The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows

by Olivia Waite

  Bless the woman, it came swiftly.

  My dear Flood,

  My bed is far too big now for just one person. We must get you to London sometime—I’ll be visiting Melliton next week, of course, but that’s seven whole nights from now.

  Imagine what we could get up to in seven entire nights . . .

  And then followed a page of such dazzling and specific lechery that Penelope flushed head to heel. She was briefly worried the letter itself would burst into flame, or the chair beneath her catch fire from the heat that coursed over her skin.

  Such a letter demanded revenge: Penelope sharpened a new quill, closeted herself in the study where no one would see, and wrote back three pages of even more explicit longings.

  And so they went on, torrid promises flying back and forth, a game of wits that was both frustrated teasing and sensual fulfillment. Dreams recounted and embellished. Scraps of the most scandalous verses Penelope had found in her years raiding Isabella’s library. One of Agatha’s letters was simply a series of erotic woodcuts, some of which were old commissions she’d done and some of which she’d carved specially for Penelope—definitely the one where two tiny and extremely nude figures embraced, framed in vines and flowers, as a swarm of lazy bees bejeweled the sky around them.

  The correspondence was punctuated by visits where Agatha and Penelope acted out as many of those shared fantasies as desire and physical stamina would allow. As the weather warmed and winter thawed into spring, they began walking the bee circuit again, finding time in the hollows and dells for a little discreet love play beneath the boughs and blossoms.

  It would have been a halcyon time—were it not for the regular pricks and stings of the Mendacity Society, whose presence was becoming more and more of a goad in the town.

  Harry was fined for swearing, then fined again when he swore before the magistrates; Miss Felicia Plumb was questioned at length about the origin of the lace on her attire—which it transpired she’d made herself, with months of painstaking effort; Mr. Koskinen was penalized for fishing on a Sunday morning. Mr. and Mrs. Biswas kept closer to each other than ever when they served customers at the Four Swallows in the evening, while Mr. Thomas and Mr. Kitt were now careful to always have a third person seated between them.

  As spring advanced, the whole country decked itself out in a festive mood for King George’s approaching coronation. Agatha went exploring in Griffin’s warehouse and brought out plates of antique ballads from the last coronation. Reprinting these was an easy way to keep the Melliton press-works queue full, leaving no gap for Lady Summerville and the Mendacity Society to sidle into.

  I feel like such a hypocrite, Agatha wrote after a few months had passed. To spend so much of my time dreaming about you, while disapproving of Sydney and Eliza. They have put a little distance between them, to placate me, but their misery is contagious and we’re all in a sad state. Sydney spends even more time out of the house than before—and Eliza, even though I appreciate her efforts and her skill at managing the contributors, spends far too many of her hours escaping into endless, anxious work.

  She showed me one set of etchings for the upcoming issue of the Menagerie: frock designs for the coronation Herbwoman and her attendants. White gowns in cream silk net, with crosswise garlands of green leaves and pink roses, also in silk. It put me strongly in mind of what you Melliton ladies wore to Brandenburg House, not even a year ago. And yet the same color scheme that spoke so loudly of support for the Queen back then is now a prominent feature of the coronation of her loathed royal husband!

  I would venture to guess that the fashionable ladies involved in this particular ceremony are too high in the instep to be aware of the meaning of the color scheme. Except that it appeared so often in the caricatures—and there were plenty of high-born folk at Brandenburg that day, punting down the river and cheering for Revolution and Reform.

  Perhaps all that rebellion was only a season’s amusement for them, as easily changed as a hat or a pair of gloves.

  It pains me when I think back to that day. I was never a reformer. I mistrust revolution—the people who call for one never seem to consider how many people have to die in them. But for one wild moment, I had hope that things might alter for the better, simply because people decided they should.

  Looking back, I marvel at such naivete. Surely a mature woman of nearly five decades should have learned this lesson before now?

