The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows

by Olivia Waite

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was an entirely frustrating thing to attempt to supervise two young people resentful of your intrusive presence, while trying not to make obvious calf’s-eyes at the woman who’d fucked you senseless the night before.

  After lunch, Penelope calmly announced her intention of taking an afternoon nap—with a twinkle in her eye that Agatha deeply mistrusted, but didn’t dare call attention to in company.

  Sydney dared to look hopeful, the worm. “Eliza and I were planning on going for a walk into town,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Agatha said viciously, and earned herself a double glare by continuing, “I believe I’ll join you. We ought to call on your grandmother.” Mrs. Stowe and Miss Coningsby had been invited to the festivities at Fern Hall, but of course Miss Coningsby wouldn’t come, and Mrs. Stowe wouldn’t come without Miss Coningsby.

  Judging by the gloomy look Eliza sent Sydney, which Agatha caught from the corner of her eye while they were donning cloaks and bonnets in the front hallway, a chaperone and a visit to elderly relatives were not how the couple had planned to spend their afternoon.

  Too bad. If they were determined not to wed, Agatha would give them no quarter for temptation. There was simply too much at stake, for all of them.

  They bid farewell to Captain Stanhope and Mr. Flood, stopped partway to town to bid a quick Merry Christmas to Mr. Thomas and Mr. Kitt, who shared lodgings on the outskirts of the village proper, and then made their way to the high street. All Melliton was decked out in furze and greenery, bright against the velvet of snow and the sparkle of frost. Miss Coningsby let them in with a shy hello, poured hot cider for everyone, and then vanished upstairs, overwhelmed by the unwonted number of people.

  Mrs. Stowe was enthroned in the window seat, cocooned in shawls, only a bare few panes of glass separating her from her slumbering, snow-shrouded garden. She curved her gnarled hands around her cup of cider and smiled through the steam. “And a very merry holiday to you, my dears.”

  Sydney, bless him, lasted nearly a quarter of an hour before asking: “Can I show Eliza your beehives, Gran?”

  “So long as you don’t wake any of my bees,” Mrs. Stowe allowed, and the two young visitors hurried to wrap themselves up again and tramp through the unblemished snow outside the window.

  The two older women watched them, suspicions blooming from the mother and amusement from the grandmother. “Young Eliza seems sweet enough,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Why do your eyes go all daggers when you look at her?”

  Agatha flinched, hating that she was so obvious. “They told me they’re not going to wed,” she said.

  “No accounting for taste,” Mrs. Stowe said with a rueful shrug.

  “They have every intention of carrying on as if they’re married, though,” Agatha added tartly. “They seem to think that’s more 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. She forced herself to take a deep breath, in and out—and then, as her eyes ran over the text for the hundredth time she realized something new that snapped her back to alertness.

  The typeface. Twenty-point Baskerville, with a chip in the lower serif of the capital L.

  This handbill had been printed on Griffin’s own press, right here in Melliton.

  She fought the urge to spin on her heel, march straight down to the print-works, and demand to know when this job had been authorized. It would do no good:
the shop and warehouse were closed up until tomorrow, a holiday break for the pressmen.

  Tomorrow, she could go and make some sharp inquiries of Mr. Downes.

  She balled her hands in her skirts to keep the hem clear of the snow—god, but she missed her old trousers—and hurried to close the distance to where her son and her apprentice walked with hands almost touching.

  It did lift her furious heart to see how dismayed they looked, and how they moved slightly farther apart, when she closed the distance. The trio stomped silently homeward, snow crunching and frost grinding beneath the unhappy rhythm of their boots.

  Anger and impatience were a volatile combination, especially when one was trying not to ruin a holiday. Agatha buzzed inside like an angry hive the rest of the day, through Mrs. Braintree’s dinner and after, when Captain Stanhope and Mr. Flood regaled them with tales of the dazzling Arctic city of Smeerenburg. Eliza and Sydney were defiantly merry, dancing riotously to the captain’s shanties until Penelope’s boisterous brother threw up his hands and laughingly pleaded exhaustion.

