Unless ’twas one another.
They wed one bonny summer’s day
And deemed the match successible—
But the lass was seen to turn pure green
When he wore his Inexpressibles!
As he walked up and down the town
Every maid’s eye turned to goggle
At calves and thighs of marvelous size
All in those buckskins coddled.”
The sly gesture Mr. Kitt made while singing along withcoddledmade Agatha snort half a tankard’s worth of ale up her nose. Listeners hooted approval. More halfpennies rang out against the wall.
Nell grinned acknowledgment and the song went on:
“She chose her day of vengeance well,
By her spouse it went unguessable:
In she did stride, he almost died—
She wore his Inexpressibles!
He hollered up and down the lane
A-cursing her uncladness
She shouted higher, ‘It’s your attire
That drove me to this madness.’
Whene’er the row began to fade
Another shout revived it
When dawn appeared, the town crept near
To see who had survived it.
The wife emerged all bathed in smiles,
Her joy quite irrepressible
Sprawled out in bed, poor husband said:
‘She wore out me Inexpressibles!’”
Half the crowd was shouting along by the end, from the young farmers’ wives to the old salted sailors. The piece was clearly a local favorite—Agatha’d heard and printed a great many ballads in her time, but never this one. She cheered and clapped until her hands ached, and when Nell’s son came around with the broadsides she pulled out a halfpenny of her own and asked him for a lyrics sheet.
He shook his head. “That’s one of Mum’s own. Never been printed. I’ve got ‘Jenny of the High-Way’ or ‘The Milk-Maid’s Complaint,’ if you like.” He brandished samples of ballad sheets and caricatures, some plain black ink, others painfully bright with cheap color.
Agatha glanced down at the sheets, and with a little start realized many of them were Griffin’s printings, from the London workshop. She glanced at Mrs. Flood. “Can I ask you for one more introduction?”
