The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,89

and tore it apart with her hands, stuffing pieces into her mouth and chewing as if the bread had done her some grievous injury, and now she was finally taking vengeance.

Penelope sipped more cautiously at her mead, letting the fire of it roll over her tongue. She’d hoped it would sweeten her words, bring her something subtle and persuasive to say—but all she could find was a brief, blunt question: “What is it that’s troubling you?”

“Sydney and Eliza.” Griffin stared into her glass as if it could offer an oracle. “They’ve decided not to wed.”

“Oh dear,” Penelope murmured. “And they seemed to be getting on so well . . .”

“Oh,” Griffin responded dryly, “they are.”

Penelope frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Sydney assures me that if they have children, they will reconsider the situation then.”

For a moment she was puzzled—then Penelope gaped in horror. “Oh no.”

Griffin toasted with the last of her mead. “Now you see where my head’s been at all evening.”

“That damn . . . nineteen-year-old!”

Griffin chortled bitterly. “Just so, Flood.”

Penelope gravely poured another measure of mead for them both, and raised her glass in a toast. “To the follies of youth,” she said. “Long may they last.”

Griffin spun her glass round on the table, her shoulders bunched up tight, the gray in her hair turned molten silver by candlelight. “I was so ready to wish them joy,” she said mournfully. “It seemed such a likely match. And Eliza is bright and kind and everything I could ask for in a daughter-in-law.”

“Did they say why they aren’t getting married?”

“I knew all that political talk would be trouble,” Griffin muttered. “I just didn’t foresee how.” She looked up, her mouth a flat line. “They’ve been reading.”

Penelope sputtered out a laugh. “Not that!”

Griffin remained unamused. “Eliza says marriage is a trap, and Sydney is unwilling to try to change her mind.”

Penelope’s laughter faded. “I sympathize, Griffin—really I do . . .”

Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “But?”

“But . . .” Penelope sighed. “Do you think she’s entirely wrong about marriage?”

Griffin’s jaw clenched, and she took another long draught of mead. “No,” she admitted. “Which is why it’s so damned hard to argue with. But I’ve spent all night thinking it over, and I believe I know where to start.”

“Tell me,” Penelope said.

“My son is right that Eliza stands to lose the most if they married,” Griffin said. Her hand began spinning her glass again, round and round on the old wood of the kitchen table. Her face had gone rosy, whether from drink or determination Penelope couldn’t say. Griffin went on: “The problem is that Eliza also stands to lose the most if they aren’t married. Her reputation will suffer far more than his, if people take note of their intimacy. And I don’t know if she’s told her family, or how they’ll react.” By now she was turning the glass so fast it was beginning to ring a little against the wood. “Because it’s not only marriage that’s the trap—it’s being a woman. And I don’t have a solution for that, either. But I have to do something. Ideals are all very well on paper, but in the real world sometimes one has to be practical.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“What?”

Griffin’s tone was such a thunder crack that Penelope winced a little. She tucked her hands between her knees, squeezing hard. “I made a thoroughly practical marriage,” she countered softly, even as her cowardly heart wailed a protest. “I thought it was the right choice at the time. But now . . . I am not so sure.”

Griffin’s head snapped up, her eyes widening.

Darkness and the warmth of the mead lured Penelope forward, into a confession she would probably regret in the cold, clear light of morning. “There are times when I think . . . there are some things that would be easier if I did not have such a knot in the fabric in my life.” She took a breath, hoping it would steady her, but it was only a desperate gulp for air, a momentary respite and nothing more. Her stomach twisted, and in a burst of recklessness she blurted out the truth: “Perhaps if I hadn’t married John, I wouldn’t feel as though it were betraying him to love someone else.”

“Someone else,” Griffin said thickly. “Who, Penelope?”

Penelope was already starting to feel hot regret seep in through the cracks in her composure. She’d sink beneath it before too long. She shook her head as though she could shake the world away. “It doesn’t