  Penelope wrote back:

  I know just what you mean. Lady Summerville, who was so willing to lead us to parade on the Queen’s behalf, has been holding more and more teas and luncheons in support of the King. Lady S seems to think that the actual ceremony will somehow transform him from the decadent prince we know he’s been into the virtuous king he ought to be. As though he will treat power any differently now that it’s officially his to wield. To my bafflement, this seems to be a common opinion, which otherwise reasonable people are willing to believe. Mrs. Koskinen turns almost purple every time someone repeats it, and I can’t blame her.

  It troubles one’s sleep. And there are so many better reasons for sleeplessness—for instance . . .

  The heightened attention to royal feasting and finery was a goad to the reformers among the Melliton folk. Talk about corruption and the government spiked bitterly—though not where any of the Mendacity Society could easily overhear.

  Mr. Thomas was muttering darkly on just this subject one evening at the Four Swallows. Harry egged him on, to John’s amusement, while Nell Turner played instrumental tunes on her guitar, perched on a stool in the front left corner—Penelope was happy to be squeezed up on the back bench beside Agatha, thigh against thigh, as the music and the familiar arguments swirled in the air around her.

  They all jumped when the door banged open. There on the tavern’s threshold stood a tall and slender man: dark hair tousled by the wind, hands braced to either side, his form framed portrait-perfect in the doorway.

  Nell looked up and her finger slipped; one jarringly wrong note marred the tune, until she recovered herself and determinedly redoubled her volume.

  The audience went quiet—not precisely silent, but conversations trailed away and benches creaked as people shifted their weight. Eyes grew narrow, and a ripple went through the crowd as people turned to make sure they had a view.

  Agatha leaned closer to Penelope. “Who’s this?” she breathed in her ear.

  Penelope’s mouth pinched. “Mr. Turner,” she replied. “Nell’s husband.”

  “I see.” Agatha quirked a brow and considered the new arrival. Her frown showed she didn’t like the conclusions she’d drawn. “Odds that he’s here to grab a quick pint and enjoy himself?”

  “Rather slim.”

  “Thought so.”

  Mr. Biswas had been bending down in the far corner, listening to Mr. Painter complain about curried lamb pies not being English enough. The barman straightened now, and though he smiled, there was a challenge in it. “Mr. Turner,” he said, loud enough to be heard over Nell’s determined strumming. “This is a surprise.”

  Penelope leaned forward to whisper to Mr. Thomas. “I thought Mr. Biswas banned him from the pub. What’s he doing back? Did he get barred from every tavern in all of London, too?”

  “Doubt it—why would he go to so much trouble?” Mr. Kitt murmured back. “He only gets thrown out of taverns his wife is playing in.”

  Mr. Thomas had a pinched look as he added: “Mr. Scriven tells me he got dismissed from Birkett’s for brawling. Apparently he’d written another play, and showed it to someone, and took it poorly when they didn’t praise it to the skies.”

  The tall man stepped forward, into the tavern proper. He was smiling, a cheerful, self-satisfied expression that made Penelope clench her teeth. “I’m not here for any of your watered-down ale, my good host,” Mr. Turner said, to a small chorus of scornful sounds. He held up one graceful hand with a small bag, and shook it so it jingled. “I’m collecting a subscription for a pair of special co
nstables, on behalf of the Melliton Auxiliary Branch of the Society for the Suppression of Vice and Mendacity.”

  A surprised murmur flickered round the room. Special constables hadn’t been used in Melliton for decades. Not since the last food riots, in fact.

  Mr. Turner winked at Mrs. Biswas, whose face went wooden. “It’s the duty of all good Englishmen to assist the Mendacity Society in their devotion to the law and the crown.”

  “Is Melliton truly such a hotbed of unrest and sedition?” Mr. Biswas said with a snort, though his mouth had gone flat at the mention of the Society.

  Mr. Turner opened his bag and held it out. “There’s an easy way to prove where your loyalty lies.”

  Mr. Biswas scowled, and folded his arms pointedly over his chest.

  Mr. Painter stood up with his nose in the air. “Well, I for one certainly care about the safety and decency of our village.” He sniffed. A trio of copper coins tumbled from his hand into Mr. Turner’s sack. “One for me—and one for our local veterans, who so valiantly defended the Crown on land and sea.” He gestured ostentatiously at Mr. Kitt and Mr. Thomas. “They should not be asked to sacrifice more than they already have.”

