Well, Penelope was humble enough in the instep that few of the high-born people in this room really noted what she did. And she wasn’t afraid of grief. She plucked a few small morsels from the sideboard and cut directly through the crowd to the bench.
“When did you eat last?” she asked Mrs. Molesey, then shook her head. “Never mind—you should eat something now.”
The poet accepted the offering of bread and cold meat, and even nibbled on a corner of a slice.
Penelope’s spirits rose. “You can have my cider if you want it.”
“No, thank you—I’ve a thin enough rein on my control at the moment, which spirits would undo entirely,” the lady murmured, the rich timbre of her voice rougher than Penelope had ever heard it. One corner of that long mouth tilted up. “Unless you want me to lose all control of my tongue. If I wanted to, I could send up such a shriek as would whiten the hair of every prune-faced hypocrite trying to playact plain and honest sorrow.”
Penelope cast an instinctive glance at Lady Summerville, who was indeed pursing her lips and relentlessly projecting an air of winsomely-carrying-on-through-near-collapse that would have done credit to any ingenue on the stage.
The poet caught the direction of her gaze, and leaned close. “Yes, to look at her you’d never guess how truly eager she is to punt me out of the house and take her aunt’s place. She expects to inherit everything, as Bella’s only living relative. Well, aside from Mr. Oliver—but he’s quite comfortable in the vicarage, I’m sure. He’s certainly richer than his sister and her lord, the title notwithstanding.” Mrs. Molesey’s chuckle was half creak, as though long disused. “I do hope she’ll give me time to change before she evicts me, at least. Black is an impossible color for traveling.”
Penelope’s laugh was helpless and far too loud. It paused all conversation and set every eye rolling her way.
She could see their thoughts as though they were written in the air: that Penelope Flood again—can she never be serious for a moment? She took a long pull of cider, blushing painfully, and smoothed at her skirts with her free hand.
The murmur of polite conversation rose up again like the tide.
Mrs. Molesey’s smile deepened enough to dimple. “So at least now they have someone else’s behavior to cluck about. Thank you, Mrs. Flood.”
Her cheeks burned. “It was the least I could do.”
The poet took another absentminded bite of bread, and Penelope bit her lip to prevent herself from saying something encouraging about it. Judging by her earlier declaration, Mrs. Molesey was liable to take to fasting just for the sake of being contrary. Her emotions ran volatile, though deep and true. Penelope could just see her reclining on an antique chaise in Grecian robes, head tilted proudly, one hand tragically on her brow, reciting shiversome verses about wasting away until death reunited her with her lost love.
Penelope had loved a few people in her time—but she’d never loved anybody to such poetic heights. That was the one thing she’d truly envied Isabella Abington and Joanna Molesey: not the adventures, not the fame, not even the artistic success both women had found. Maybe they all came as a set, and one couldn’t lay claim to a devoted, passionate love without flinging oneself into the world and hunting it down.
Penelope was the furthest thing from a hunter. She should probably resign herself to her fate: furtive affairs and transitory dalliances. And fewer and fewer of those as the years went on. Oh, and an absent husband—so long and so frequently absent that she tended to forget Mr. Flood even existed. And theirs had certainly not been a love match, in any case.
The sweet-tartness of the cider burned like acid on her tongue.
Mr. Nancarrow, the most expensive of Melliton’s solicitors, approached the sofa to interrupt Penelope’s gloomy reverie. His narrow face was set in its gentlest expression, but there was no softening the sharp angles of his chin and cheekbones. He bowed low and said: “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Molesey, Mrs. Flood, but I must ask you to step into the library with me for the reading of the will.”
“Both of us?” Penelope asked, surprised. She’d known Isabella had liked her, but enough to be included in the bequests?
“Both, please,” confirmed Mr. Nancarrow.
Penelope drained her cider and followed obediently as the solicitor led the way to the study, collecting Mr. Oliver and Lord and Lady Summerville along the way.
Chapter Two
The library was the primary battlefield in the war between order, as represented by the housekeeper and her strictly trained staff, and chaos, as embodied solely but sensationally by Joanna Molesey. Stacks of books the poet pulled out for use in her writing would be cruelly tidied away before she was finished with them; as a counterattack, she would rearrange selected shelves in unusually frustrating ways and see how long it took Mrs. Bedford to notice the Shakespeare volumes were out of order because Joanna had set them alphabetical by first line, or reshelved the history section in order of ascending length of title.
Today it looked as though Mrs. Molesey was carrying the war: half the Shakespeare was off the shelf and strewn about the room, and Penelope recognized a goodly number of volumes of Byron, Herrick, Moody, Dante, and Donne on the grand oak desk before Mr. Nancarrow shifted them so he could sit with his hands barristerially folded in front of him.
Viscount Summerville immediately sprawled on the sofa with a whoosh of breath like a horse just come from a hunt. He was a mass of muscle and heartiness, from the wind-tousled auburn hair to the ruddy cheeks. His wife took a seat beside him; he shifted to ensure they weren’t touching. Not out of any concern for propriety, Penelope knew—rumors said his lordship had a mistress and three children two towns over, and that he spent as much time away from home as he possibly could.
Perhaps that was why Lady Summerville had always guarded her status as if it were rare porcelain. She had a great deal of venom to pour on those who failed to treat her with proper care, as though her position and authority were one chip away from a shatter.
Mr. Oliver pulled out a spindly chair next to his sister, patting her hand solicitously, and Mrs. Molesey settled into her usual armchair as if it were a throne. Her face was serene, but Penelope saw how her hands clenched and unclenched on the riveted plush of the arms.
Penelope made her way over to the window, where she could stay more or less out of the way and steal glances at the garden all the while.
At least it shouldn’t take terribly long. The Abingtons had been absurdly rich in prior centuries, when the hall had been built, but the family had been in decline for generations, and now both their fortunes and their family tree were decidedly scanty.
Mr. Nancarrow picked up the papers with a look of dread as if he spoke at his own funeral, not his client’s. After the usual introductory statements—Penelope half listened while watching the clouds scudding across blue sky—the solicitor harrumphed a little for fortitude and moved on to the essential clauses.
“Mrs. Abington left behind a sum of two thousand, three hundred and forty-seven pounds, as well as Abington Hall. Fifty pounds will go to Mr. Oliver, Miss Abington’s nephew. The house and grounds will go to Lord and Lady Summerville, along with . . .” He took a breath, then plunged forward. “. . . Along with the collection of statues in the sculpture garden.”