The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,78
the shop. I haven’t done anything so self-indulgent since—” She bit her lip, cheeks flushing. “Never mind.”
“Don’t hold back, Griffin,” Penelope said cheerfully. “Tell me all about your hedonistic past, where you never take even a fortnight away from work.”
“Pot calling kettle, Flood. How many beehives have you visited this morning?”
“None,” Penelope returned. “I was saving them all for you.”
Griffin went even pinker. Her booted toes scuffed at a rock in the road. “Will Mr. Flood be joining us?”
Penelope’s expansive mood withered somewhat. “He and Harry are spending one more night with Michael in Wales before they come east.” She sucked in a lungful of cold, wet air. “They’ll come bearing gifts from Christopher, and Lawrence and his wife. But for tonight, it’s only us.”
Griffin made a contented noise at that. The sound burrowed into Penelope and stayed there, glowing like an ember against the chill.
If Sydney and Eliza had been unimpressed with Melliton, they were gratifyingly delighted with Fern Hall itself. Penelope had put them in two of her brothers’ rooms, filled with ancient toys and musical instruments and trunks of clothing from past eras. Sydney flipped through old primers, recognizing a few woodcuts done by Griffin’s father. Eliza gathered up as much sheet music as she could find and carted an armful down to the parlor, where Penelope indulged them by picking out old tunes and carols on the pianoforte until it was time for dinner.
Between Mrs. Braintree’s excellent table and her even more excellent spruce beer, they had a merry evening of it. Penelope returned to the pianoforte after dinner was cleared; she was horribly out of practice and struck countless wrong notes, but nobody seemed to mind. Eliza and Sydney pulled the most outrageous articles from the attic’s dress-up trunks—faded brocades and velvets, lustrous waistcoats spangled with silver thread, ghostly lace that floated like cobwebs at collar and cuffs—and performed what they insisted was a gavotte, but which Penelope was fairly sure was a dance of their own devising.
Griffin mocked them with a fierce fondness as she sat on the bench beside Penelope, turning pages, the long warm length of her pressed up against Penelope’s side.
If only they could have stayed like this forever: well-fed and warm, glowing with laughter, happy in one another’s company. Like any other celebrating family. But the dark, cold night drew close at last, and they candled their way to bed.
Penelope got at least one wish: she woke the next morning to find the world outside frosted over with a light fall of snow. Enough to make everything sparkle, but not enough to delay the afternoon coach from London, and the arrival of Captain Harry Stanhope and ship’s purser, John Flood.
They came up the road as a pair, matching one another’s rolling stride, the leather straps of their seabags slung over opposite shoulders, their hands between them brushing but not quite daring to clasp. As always, the sight of that easy connection both pleased Penelope and made her envious, in some unnameable, uncomfortable way.
Penelope waved from the window, then turned to peer anxiously at Griffin. “Last chance to escape.”
Sydney and Eliza had already gone trooping out into the woods behind Fern Hall in search of greenery—it would be a plausible enough excuse if Griffin wanted to chaperone the pair and keep them out of trouble.
The stern glance Griffin leveled at Penelope, however, was like an anchor for her seasick heart. “What kind of friend do you take me for?” she said. “I’m staying with you, as I promised.”
The printer smoothed out her skirts, rose from the sofa, and marched toward the foyer.
Penelope squared her shoulders, wiped her clammy palms, and followed.
Harry flung open the door with a bang and wrapped his sister in burly arms. She hugged him tight in return, inhaling the cold, salt scent of him. “Welcome home,” she squeaked, and when he let go she turned to John. “And welcome home to you, too, John.”
John was taller than Harry, but shyer; he didn’t embrace her, but he did take both her hands in his and bend down to buss her cheek. “Hullo, Penelope,” he said. His eyes flicked to Griffin, who was standing at the foot of the stairs like she’d been planted there to guard them from invaders.
Penelope couldn’t help a small smile, seeing how fierce Griffin looked. She turned, tucking John’s arm into hers. He was always at his shyest around new people. “John, Harry, may I present my very good friend Mrs. Agatha Griffin?”