  Mr. Kitt started up, face thunderous, but was pulled back to his seat by Mr. Thomas’s hand on his shoulder. Mr. Thomas’s face was a mask of grim disappointment, paler than his wont; Penelope knew he loathed hearing mention of his years in the army, especially among such a crowd.

  Around the room Mr. Turner went, collecting subscriptions from tavern patrons. Some donated with an air of glee in the gesture. Others looked unhappy but handed over a few coins after hearing him tease the ones who refused. Mr. Kitt rose and stomped pointedly out the door when the bag came his way. Mr. Thomas only shook his head; he sat stiffly as if tied to his seat, but there was a wild look to his eye.

  Mr. Turner passed over Harry, John, Penelope, and Agatha as though they weren’t even there.

  Just as he completed his circuit through the bar, and Penelope thought he might be almost done and would actually depart, Mr. Turner turned toward his wife in the musician’s corner by the hearth. “And of course I’ll be taking those, Mrs. Turner,” he said, opening a hungry palm toward the coins Nell had collected in a small bowl at her feet.

  Nell finished her song, drawing out the last notes as though taking a bracing breath. Then, without so much as a glance at her husband, she picked up the bowl, poured her tips into her pocket, and sat on her stool with her hands clutched around her guitar.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Turner. “I see you want me to ask properly.” He bowed and with a flourish went to one knee before the makeshift stage. “Eleanor Turner,” he declaimed, “most loving and generous wife, I ask you to help me show this town the power of true, humble charity, in service of your Christian faith, and good King George.” He held out the subscription bag, as though offering obeisance to a monarch.

  Someone snickered. Agatha Griffin huffed out an irritated breath.

  Nell didn’t look at him. She didn’t move. She looked, Penelope thought, like a woman who knew there were traps all around her, no matter which way she tried to run.

  “No?” Mr. Turner asked, in a voice of wounded surprise. “Think of your neighbors, and how they will whisper of your miserliness. Think of the law, which mandates that those coins you hoard are mine to dispose of as I see fit.” His voice sharpened; instead of a broadsword brandish, it now turned as sharp and intimate as a knife. “What will Arthur say, when I tell him his mother refused to honor his father in such a small request?”

  Nell winced, as this struck home.

  This was too much for Mr. Biswas. “Get out, Mr. Turner,” he growled, making the people nearest him jump in startlement. “You’ve collected your subscriptions—that will have to be enough.”

  “I’ll leave when my wife does, Mr. Biswas,” Mr. Turner said, and put his second knee down. He stayed there, smiling at Nell, as behind him the audience murmured in mingled discomfort and fascination.

  Nell sucked in a breath and began playing—halting notes on the guitar, attempting her usual verve but falling short. Penelope’s heart ached for her; Nell was used to putting on a show for the crowds, but not like this. Not where the entertainment was her humiliation.

  Mr. Biswas moved forward, but stopped when Mr. Painter aggressively cleared his throat.

  Harry and John glanced at each other, and stood up in a single swift motion.

  Mr. Turner had his back to Penelope’s table, so he didn’t see the two men move until they were next to him. Harry’s stocky, sturdy body was fairly vibrating with suppressed anger, while John’s height let him loom over Mr. Turner in a way nobody else in the room could have done.

  Mr. Turner kept his eyes, liquid and soulful, fixed on his wife.

  “Come now,” John said in gentle tones, while Harry bared his teeth in an expression nobody mistook for a smile. “Let her be. We’re all enjoying the music, Mr. Turner.”

  The man’s hands clenched into fists on his knees. “This is private business, Flood, between a proper husband and wife—I’ll thank you not to interfere.”

  Penelope’s stomach twisted at the implied insult. She didn’t dare look away from John, even as Agatha muttered outrage by her side.

  John looked at Harry with a question in his eyes—Harry nodded, and together they reached out to seize Mr. Turner.

