The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,99
find a spouse or lose one . . .” She swallowed, thinking of the friends who’d just seemed to vanish after Thomas’s death. “And suddenly you’re in a whole new set of people. As though everyone’s moving in carefully plotted circles—like a dance, rings within rings within rings.”
“Who’s calling the figures?” Penelope murmured drowsily.
“No one. Who could possibly?”
“No wonder it’s all chaos, then.” Penelope sighed, and shifted, and before long her breathing turned deep and even, the unmistakable rhythm of well-deserved sleep.
Agatha pressed her face into Penelope’s hair, protectiveness like a tide washing through her. All at once she had so much more to lose than she’d started the holiday with. It would probably have been safer if she’d never gone to bed with Penelope Flood at all.
She couldn’t dredge up even a single atom of regret. But she did make herself a silent promise, as the moonlight crept across the carpet: she would do everything in her power to keep anyone, in city or country, from hurting Penelope Flood.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Agatha dragged on her gray dress the next morning, fuzzy-minded, sore in unspeakable places. She washed her face with lukewarm water, and rubbed her winter-cracked hands with some of the balm Penelope had made for her. The scent of lemons and honey rose around her like a halo in the morning sunlight, and as her nose and mouth filled with that sharp summer scent, Agatha came to an abrupt decision.
She could, and arguably should, attach herself to Sydney and Eliza again. Hound them over hill and dale across the town. Trap them in corners of the house under an ever-waking and mistrustful eye.
But she wasn’t going to.
She had business with Mr. Downes at the print-works. And while she could have tried to insist Sydney come with her, to give him grounding in the business he would someday have to inherit . . . well, to be perfectly honest, she was tired. The amount of effort she knew she’d have to expend in getting him to accompany her did not seem worth the paltry reward of his sullen, silent companionship.
She went down to breakfast, and asked Penelope to walk out with her instead.
The sky had cleared again but the snow still lay glittering on the ground, sparkles dancing in the corners of Agatha’s eyes whenever she turned her head. Icicles hung from eaves and branches like diamond spears. Sunlight glowed on the greenery over windows and doorways, and made red holly berries shine like rubies.
Agatha gloried in all of it, and stopped in one snow-shrouded hollow of the wood outside the town to kiss Penelope beneath the boughs until both their cheeks were flushed and rosy.
The steam press was hard at it again, pouring white smoke into the cold blue sky. It was toasty enough inside that Agatha and Penelope had to shed their coats.
“Mr. Downes!” Agatha called.
The print-works foreman looked up from where he was checking the latest proofs from the apprentices’ compositing. “Mrs. Griffin,” he said with a nod. “How are your holidays going?”
“Splendid,” Agatha replied, “until I noticed a certain handbill that has lately gone up around town.”
“Yes, I’ve meant to tell you about that,” Mr. Downes hurried to say. His grin was proud and eager, not a whit of guilt about it.
“Did you not think to ask me about it before undertaking the job, Mr. Downes?” Agatha shot back, in her sharpest tone.
He paused, blinking. “I thought there would be no reason you would turn it down.” He dismissed the apprentice, and turned to face Agatha fully, tugging his rolled shirtsleeves back down over his forearms. “It seemed like a good way to use up all the spare paper we had left when you cancelled that last run of the Widow Wasp.”
Agatha’s stomach lurched. So instead of printing seditious ditties, she was profiting off people making threats against Penelope Flood’s friends and neighbors. She hadn’t enjoyed being threatened by the soldiers; she wanted no part in making anyone else feel that same sick, powerless fear. “I appreciate your ingenuity,” she said tightly, “but I must ask you to refuse any future jobs from Lady Summerville, or any other member of the Mendacity Society.”
Mr. Downes’ brows flew up like startled dragonflies. “Why, Mrs. Griffin?”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Because it’s my press, not Lady Summerville’s, and I have the right to say how it’s employed.”
“But . . .” Mr. Downes was sputtering now with bafflement. “But there was plenty of room in the queue . . . and the rates