Flood nodded. “He and Harry both do, though not directly to me. Whenever they make landfall they both send money to Nathaniel in London: he’s head of the company—Stanhope and Sons, right there on the letterhead—and he takes in the profits from every venture and redistributes them to the shareholders. Of which I am one.”
One of the tight worries banding Agatha’s heart eased a little. “Your father set that up, I assume?”
Flood’s smile was sly and more than a little smug. “We’re a merchant family, Griffin—we know how to take care of our own. I wouldn’t call us wealthy—”
Agatha made a noise of disbelief. “Wealthy folk always say that.”
“—but we enjoy a very comfortable living.” She took another couple of steps, boots scuffing the dirt in the road. “That’s why John married me, you see—only family members can be shareholders.”
She spoke breezily, casually, but Agatha felt that fact strike her like a blow to the belly. Her feet walked on, while her brain went floaty with the realization: Penelope had been married for her fortune. “And John wanted to be a shareholder.”
Flood nodded, eyes on the path. “He and Harry wanted to get a ship together—Harry would captain, and John would come along to manage the books and cargo. He’s extremely good at it. Has a very efficient head for risk and figures, John does.”
“So...” Agatha swallowed against a dry, gravelly throat. “So it was not a love match, then.”
Flood snorted and shook her head, gold curls bouncing. “Not on his part or on mine.” Her voice softened, and her eyes gleamed as they rested on all the greenery around her. “John was terribly relieved, though. He and Harry are... close. Now they’re family in the eyes of the law.”
Agatha’s breath hitched when she caught Flood’s meaning, but she schooled her features swiftly back to nonchalance. She’d been trusted with a secret, here in the greenwood, and she had to let her friend know such trust was not taken lightly. “I’m glad they found their way to happiness,” she said, and paused a moment. “Only...”
“Only what?” Flood’s face was tilted up, watching the play of light through layers of leaves and branches. Gaze directed away, until the topic was not quite so dangerous.
These were delicate waters.
Agatha watched a slender beam of sunlight pass over the planes of her friend’s cheeks. It caught on the soft hair at the corners of her mouth, and the creases that spoke of the years she’d survived. The sight plucked the words from Agatha’s throat, unbidden: “Only it seems to be such a sacrifice foryou, Flood. You deserve better than second place in someone’s affections. You deserve to know what it’s like to be loved by someone who worships the very earth beneath your feet, who adores you for yourself alone—and just what the hell is so damned funny?”
For Flood had stopped walking to double over at the waist, hands braced on her knees, hooting with helpless laughter until the only sound she could make was a strained wheeze.
Agatha planted her hands on hips. “Are you quite done?”
“Oh, Griffin!” Flood shook her head and wiped at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve lived forty-five years in the same small town. Of course I’ve been loved—or had a good few fucks, which is what I think you mean—it’s just that none of them were from my husband, that’s all.”
“Well,” said Agatha, feeling grumpy and puritanical. “Well, good. That’s good.” So Flood didn’t feel terribly restricted by her marriage vows. Agatha had known plenty of couples who took them as a suggestion rather than a law, and it had never bothered her before.
It bothered her now—but not for any of the tedious reasons someone might declaim from a pulpit. No, Agatha was troubled because Flood made it all sound like a lark, when Agatha had been tying herself in sullen knots about it.
She didn’t even know if Flood preferred women or men or both. And she couldn’t ask without risking the loss of a friendship that had become impossibly dear to her. Vital, even.
And she remembered what Flood had said in the Four Swallows:I would have to think about the consequences.Agatha couldn’t risk doing anything that might jeopardize Flood’s standing in Melliton.
Flood’s smile turned fond. “You are sweet to worry about me.”
Agatha grumbled and tugged at the cuffs of her coat. “Glad I amuse you.”
Flood’s eyes cut toward her, as they began walking again in unspoken accord. “You must have loved your Thomas very much, I take it.” She kicked a clod of earth off into the underbrush. “People who married for love always want everyone else to do the same.”
How did one sum up twenty years of marriage in one answer? Agatha had been trying since the day of the funeral, and had never yet succeeded.
She was suddenly desperate for Flood to understand.
“We were devoted to each other—but we didn’t start that way,” she began slowly. “Our fathers knew one another. They’d worked together on a few books, even. His father pointed me out to him as someone who might be worth marrying, and so Thomas came courting. It wasn’t quite an arrangement, but pretty nearly. I’d certainly never noticed Thomas before—had an eye at the time for the flashier types, your silver-tongued rascals and scoundrels and such. Thomas was quieter. Self-effacing. But I wasn’t pretty enough to have many suitors, so I had to look carefully at any who turned up.” She curled her hands in the pockets of her coat, unable to keep from smiling at the memory. “Other boys brought ribbons and thimbles and such, cheap trinkets they could carry easily and could give out to any girl who happened to be handy. Thomas brought tea—good tea, the kind you wouldn’t ever feel like you could buy for yourself even if it wasn’t just about the cost. It was... It was something you could save up, and keep to yourself—or could share with the household, if you chose.”
Flood’s smile blossomed. “And I bet you thought of him gratefully every time you made a pot.”
Agatha laughed. “I certainly did. Much more strategic a courting gift, in the end.”
“Strategic—but kind, too.” Flood smiled, her eyes far away down the path ahead of them. “I wish I could have known him.”
Agatha’s face felt like cracked glass, a pane about to shatter. “He’d have loved you.” She swallowed hard. “You could have talked about poetry together, and saved me from it.”
