The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows by Olivia Waite

Author:Olivia Waite
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

The print of Penelope Flood at Brandenburg sold through two printings before the public’s attention moved on. Agatha found this immensely gratifying—not only for her skill as an artist, but also for the way Flood blushed whenever Agatha gently teased her about it.

Summer became fall, and the drones began dying.

“Typical,” said Joanna Molesey. She was wearing black striped with red, which seemed to help her feel more herself again. “The men perish young, and the ladies trudge on toward winter.”

“Plenty of women die too young.” Agatha swirled her glass so the last drops of wine chased each other around and around in the bottom of the bowl.

Joanna’s eyes flashed. “In the race of man, too many hurry to the finish,” she proclaimed.

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Please don’t write poetry in public. It’s not decent.”

Joanna laughed and improvised a second line, her voice falling into cadence like a falcon finding the updraft.

Agatha protested a little more, but only to be contrary. She’d been fully prepared to find the poetess a cynical, tempestuous, sharp-tongued termagant—and Joanna was all those things, without a doubt, but she was also witty, warm, thoughtful, and fiercely principled. She raged out of love, and that lit some answering spark in Agatha’s soul.

Agatha now stayed at Fern Hall whenever she came to Melliton. She would stop by her mother-in-law’s and see if Mrs. Stowe and Miss Coningsby needed anything—Mrs. Stowe’s joints were aching as the weather grew colder, but that was nothing new, and Miss Coningsby was quietly but earnestly relieved to have the house to herself again.

So now there was a small guest bedroom that was essentially Agatha’s own space in Penelope Flood’s house. The blue coat and old trousers lived in a chest of drawers there, having long since become Agatha’s, and with them were stored a few other articles the engraver had brought along for convenience’s sake: a cake of her favorite soap, a spare set of underclothes, and a light wool gown. Just essentials. Not like she was joining the household. Not like she really, truly lived there.

So what if her room directly adjoined Penelope Flood’s? It wasn’t as though Agatha spent any time in bed imagining what Flood was doing on the other side of that wall. In a bed that must have smelled of her, sprawled out warm and soft and sleepy-eyed, as the autumn moonlight danced through the window and spilled onto the antique carpet . . .

Agatha stopped her thoughts before they could betray her further, and set her wineglass down with a sharp click. “Have you had any luck with the Napoleon snuffbox?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“None,” Mrs. Molesey confirmed, with a twist of her lips. “I think our dear vicar has actively begun avoiding me. I caught a glimpse of him from the window when I came up the lane, but when I knocked the housekeeper told me he’d just gone out.” She snorted. “Out the back door, no doubt, as though all Hell’s minions were in pursuit.

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