The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,61

be heard above the crowd.

“Not as many as I intend to.” Miss Crewe’s mouth was an absolute rosebud, even when pursed in wry amusement. She’d spent the speeches listening intently while methodically cleaning her plate, and even now was mopping up the sauces with a bit of bread. “But I was raised on reform, hearing arguments around the family table. My mother founded the Carrisford Weavers’ Library and Reform Society last spring.” The petals of her lips curved bittersweetly. “She would have been glad to see the crowds at Brandenburg today.”

Ah, Penelope remembered. Mrs. Koskinen’s cousin, killed at Peterloo. “Are you continuing her work with the Society, Miss Crewe?”

Miss Crewe paused with her fingers on her bit of bread. “That depends, Mrs. Flood: Are you a government spy?”

Penelope choked on her beer.

Miss Crewe nibbled daintily on her morsel of bread. Quite as though she accused people of being police informers all the time.

Perhaps she did.

Penelope got her breath back, and managed half a smile. “If I were,” she said, “I surely would deny it.”

“Of course,” Miss Crewe agreed. “But the manner of your denial would be telling.” Her lips quirked, and her eyes sparkled. “In fact, it was.”

“And just what did it tell you?” Penelope inquired.

Miss Crewe swallowed the last of her bread and folded her hands demurely while she considered. She was quite a pretty girl, and her hands showed the marks of labor: visibly calloused in places, strong and sure. A silk weaver, Mrs. Koskinen had said.

At last, Miss Crewe sighed. “Your answer tells me that you’re just as my cousin has described you, Mrs. Flood—very earnest, and very kind.”

Penelope pinkened, and sought a less squirmworthy subject. “I wonder if you can explain to me something Mrs. Buckhurst said in her speech . . .” she began.

The silk weaver was a font of information, even more than Sydney, and Penelope listened avidly until Griffin jogged her elbow some time later.

“Flood.” Agatha Griffin’s face was luminous, bright with so much joy and awe that Penelope’s heart gave a little kick and knocked the breath from her. “I’ve just learned something wonderful. Is there a chance you’re ready to leave?”

“Quite.” It had been a lively evening, but politics was exhausting work. They made their farewells to Mrs. Koskinen and Miss Crewe. Then Griffin took Penelope by the wrist and began towing her through the crowd toward the stairway.

It’s just so we don’t get separated, Penelope reminded herself. And then a treacherous thought followed: She doesn’t want to lose me. “What about Eliza and Sydney?” she stammered, bumping from stair to stair.

“Oh, I already told them we were leaving. They’re young—they’ll be up until dawn with the rest of the political crowd. And they’re well able to find their own way home when they’re ready.” The engraver cast a sly glance back over her shoulder. “I’m getting too old to see sunrise from the wrong side without a terribly good reason.”

“I can think of one,” Penelope said automatically, then bit her lip as the heat rose in her cheeks.

Griffin snorted, but she didn’t let go, not even when they reached the relative freedom of the stairs. They walked down, past endless debates in other spaces—admittedly, less magnificent ones than the Grand Assembly Room. It was a relief to emerge into the cool evening air, as the first few stars began sparkling in the lilac curve of the sky.

In the chill, Griffin’s fingers around her wrist felt like the warmest thing in the world.

The printer towed Penelope south down Arundel Street, to the banks of the Thames, where the law courts kept their halls and libraries. The buildings here were ancient, frosted over with white stonework and narrow, imperious windows.

Griffin slipped a couple of coins to a gatekeeper, who obligingly let them into a court that led to a garden, then another garden, turn after turn until Penelope began to feel like she’d stepped into a fairy maze from a folktale and they’d never find their way out again.

“Good thing I had that barrister draw me a map,” Griffin muttered, and pulled out her sketchbook. Pages of women in white and green flashed by, then a penciled path in an amateurish hand. Griffin took a few more turnings. “Left, then right, then two more lefts, and . . . ah. Here we are.”

Penelope looked around. They were in a small pocket courtyard, a timeless bubble of peace in the center of the city. The branches of an old willow sifted moonlight and