Lady Summerville sucked in a gasp.
Mr. Nancarrow shut his mouth, flinching slightly.
“Which statues?” the lady choked out.
“The ones . . . exterior to the house,” the solicitor confirmed miserably, eyes on the printed sheets in his hand.
“The ones where my aunt—where she—with no—with all the . . .” The viscountess’s voice vanished into a horrified whisper.
Mr. Nancarrow ducked his head and tried to sink his long chin protectively against his chest. Either that or embarrassment muffled his voice. “The ones your aunt only showed to select visitors here at the Hall, yes, my lady.”
“The erotic statues,” Mrs. Molesey said loudly and with evident savor.
Lord Summerville let out a hum that rose at the end like a curious question.
The glance his wife sent him could have carved his heart into ribbons before he even had time to bleed.
The vicar went cherry red in the face and cleared his throat. “What about the rest of the estate?” Mr. Oliver asked.
Mr. Nancarrow straightened the papers unnecessarily, still hunched as if bracing himself against a coming storm. “The remainder goes to Mrs. Molesey, with affection, in gratitude for her years of faithful companionship.”
Lady Summerville’s whole body clenched like a fist.
The poet merely inclined her head, evidently unsurprised by this news.
“Along with . . .” Mr. Nancarrow cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. “Along with a diamond snuffbox of particular sentimental value to them both.”
“The Napoleon snuffbox?” For a moment Lady Summerville looked as though she were going to lunge right up from the couch and grab the solicitor by the throat—then she recalled herself and clutched to her husband’s arm as if seeking support. He curled his lip but made no move to dislodge her. “Surely not!” the lady cried. “Surely such a valuable and historic heirloom should remain with a loving member of the family!”
Mrs. Molesey leaned forward in her chair. “You are quick to name yourself family now, are you? Yet you’ve visited only twice in the past ten years, though you live only two towns over.” She narrowed her eyes. “If that’s how family behaves—”
“Ladies, please,” Mr. Oliver broke in, in his best Sunday voice.
Mrs. Molesey bit back whatever accusation she’d planned, glaring fiercely at the interrupter.
The vicar went on, tones rolling around the room like church bells. “Perhaps there has simply been some mistake.” He rose from his chair and approached the desk, smiling gently and holding his hand out for the will. “Surely you got those bequests confused, Mr. Nancarrow? Surely the snuffbox was meant to go to my sister, and the statues to Mrs. Molesey? They are . . . rather more to her taste, I believe.”
The lady in question snorted again at this euphemism.
Mr. Nancarrow’s timidity went icy at this affront to his professional competence. “I assure you, Mr. Oliver, there has been no mistake. Mrs. Abington made herself perfectly clear in this point on several occasions.” Two spots of red appeared in his cheeks. “Though I beg you to spare me from quoting her remarks verbatim.”
“Of course he’s not mistaken,” Mrs. Molesey said with a sharp little laugh. “What would be the point of leaving me all those pretty statues, and nowhere to show them off? But you, Ann—you have such a charming home, with so many charming corners to fill. You can place Bella’s artworks where all your charming friends can admire them.”
She laughed harder as Lady Summerville spluttered, and the viscount began to look alarmed at the way his lady’s hand fisted tighter and tighter on his arm, pulling the fabric of his coat dangerously taut.
Mr. Oliver saw this and moved hastily, coming around to his sister’s side and bending down toward her ear for a fiercely whispered conference.
Penelope edged toward the solicitor, who was mopping at his brow with a handkerchief. Poor man, he must have been dreading this. “Was there a bequest for me, Mr. Nancarrow?”
“Hmm?” The solicitor blinked, then basked in relief at having been asked a simple question in a friendly tone. “Oh, did I not say? I am terribly sorry. Let me see . . . yes. You, Mrs. Flood, are bequeathed the Abington beehives. Or rather the care of them, since it specifies they are to remain at Abington.”
“The hives?” Penelope exclaimed.
Mr. Oliver’s head came up, and his surprised eyes met hers.
“But . . .” She swallowed her objections for poor Mr. Nancarrow’s sake. Yet it was such an odd bequest: the vicar was an able beekeeper in his own right, more than capable of handling half a dozen simple skeps in addition to his own more scientific hives.
What on earth had Isabella been playing at?
She retreated to the window again, uncomfortably aware of the vicar’s eyes following her, his expression one of careful, virtuous consternation.
Lady Summerville was whispering in a low hiss like a kettle on the boil, and her husband was blustering back as he tried to free himself from her grip.
Mrs. Molesey was sitting regally back to watch, as if the rest of the party were fools capering to entertain her.
Penelope looked out the window—which had an excellent view of both the bee garden and the maze that held Lady Summerville’s new statue collection—and imagined she could hear Isabella’s mischievous laugh on the wind, one final time.
There was no sweeter privilege of motherhood than knocking at dawn on the door of one’s self-indulgent son, only to observe when the door creaked open that he was spine-shudderingly, knee-wobblingly, and stomach-churningly hungover.
“Good morning, my dear,” Agatha trilled extra-brightly, smugness wrapping around her like a warm, comforting shawl.
Sydney managed a pained whimper in response. Heavens, but he looked like he’d been turned inside out and then back again and his skin no longer hung quite correctly on his bones.
Agatha let her voice turn syrup-sweet. “What say I make you something special for breakfast? Kippers and bacon? Eggs and gravy? Jellied eel in a brandy sauce?”
Sydney’s face went from white to green and then gone, as he slammed the door in her face—presumably to have a private tête-à-tête with his chamber pot.
The slam of the door and Agatha’s full-throated cackle brought Eliza blinking out of her room, leaning on the door and peering around into the hall. “Ma’am?”
“You’ll have to run the shop today,” Agatha told her. “Sydney’s a little the worse for wear, and I must drive to Melliton with the Crewe silk samples.” Yesterday she had set one of the newer apprentices, Jane, to cutting the bolt of shimmering brocade into precise squares, ready to be tipped in with the printed pages and bound with the magazine.
It had been one of Thomas’s best ideas, including fabric from all the finest weaving works—not only silks, but wool and chintzes and patterned calicos, and the occasional lush velvet in winter. It also gave them an excuse to solicit advertisements from London modistes, to tempt ladies who wanted something more complex or ambitious than their own needles and skills could supply.
“Of course, ma’am,” Eliza said, tucking an errant lock behind her ear. “Will you be stopping over in Melliton?”