The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,8
had set them alphabetical by first line, or reshelved the history section in order of ascending length of title.
Today it looked as though Mrs. Molesey was carrying the war: half the Shakespeare was off the shelf and strewn about the room, and Penelope recognized a goodly number of volumes of Byron, Herrick, Moody, Dante, and Donne on the grand oak desk before Mr. Nancarrow shifted them so he could sit with his hands barristerially folded in front of him.
Viscount Summerville immediately sprawled on the sofa with a whoosh of breath like a horse just come from a hunt. He was a mass of muscle and heartiness, from the wind-tousled auburn hair to the ruddy cheeks. His wife took a seat beside him; he shifted to ensure they weren’t touching. Not out of any concern for propriety, Penelope knew—rumors said his lordship had a mistress and three children two towns over, and that he spent as much time away from home as he possibly could.
Perhaps that was why Lady Summerville had always guarded her status as if it were rare porcelain. She had a great deal of venom to pour on those who failed to treat her with proper care, as though her position and authority were one chip away from a shatter.
Mr. Oliver pulled out a spindly chair next to his sister, patting her hand solicitously, and Mrs. Molesey settled into her usual armchair as if it were a throne. Her face was serene, but Penelope saw how her hands clenched and unclenched on the riveted plush of the arms.
Penelope made her way over to the window, where she could stay more or less out of the way and steal glances at the garden all the while.
At least it shouldn’t take terribly long. The Abingtons had been absurdly rich in prior centuries, when the hall had been built, but the family had been in decline for generations, and now both their fortunes and their family tree were decidedly scanty.
Mr. Nancarrow picked up the papers with a look of dread as if he spoke at his own funeral, not his client’s. After the usual introductory statements—Penelope half listened while watching the clouds scudding across blue sky—the solicitor harrumphed a little for fortitude and moved on to the essential clauses.
“Mrs. Abington left behind a sum of two thousand, three hundred and forty-seven pounds, as well as Abington Hall. Fifty pounds will go to Mr. Oliver, Miss Abington’s nephew. The house and grounds will go to Lord and Lady Summerville, along with . . .” He took a breath, then plunged forward. “. . . Along with the collection of statues in the sculpture garden.”
Lady Summerville sucked in a gasp.
Mr. Nancarrow shut his mouth, flinching slightly.
“Which statues?” the lady choked out.
“The ones . . . exterior to the house,” the solicitor confirmed miserably, eyes on the printed sheets in his hand.
“The ones where my aunt—where she—with no—with all the . . .” The viscountess’s voice vanished into a horrified whisper.
Mr. Nancarrow ducked his head and tried to sink his long chin protectively against his chest. Either that or embarrassment muffled his voice. “The ones your aunt only showed to select visitors here at the Hall, yes, my lady.”
“The erotic statues,” Mrs. Molesey said loudly and with evident savor.
Lord Summerville let out a hum that rose at the end like a curious question.
The glance his wife sent him could have carved his heart into ribbons before he even had time to bleed.
The vicar went cherry red in the face and cleared his throat. “What about the rest of the estate?” Mr. Oliver asked.
Mr. Nancarrow straightened the papers unnecessarily, still hunched as if bracing himself against a coming storm. “The remainder goes to Mrs. Molesey, with affection, in gratitude for her years of faithful companionship.”
Lady Summerville’s whole body clenched like a fist.
The poet merely inclined her head, evidently unsurprised by this news.
“Along with . . .” Mr. Nancarrow cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. “Along with a diamond snuffbox of particular sentimental value to them both.”
“The Napoleon snuffbox?” For a moment Lady Summerville looked as though she were going to lunge right up from the couch and grab the solicitor by the throat—then she recalled herself and clutched to her husband’s arm as if seeking support. He curled his lip but made no move to dislodge her. “Surely not!” the lady cried. “Surely such a valuable and historic heirloom should remain with a loving member of the family!”