The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,62
shadow into ripples on the ground, and the sound of water from quite close had Penelope peering around for the unseen fountain.
Griffin dropped Penelope’s wrist—her absent fingers left behind a cold, lonely little band of air around the skin there—and pulled the willow branches aside like she was raising the curtain on a Drury Lane stage.
The fountain Penelope heard was underneath the willow tree: a small tilted basin that poured water into a curve around its roots.
Also underneath the willow tree: Isabella’s nymph and dryad.
Penelope was afraid to move. Surely she must be dreaming. As long as she didn’t move, she would never have to wake up. She held so still her muscles began trembling with the effort of it, as her eyes traced every line of the familiar marble. “It wasn’t destroyed,” she whispered at last. “I can’t believe it. It wasn’t destroyed.”
“A barrister by the name of Mr. Loveney told me about it,” Griffin said softly. “He bought it from an art broker here in town, not three weeks ago.”
Penelope let out a breath, far too light and fragile to be a laugh. “And put it here?” Here meaning the legal heart of the kingdom. But also here meaning in this magical, sheltered space.
Penelope’s mind could not take it in.
Griffin’s smile was slow as moonlight. “Isabella Abington was a sculptor of no small renown. It will take more than a year for the world to forget her.”
Penelope let out a sob and flung her arms around Griffin’s neck.
The other woman went instantly pokerish.
Penelope assumed it was only surprise. She would not be put off: her arms tightened. “Thank you,” she whispered. Tears spilled over her eyelids and down her cheeks. She pressed her face harder against the taller woman’s shoulder, hoping the dark color of the fabric would hide the telltale dampness. She swallowed hard. “I don’t care how many years pass: I will never, ever forget that you brought me here. Some kindnesses leave a mark, you know. Like a scar, but the reverse.”
Griffin’s arms came around Penelope’s shoulders—carefully, as though she feared Penelope might break. Her hand patted Penelope’s curls once. Twice. “You might bring me around to poetry yet, Flood,” she said gruffly.
Penelope let herself hold on for one more long, shuddering breath, then reluctantly pulled away.
Griffin fussed at the fabric of her gown, her blush apparent even in the moonlight’s silvery rays. “Home, then?” she asked.
“Home,” Penelope said on a sigh. As though it were the truth and not only a wish.
The Queen’s Larder pub on the corner was in full carouse when they returned, but inside the print-shop all was peaceful and still as they undressed for bed. Penelope settled back against the pillows, frowning up at the ceiling. “Did Mr. Loveney tell you which art-broker he purchased the statue from?”
“He did not. Sydney introduced us, though, so I’m sure it wouldn’t be difficult to find it out.” Griffin had pulled a nightdress on first thing, and was wrestling her stockings off underneath the skirts.
It was charmingly prudish of her, especially after all the mutual unlacing they’d just done, and it made Penelope instantly begin wondering what else was underneath that billow of fabric. She knew she oughtn’t let herself think of it—but it had been such a long and trying day, she simply didn’t have the strength to keep her imagination in check.
She’d be more virtuous tomorrow, she promised herself, and fixed the sight of Agatha Griffin’s ankles in her memory.
Griffin put her stockings to be washed before she lay down carefully on the other half of the bed. Blankets pulled up to her underarms. Hands folded over her chest like a funeral figure on a monument.
It made Penelope feel half-feral by way of contrast, so she made a bit of a show of nestling into the pillows and blankets, like a creature burrowing in for a long winter’s hibernation.
Griffin peered down her long nose at Penelope. The stern effect of this was rather softened by the long black-and-silver braid of her hair, which looked temptingly soft and strokeable. “Why do you want to talk to the art broker?”
Beneath the mounds of bedclothes, Penelope attempted a shrug. “Only curious.”
“You aren’t going to talk him out of buying the other statues, are you?”
“Certainly not,” Penelope said loftily. “I’m just happy to know they aren’t being smashed or broken or burned, or anything like that. It’s actually a relief to see one making its way through to an appreciative collector.”