had given. The sober gentleman at the door accepted it all the same, and offered a response in much the same vein.
And that appeared to be that. The ladies in white began to mix with the crowd, and Agatha strode forward to find Penelope Flood. She was talking animatedly to a small brunette woman with a sallow complexion and a thoughtful air. Agatha paused, not wanting to interrupt.
“Are you with the Times?”
Agatha was rather taken aback to find herself being addressed by Lady Summerville, who was eyeing her sketchbook with suspicion. “I’m with Griffin’s, your ladyship.”
The lady’s lips pursed. “As in Griffin’s Menagerie? I would not have expected this gathering to appear in a magazine whose audience consists entirely of society ladies.”
“There appear to be quite a few such ladies here, your ladyship,” Agatha said, with a wry little bow of her head.
Lady Summerville reached out for the sketchbook; Agatha pulled it back instinctively. The viscountess bristled. “I insist you show me any drawings you have made of me,” she said. “There are far too many scurrilous scribblers muddying the waters these days with cartoons and caricatures. Making your betters look ridiculous by exaggeration—you haven’t the right to do that to decent people.”
“Have you ever objected to anything you’ve read in the Menagerie, your ladyship?”
Lady Summerville scoffed. “I am not in the habit of reading such frivolity—I have more important concerns with which to fill my time.”
“Your ladyship?” Penelope Flood stepped in with a smile. “May I present Mrs. Agatha Griffin, who owns the print-works on the outskirts of Melliton?”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” the viscountess said, sounding anything but. She did not hold out a hand.
Penelope coughed slightly. “Mrs. Koskinen and I were thinking everyone might like to have something to eat before we begin heading back.” She indicated the curly-haired woman and her husband, who was staring around narrow-eyed at the London crowd, as though he expected some urchin to steal the very lint from his pockets as soon as he dared to blink.
“If you think it’s necessary,” Lady Summerville said, and waved a hand. “I’m sure I can trust you both to handle such mundane matters, now that the real work is done.”
“Thank you, your ladyship,” said Penelope, in a tone much more polite than the one Agatha would have used in her place.
Mr. and Mrs. Koskinen between them herded everyone toward the pie sellers, and Agatha fell into step beside her friend. “Congratulations on the procession,” Agatha said, and showed Flood the sketch she’d made of her. “I was thinking of putting it out as a print to mark today’s events—without your name attached, of course. Unless you object to your likeness being sold?”
“Not when it’s so flattering. And so significant historically, of course.” Griffin snorted. Flood laughed and curtsied as sweetly as any debutante. “My dear Griffin, may I trespass on your hospitality for one more night? We’ve been invited to a dinner this evening by Mrs. Hannah Buckhurst, of the London Female Reform Society. I expect it will run very late indeed.” She leaned forward, a light smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You should come, and bring Sydney and Eliza as well—Mrs. Buckhurst gave me four tickets.”
One more night lying still and stiff beside Penelope Flood might be the very end of Agatha. On the other hand, Flood being disappointed—or sleeping elsewhere—was its own kind of torture.
And if forced to choose between two evils, Agatha knew she would always choose whichever evil let her enjoy the company of her friend. “I am entirely at your disposal,” she replied.
“Good,” Flood said, and looked around with eyes alight. “Now where did that pie seller get to? I am absolutely famished.”
Agatha steeled herself for one more day of blissful torture, and let Flood buy her a pie.
Chapter Thirteen
They stopped by Griffin’s to collect Eliza and Sydney for the dinner—Sydney’s face blazed up like a Guy Fawkes bonfire when Penelope handed him his ticket. “We’re going to the Crown and Anchor?”
“Are we?” Penelope blinked down at the slip of paper in her hand, and yes, there it was, in inescapable block lettering. THE CROWN AND ANCHOR, ARUNDEL STREET. “So it seems.”
Griffin snorted. “Do you think Lady Summerville will deign to show up to an establishment of such infamous character?”
“I doubt it,” Penelope replied, still staring at the printing. “The viscount would never countenance his wife visiting a