The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,94

ideal, somehow.”

Mrs. Stowe considered this. “Maybe they’re right.”

Agatha gaped, shocked.

Her mother-in-law took another drink of cider. “Tell me something: Are you going to disown your son unless he marries her?”

“N-no,” Agatha stammered, disoriented by the change of topic.

“Even if they have a child? Will you cast them out into the street to fend for themselves?”

The very image turned her stomach. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Then what do they really have to fear by not marrying?”

Agatha’s mouth opened and closed for several moments. “People will be cruel,” she said at last. It seemed the best summary of her fears.

Mrs. Stowe raised her brows quizzically. “Have you always been proper and prudent, where love is concerned?”

Agatha flushed to the roots of her hair.

“I thought not.” Mrs. Stowe peered at her for a moment, then broke into an infectious grin. “It’s that Penelope Flood, I assume?”

Agatha gulped for air. This was her late husband’s mother, talking about her new lover. Old defenses snapped up in her mind, almost audibly. “Thomas and I—”

Mrs. Stowe snorted, cider-steam billowing dragonish around her. “You and Thomas loved each other, yes, I’m well aware. I had three husbands, girl—do you think I don’t know it’s possible to love more than one person in a whole lifetime?” Her grin turned cheeky. “Maybe even in a whole night?”

Agatha didn’t know where to put her eyes. If her face grew any redder she would spontaneously combust and get Agatha-ash all over Miss Coningsby’s parlor rug. She’d never thought of Melliton as a hotbed of lust and debauchery, yet here was one of the village’s revered, respected elders, casually dropping hints about activities that would make a Roman emperor blush.

But there was one vital question to ask: “How did you know about—about me and Mrs. Flood?”

Mrs. Stowe shrugged again. “People talk, dear. There’s been rumors for a while.”

Agatha was aghast. Panic bubbled up in her chest, hot and acidic. “How could they know, when I didn’t?” she blurted. “We just—it was only last night—”

Mrs. Stowe waved this aside. “You’ve spent plenty of time together, and Mrs. Flood’s tendencies are well known by this point. You might as well drop hints about Joanna and Isabella as tell someone Penelope Flood prefers women and expect them to be shocked by the news.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Now how Mr. Kitt feels about Mr. Thomas—that’s a true secret . . .”

“Really?” Agatha breathed, then shook herself. “It’s none of my business,” she said mulishly. “But if people are spreading gossip about me, on the other hand—”

“Pssh, it doesn’t have to hurt you any. People say the same kind of things about Miss Coningsby and me. It’s not true in our case, but that doesn’t stop them saying it.”

“And it’s never done you any harm?” Agatha asked skeptically.

Mrs. Stowe pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t say never . . . But any harm has come from it, is because someone wanted an excuse to hurt us. If they hadn’t a handy excuse, they made one up.” She shrugged. “And the rest of the time, we get to live as we please. Isn’t that the important thing?”

Agatha wasn’t so sure. It nagged at her all the way until the end of the visit, as she collected a rosy-cheeked Eliza and a Sydney who looked far too innocent to portend anything good. Children always looked most angelic when they were up to the most trouble.

Agatha squinted around, trying to deduce from the tracks in the snow if they’d managed to slip out of the garden while she’d been distracted by Mrs. Stowe.

She didn’t notice the handbill at first—it was only a creamy blot against the whiteness all around her. But then a gust of wind caught the edge and made it flutter, and Agatha found herself slowing to read the larger print, and then stopping altogether.

PUBLIC NOTIFICATION, read the largest line of type.

The Melliton Auxiliary Branch of the Society for the Suppression of Seditious Libel and Mendacity offers a bounty of

FIVE SHILLINGS

for information on activities or persons threatening to undertake activities of a seditious, blasphemous, or obscene nature. Anyone with such or similar knowledge may apply to the Reverend Eneas Oliver, JP, Squire Theydon, or His Lordship the Right Hon. Viscount Summerville.

Agatha felt chilled in a way the frigid winter air couldn’t account for. Her eyes ran over and over the text; her ears heard the tearing of paper, and the red of an soldier’s uniform seemed to flicker like consuming flame at the edges of her vision.