Mrs. Nell Turner gave the guitar over to her son and shook Agatha’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Agatha replied. “But I have to ask you—how did you come to sell Griffin’s broadsides here in Melliton? I wasn’t aware we had any wholesalers outside of London.”
“My husband works for Birkett’s,” Nell explained. “He brings me the latest ballads when he comes home on his days off.”
“When he remembers,” the younger Turner muttered.
Nell cuffed him softly on the shoulder.
Agatha pulled her sketchbook and pencil out of her pocket. “I wonder if I might interest you in a more direct arrangement...”
A quarter of an hour later Agatha had the lyrics to “His Inexpressibles” jotted down to be set and printed, with more generous payment terms and a new wholesale arrangement for Griffin’s other broadsides, signed with both her name and Mrs. Turner’s.
“That was kind,” Mrs. Flood said, as they waved farewell to their companions and stepped out into the night.
“Kind?” Agatha snorted. “It was business. I plan to sell ‘Inexpressibles’ all over London. And just wait until the plagiarists catch wind of it—they’ll be singing it in Ireland and Scotland by summer’s end, I promise you. And neither Mrs. Turner nor myself will ever see a penny ofthosesales.”
“But she will see quite a few more pennies now, thanks to you.”
Agatha snorted again, but more softly. “Save your compliments for when I’ve done something altruistic, and not merely mutually beneficial. I plan to profit off Mrs. Turner’s clever songs, make no mistake.”
The pub-deafness was wearing off, and she was suddenly aware of how sweet and musical the night was, here just on the edge of the lantern light. The river murmured a lullaby, and the wind sighed harmony in the willow branches.
“Mmm.” In the dimness, Mrs. Flood’s smile was a thin line of gold where the light touched her lips. “Does this mean you’ll be coming to Melliton more often?”
“It might.” Agatha’s throat was dry, adding a low, rough note to her voice. “If Mrs. Stowe will have me.”
“I’ll have you, if she won’t.”
Agatha sucked in a breath.
Penelope Flood turned her face skyward, taking the measure of the moon to see how far along the night had gone. Moonlight and lamplight mingled on her cheeks, silver warring with gold.
On nights like this, standing beside a woman who looked like that, it was extremely trying to remain a respectable widow. Agatha clenched her hands so tight her knuckles creaked.
Mrs. Flood sighed. “I’d best be heading home. Good night, Griffin.”
“Good night, Flood,” Agatha replied. She spun on her heel and strode down the lane, letting the night wind put distance between herself and temptation.
Chapter Seven
The post had been busier than usual in the two days Agatha’d been away. There were letters from the musical reviewer in Paris and the hotelier from the Alps, along with others whose handwriting she didn’t quite know by sight. So much paper, speeding back and forth over land and sea—and it never ended.
TheMenageriewas their bread and butter, Agatha knew—but it still felt stiff and unnatural, like an old suit of armor she had to squeeze herself into. One that pinched at the toes and creaked at the elbows, because it had been made to fit someone else.
She shook herself. Clearly spending too much time with the poetical Penelope Flood was having an effect on her. Suit of armor, indeed. They were words, that was all, simple words on plain paper. Something she’d been doing for three years now.
Three endless, awkward, embarrassing years while she paged through etiquette guides and letter-writing manuals to find ways of saying what she meant in phrases that didn’t sound as blunt and impatient as she felt. It was a dance Thomas had excelled in, but which Agatha had always abhorred. She always had to look up the references, and never felt comfortable adding any unless they came direct from the manuals or etiquette guides. She lacked the will for wordplay or allusion or quotation—or else she lacked a certain fluidity of mind.
Something that youth would be far more adept at, Agatha realized.
She stared thoughtfully at the towering stack of letters and came to a swift, self-serving decision: she would delegate. Was this not precisely what apprentices were for? “Eliza,” she asked the girl working at the table by her side, “how would you like to take over some of theMenageriecorrespondence?”
“Me?” The apprentice looked up from her music plate, her surprise a most imperfect mask for her eagerness. “Write to the lords and ladies?”
“Not yet—let’s start you with the artists and musicians.” Agatha sorted through until she found the most recent letters from the music reviewers who frequently sent pieces in for theMenagerie. “The experts and professionals. They’re quite a bit more entertaining than the lords and ladies, I assure you.”
Eliza accepted the letters as though they were as fragile as baby birds. “Then why do you want to be rid of them, ma’am?”
