The fox likeness of Orator Hunt is, I think, particularly good.
Reverence for the Queen is suddenly the standard by which public figures are to be judged in the public eye. Lord Wellington was accosted by the throng and forced to declare Caroline innocent—“and may all your wives be like her,” he is said to have added. Jubilant mobs have been breaking windows in the palaces of the mighty—unless said windows blaze with candles in her honor. Flags and cheers and laurels greeted the Queen at every point between Dover and London.
The rumors of her infidelity are in all the streets cried down as scandalous—especially considering the King’s own well-known penchant in that direction—and her innocence is trumpeted even (perhaps especially) by those who really ought to know better. The city at all hours is full of shouts and songs in the common quarters, while the gentry board their doors and prepare as if for invasion.
In France the revolution began by bringing down a queen; here in England, we may well begin by lifting one up.
Griffin
My dear Griffin,
Believe me, the evening conversations in the Four Swallows have touched on little but Queen Caroline for weeks. Every proclamation, every public letter she writes is cast over for secret messages to her fellow radicals and revolutionaries—for many of the locals have no trouble believing that a woman raised in the lap of luxury is somehow also speaking to and for poor farmers and artisans like themselves. The announcement that her name was to be struck from Church liturgy has offended the more devout parishioners more than I believe the King realizes.
Even Lady S, Melliton’s staunchest and most loyal monarchist, has been heard to murmur support for the Queen: Her Majesty is a woman wronged, a mother deprived of her child, a wife denied her due titles and the respect of her proper rank. Some of this is very difficult to argue against—though, considering the source, one very much still wants to.
However, it is another queen entirely I must write to you about. Your hive is nearly ready with their first honey harvest of the summer! If you’d be able to make your way to Melliton for the occasion, you might enjoy, as you said, making off with the fruits of their labor.
I do hope you’ll come.
Flood
Well, what else could Agatha do but agree? She made arrangements for Eliza and Sydney to run the print-shop for two days, sent a note asking Mrs. Stowe if she wouldn’t mind having a guest for a night, and gathered up this month’s silk samples to take with her again.
At least she could be efficient that way. Or so she told herself. Though such small economies had never made her heart race or her hands fidget like this before.
The drive to Melliton was even more interminable than the last. But at length it did end, and she pulled up to the print-works beside the river, and there was Mrs. Penelope Flood, in trousers and a man’s old jacket, turning from her wheelbarrow to grin at Agatha as she handed the horse’s reins over to young Ashton.
Agatha almost had to step back, as that smile hit her with all the force of a blow.
Mrs. Flood’s eyes were sky blue. Had Agatha forgotten, or simply not noticed? Her grin was wide and warm, and her gold-and-silver curls tossed lightly in the soft morning breeze.
Agatha gasped through the vise squeezing her chest as the reality stole her breath: this was no longer the face of a stranger, but of a friend and confidante.
“Mrs. Griffin!” Mrs. Flood gave a little laugh and held out a hand.
Agatha took it, unable to resist. Palms clasped warmly together, then Mrs. Flood let go. Agatha’s skin chilled at once—too soon. She’d barely had time to register the touch.
“Mrs. Flood,” she said. Surely it was the dust of the road that had her voice sounding so low and rough. “So good to see you again.”
“You as well. Are you ready to harvest your first honey crop?” Mrs. Flood asked. “Or do you have things to see to first?”
Agatha looked behind her. Mr. Downes had already begun directing the journeymen to unload the silk samples from the wagon. He met her gaze and nodded, dark, curly hair bobbing, to let her know he could take things over from here.
Agatha flexed her hands to stop their shaking and turned back to Mrs. Flood. “Where do we start?”
Mrs. Flood cocked her head. “You change, if you’re going to be working with the bees.” When Agatha hesitated, Mrs. Flood pulled several garments out of a bag in her wheelbarrow. “I usually borrow my brother’s things, as he’s near my height, but as you are a fair bit taller, I’ve brought you some of Mr. Flood’s to wear for the occasion.”
They were sturdy garments but not shabby: a light sailor’s jacket in deep blue, a linen shirt, and a pair of country trousers.
Agatha hesitated, conscious of the weight of her skirts and the eyes of her curious employees. “I am a respectable widow, Mrs. Flood.”
“The bees don’t care about that at all, Mrs. Griffin,” Mrs. Flood said, but then went on in a quieter tone. “I understand if it seems improper—but bees have a terrible habit of getting caught in skirts and petticoats, and stinging one badly in self-defense. Better to be safe, if a little eccentric, than to suffer so much unnecessary pain. And the bees don’t know you yet—when you’re better acquainted, you’ll be able to dress more as you’re used to doing.”
Agatha accepted the clothing with hands made awkward by novelty. “Better safe than stung,” she said, more bravely than she felt.
Mrs. Flood laughed, and Agatha’s heart jolted to hear it. “Exactly right.”
She changed in Mr. Downes’s office. It was odd, undoing the buttons on her brown cotton and putting a man’s long shirt over her light stays. The jacket buttoned high but hung rather loose, and the trousers bagged down to the knees and tucked easily into the tops of Agatha’s own leather boots—which were tough enough to deal with London cobbles, and so could probably weather a day or two on the soft earth of Melliton’s roads and fields.