  They hauled him to his feet—easy enough, for two sailors, either one of whom outweighed the man they held. Mr. Turner looked right at Penelope, and smiled—that same smug, pleased expression that sent a bolt of pure terror lancing through Penelope’s gut.

  Then he dropped.

  It was so swift and total a collapse that Mr. Turner had to have done it on purpose: his legs simply gave way beneath him. John let go of him in surprise, and Mr. Turner clutched at one arm and began shouting agony and assault.

  It was a shocking performance, and half the crowd whistled and hooted in reaction.

  Mr. Painter bounded forward, sweaty and florid, and after a moment Mr. Turner permitted himself to be helped slowly to his feet. Mr. Painter scooped the subscription bag from the floor, glaring at John, while Mr. Turner put on his best stoic air as he walked toward the door, calling out to be taken to the physician.

  A few scattered hands clapped, and one by one the usual conversations slunk back into the room.

  Penelope walked over to Harry, who was speaking to Nell Turner in low, careful tones. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Do you need a place to stay for the night?”

  “I’ll have to,” she said. “He’ll give me and Arthur no rest tonight if I don’t.” Her eyes were still fixed on the door, as if she expected her husband to return at any moment and harass her further. One hand crept protectively into the pocket where she’d poured tonight’s tips. “I was there when Lady Summerville’s steward asked him to take up the subscription,” she said. “They promised him a cut of however much he brought in. An inducement to exert himself, they said.” Something in her expression hardened, and her singer’s voice burned low and hot, a note in the same key as the fury in Penelope’s chest. “He was going to take everything I’d earned, and give it to people who already have more than enough.”

  “What do you want to do?” Penelope asked.

  “What else?” Nell lifted her head, eyes bright as fire. “I’m going to sing.”

  She grabbed her guitar, moved to the musician’s corner, and plucked the opening notes of “Lady Spranklin.”

  The audience shouted in recognition—cheers mostly, though a few dissonant notes were heard. John began stomping time, and Harry’s voice was—of course—one of the loudest when he joined in as Nell reached the chorus. A few of Mr. Painter’s friends harrumphed and left in a huff.

  Mr. Thomas slipped away, too, shortly after, muttering something about seeing to Mr. Kitt.

  Penelope resumed her seat beside Agatha on the bench. “Well, it could have been worse,” she said, grasping for any sliver of comfort.

>   “It’s going to get worse,” Agatha promised darkly. But all the same, she squeezed hard and didn’t let go when Penelope boldly slipped a hand over hers beneath the table.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Agatha and Penelope were sitting down to a late breakfast the next morning when they were interrupted by a knock at the door and the appearance of a very nervous Jenny. “Mr. Buckley and Mr. Painter, ma’am,” the maid said, teeth worrying her lower lip.

  Mr. Painter Agatha knew—and the dour, square-faced Mr. Buckley she vaguely remembered from church at Christmas. He was clearly in charge, leading the way into the breakfast room with his jaw set and his mouth at an unhappy angle. “Pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Flood. We’re looking for Mrs. Turner, and we heard she was staying here with you.”

  Mrs. Turner was in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Braintree with her distillery. There was a moment where Agatha was sure she could see the words to explain this truth arranging themselves on Penelope’s tongue.

  But then the beekeeper stopped, put on a false, polite smile and said: “And what is it you want with Mrs. Turner?”

  “I’m sorry to say we’ve been asked to bring her before the magistrates,” Mr. Buckley explained.

  Agatha’s appetite vanished. She set her fork aside, tea and toast churning in her stomach.

  Penelope, still smiling, sent her sharp little knife sailing through a piece of pound cake. “Whatever for?”

  Mr. Buckley cast a nervous look at Mr. Painter, then back to the two women. “Her performance last night may have constituted a breach of the peace,” he said. “The justices are holding a special session this morning to inquire into the matter.”

  “That sounds quite serious,” Penelope said sympathetically. Another few stabs of the knife. “But—pardon me for asking—what does it have to do with the two of you?”

  Mr. Buckley’s dour expression doured further.