  They retired to bed. Agatha paced her bedroom floor, and noticed the gentle sound of a door opening, about an hour after everyone else had gone silent. A rumble in Captain Stanhope’s usual key followed, harmonizing with lighter notes in Mr. Flood’s softer tones. The door shut, and silence reigned again.

  Agatha paced for another number of minutes, as many as she could stand. Then she slipped to the connecting door and tapped softly with one fingernail. The door opened at once, Agatha darted in, the door closed—and Agatha was backed up against the wall with her arms around warm, plump Penelope Flood.

  Oh, an armful like this was worth any amount of trouble.

  Penelope’s mouth was hot and hungry. She wore her night rail, and a gray woolen wrapper against the chill, but she’d left the wrapper open so Agatha’s hands could roam the rolling dips and valleys of her body. The shorter woman tore her mouth away on a gasp when Agatha’s hand plunged into the neck of her night rail and cupped possessively around the soft weight of her breast. “Christ, Griffin,” she groaned, warm breath against Agatha’s throat. “What kept you?”

  “No idea,” Agatha groaned back. All her rage and frustration became mere kindling, and sent her blazing up now with love and lust and a need so sharp it was almost painful. She held Penelope tight and devoured her mouth until both women’s joints gave way, and they slid down to the floor in a panting, grasping tumble of linen and limbs.

  Penelope’s knee landed hard on the bare floorboards and she cursed, then bit her lip and made a face. “This was easier when I was younger,” she muttered.

  “I know just how you feel,” Agatha chuckled between kisses. And she did. A good hard fuck took a toll on a body at forty-five years of age. She could still feel last night aching in her muscles, and knew it would be even more noticeable tomorrow.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Agatha remembered when she’d gloried in smooth, unlined skin and the dewy litheness of youth. Now everything had relaxed, and folded, and new spots seemed to show up without warning, as though she were a potato left too long unattended in a cellar.

  But Penelope—she had folds in the same places, and creases, and skin that had slackened and gone delicate with age. She was round where Agatha was rangy, but her body also bore the marks of her years, and it was glorious to behold. Agatha tugged Penelope’s hem up higher and higher, the better to see everything beneath, to learn it better than she knew her own body. Every freckle, every fold was somewhere to press wondering fingers, every roll was made to fit the greedy span of Agatha’s palm.

  Penelope’s small teeth bit down on Agatha’s earlobe, and what little remained of her patience went up in absolute smoke. “I hope you want it fast, Flood,” she rasped, her voice all but choked from desire.

  “And hard,” Penelope replied, in an eager tone that sent lightning skipping down every one of Agatha’s nerves. Penelope pulled back, grinning wickedly, with a light in her eyes that made Agatha catch her breath. “Can I show you something?”

  “Anything,” Agatha breathed. But she was still surprised when Penelope pulled a small box from her bedside table and opened it up to reveal . . . well, a respectably sized dildo made from sleek walnut. It gleamed cheekily in the candlelight as Penelope lifted it from the box’s protective padding. “Good god, Flood, where on earth did you get that?”

  “Believe it or not, this was a present from Harry after he made captain,” Penelope said. “Nantucketers call it a he’s-at-home. ‘Every whaler’s wife should have one,’ he said.” She patted the smooth surface with familiar affection.

  Agatha narrowed her eyes and purred, “And you would like me to use it on you.”

  Penelope quivered visibly. “Yes, please.”

  The breathiness in her reply hooked under Agatha’s skin and set her pulse to staccato. She took the wooden phallus in hand and rose to her feet. “On the bed, then,” she said, putting steel into her tone.

  It had been a guess, but it was a good one: Penelope scrambled to obey, flinging her wrapper over the nearest chair and stretching out on her side on the bed. Her bosom plumped up gorgeously against her arm beneath the night rail, and she winked when she caught Agatha staring. “There’s oil in the box,” she said with a grin.

  Agatha retrieved the small jar of unscented oil and set it on the bedside table. Penelope rolled onto her back and flung her arms up over her head, arching so her nightclothes revealed even more of her ample curves beneath the linen. Eagerness was written in every panting breath, in the way her legs moved softly up and down against one another beneath her skirt.

