The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,83

that he was nearly unrecognizable to the general populace. Even Mr. Buckley the deacon, who normally abhorred any kind of fashionable show, had carefully brushed his black coat for the day. But even with everyone looking their best, Viscount and Lady Summerville were the most opulent, resplendent in ivory silk and green velvet and a ridiculous amount of fur.

Mr. Oliver’s sermon touched the usual notes: Christian charity and faith and hope for the savior’s birth. Penelope rather lost the thread, too busy staring at the way the winter light fell through the one window of colored glass that had survived the Puritans (because nobody at the time had wanted to be responsible for smashing the window showing the Abington coat of arms). But toward the end, a stir in the pews and a sudden tension in the air brought her abruptly back to earth.

“—such success in organizing support for our slandered Queen,” Mr. Oliver was saying, “that it would be a shame for such zeal not to find a proper, pious outlet. Lady Summerville therefore desires me to announce the formation of a Melliton Auxiliary Branch of the Society for the Suppression of Seditious Libel and Mendacity.”

A murmur of response ran through the congregation. Lady Summerville bowed her head like a royal accepting obeisance.

Mr. Thomas was whispering something urgent in Mr. Kitt’s ear, while that gentleman sat stiff and nervous and unhappy in the pew.

Mr. Oliver continued: “This organization proposes to stem the rising tide of sedition, libel, obscenity, criminality, blasphemy, and impurity that threatens the peace and order of our fair village. The power of the press, which ought to be turned to the spreading of the Gospel and the bringing of divine light to barbaric mankind, has been perverted to strike at the very foundations of decent civilization. Men of humbler ranks have been poisoned against their natural protectors: greedy inflamers and agitators have stirred up trouble in much greater proportion than their numbers warrant. Such machinations are dangerous to us all, and their seedlings must be pulled up by the roots before they choke our better harvests. I look forward to assisting Lady Summerville in her work, and trust all good patriotic members of our hamlet will follow her most Christian example.”

The sermon closed; the final hymn was sung; the congregation meandered out of the pews and away for the holiday celebrations to come. There was still a festive tone to the hubbub—but now a thread of unease ran underneath it, a trickling stream made up of sidelong glances and anxious whispers and people biting their lip to keep from speaking their mind. Mrs. Koskinen looked positively thunderous, already muttering objections in her patient husband’s ear.

Penelope and Harry let the rest head back toward Fern Hall—Sydney was looking absolutely mutinous, and even John had a stony set to his mouth—and turned into the graveyard to visit their parents and Owen.

Owen Stanhope had been a thoughtful (if loquacious) vicar. His loss had come hard on the heels of their parents’ deaths, and all the Stanhope siblings had reeled from the blow. One by one, they had set out for far-off horizons with fewer memories attached, until only Harry and Penelope had remained.

Then Harry had left, too.

“Ave atque vale,” Harry read from his brother’s headstone, as Penelope bent to place a sprig of holly on the grave. “What does that come to again?”

“‘Hail and farewell,’” Penelope translated.

Harry snorted. “‘Good day and goodbye’? Truly?”

“A very famous poet wrote it about losing his brother,” Penelope offered wryly.

“A little pat, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t. I asked Owen, and this is what he picked.”

Harry sighed. “It’s like he was trying to find a way to keep talking from the other side of the veil.”

Penelope put a hand on Harry’s arm. “I miss him, too.”

They stood a while, a little pocket of quiet amid the sounds of the holiday around them.

“I miss his sermons especially,” Harry said at length. “What kind of nonsense was Mr. Oliver about this morning, do you think?”

Penelope’s mouth went flat as dread took hold. “I think Lady Summerville wants revenge,” she said.

“For the songs?”

“For that. For irreverence. For all of us who dared not to take her superiority seriously, and laughed at her.” She bit her lip, sympathy welling up in spite of her anger. “She’s a desperately unhappy woman, I think.”

“Look at her husband—wouldn’t you be?”

Penelope’s irritation sharpened to a pinprick, and she pulled her hand back. “I don’t think you or I are in any position