  Agatha felt heat sizzle along the back of her neck, and down her arms to her fingertips. It was warmer in here than it had been last night—Penelope must have stoked the fire in the hearth a little higher in anticipation. The warmth in the air, the untied wrapper . . . She’d done as much as possible to ensure everything was ready for when Agatha slipped secretly into her room in the night.

  Agatha was strongly inclined to reward such thoughtfulness. Especially if it meant she got to fuck Penelope Flood good and hard.

  She held the dildo regally, put all the command she could into her voice, and said: “Strip.”

  Penelope yanked her night rail over her head, while Agatha examined the dildo more closely. It had a good weight and feel against her hand, silken-smooth with a rope-like series of twists at the base that made it easy to grip and turn.

  She wrapped her fingers around it and looked back at Penelope, who was now entirely, wonderfully nude and wriggling on top of the blankets on the bed. Her hand slipped down to her own sex, stroking lightly.

  Agatha grinned wickedly. “Impatient, are we?”

  “Yes, we bloody well are,” Penelope responded tartly.

  Agatha used her free hand to pinch the nearer nipple, and Penelope gasped. Agatha’s own nipples went tight at the sound. “A little wider, if you please,” she murmured.

  Penelope’s knees fell open, and she gulped for air.

  Agatha put her free hand on Penelope’s thigh, holding her in place, and bent low. She deliberately let her breath skate over the other woman’s soft and quivering belly as she said, “Are you sure you’re ready to be fucked already?”

  Penelope squeaked. “Very,” she said, her tone halfway a whine. “I may have started a little early. On my own.”

  Agatha snorted out a laugh. “How very naughty of you.”

  Penelope’s hand worked faster, playing between her legs. “Are you going to punish me for it?”

  “God, no,” said Agatha with feeling, watching those strong fingers slide up and down her lover’s beautiful pink-and-gold pussy. “Why on earth would I punish you for wanting?”

  As Penelope watched with a burning gaze, Agatha poured a little oil into her palm and slicked it over the flared wooden head. She felt like a pagan priestess, clad only in linen and firelight, standing over a willing sacrifice. Penelope squirmed and licked her lips as Agat
ha knelt between her knees on the bed. She ran the head of the dildo up and down those glistening folds, making sure everything was properly slicked up for the purpose.

  “Agatha . . .” Penelope pleaded.

  “Patience, love,” Agatha murmured, teasingly. She pressed one palm against Penelope’s thigh to keep her spread, stroking the skin a little as she felt the muscles twitching and straining there. With the other hand, she slid the walnut dildo through her lover’s dewy curls, found her opening, and gently pushed.

  Penelope gasped, and breathed in, and whimpered.

  Agatha pressed on, working the dildo in slowly but surely, feeling out the angles and learning by heart the ones that made Penelope’s blue eyes go wide above her flushed cheeks. Those eyes flashed up at Agatha with clear avidity. “I thought you wanted it fast?” Penelope panted.

  Agatha smiled and thrust the dildo fully home, all the way to where the grip on the base prevented it from moving farther.

  Penelope’s groan was delicious, low and resonant as a bell.

  Agatha’s whole body chimed in harmony. “Fast,” she agreed, “but not too rough.” She slid the toy back and forth, twice, just to hear Penelope sigh—then took both hands away and stepped back from the bed. “Now don’t you move.”

  Penelope muttered half-serious curses in protest but clutched at the bedclothes and held still, as Agatha methodically stripped off her own night rail. And folded it. Carefully. One billowing bit at a time. As the hearth light flickered over her nakedness.

  By the time she turned back to face Penelope, she was shivering a little—but what really shook her was the open, helpless hunger on Penelope Flood’s face. “If you don’t hurry,” Penelope pouted, “I’m going to take matters into my own hands.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Agatha retorted, but hurried back to the bed and grasped the base of the dildo again, pumping it sweetly back and forth.

  “Mmm . . .” Penelope moaned teasingly.

  But Agatha was done teasing. She gripped the flaring base of the wood and thrust hard.