Flood’s laugh rang out like birdsong as they emerged from the wood. The great stone front of Abington Hall glared at them, distrusting all merriment.
From this approach, the shortest way to the bee garden in the back took them through the hedge-maze. Agatha followed Flood through the turns—and nearly bumped into the beekeeper when she pulled up short in the heart of the maze.
“Howdareshe...” Flood hissed.
There was more venom in her voice than Agatha had ever heard before. Alarmed, she stepped around to Flood’s side to see... nothing.
But a very new nothing. A great and palpable emptiness where once the paired statues of the nymph and the dryad had stood. Flood growled at the space, buzzing with fury.
Agatha’s jaw tightened with dismay. “Lady Summerville?”
Flood nodded sharply, hands clenching into fists.
Agatha looked around again at the nakedness of leaves and lawn and the pebbled path. “Where do you think she moved them?”
“I’m not convinced she only moved them,” Flood said. “I fear she destroyed them.”
Agatha went icy with realization. This wasn’t simply about the loss of a beautiful object. This was an attempt to destroy every intimate thing Miss Abington had thought and felt most deeply. It was vicious, and cruel, and very, very personal. And if Agatha could see that, how much worse must it be for Penelope Flood? She’d found such hope in that statue.
Agatha was shocked at her own eagerness to lash out at anyone who dared destroy Penelope Flood’s hopes.
“She had every right,” Flood was saying angrily. “I know she did. Those statues were left to her by Isabella. I heard the terms of the will, from the lawyer’s own lips. But Lady Summerville never appreciated the sculptures, and never would. I cannot for the life of me thinkwhyIsabella did it.”
The last sentence was almost a cry, a sound of pure and baffled pain.
Agatha lifted a hand, paused, then tentatively rested it on Flood’s shoulder. “Lady Summerville may have been within her rights to move the statues—or destroy them—but you’re allowed to despise her for having done it.”
Flood’s eyes glittered ominously, somewhere between fury and tears. She shook her head. “Times like this I wish I were the sort of person who could sustain anger. I’m like a candle: I burn, and then I melt, with little light and no heat to speak of.”
Agatha’s fingers tightened convulsively. “I think you’re one of the warmest people I’ve ever known,” she whispered.
Flood’s left hand lifted up and covered Agatha’s, pressing it hard against her shoulder. Fingers interlaced at the tips—not quite grasping, but not separated, either.
“Thank you,” Flood whispered. “I’m going to find out what happened. I have to know.” She turned her head, and Agatha saw that silent tears had made silver paths down her cheeks. The beekeeper’s gaze tangled with hers, eyes blue as the center of a flame.
Agatha burned, and knew it for what it was.
Then Flood stepped away and jammed her hat on top of her head again. The muslin veil came down, hiding her face. “Shall we see to the hives?”
“Of course,” Agatha replied. When what she wanted to say was:While you see to the hives, I’ll be at the hall, setting the whole miserable place on fire in the name of thwarted, impossible love.Her breath rattled like a tinderbox in her lungs.
As though one would offer arson instead of a bouquet, to win a lover’s heart. High crimes were probably better suited to a betrothal than a mere courting gift: you couldn’t just start burning things down in hopes the other person found it romantic. You’d want to be sure.
At present, Agatha was sure of only one thing: Penelope Flood deserved more than she’d been given.
Chapter Ten
The Queen’s trial began in August. The country talked of nothing else. Scientific discoveries, foreign wars, significant agricultural developments, even the most ghastly deeds of criminals and murderers—all these were ignored in favor of endless dissection of the minutiae of the Queen’s daily life in exile, as described in detail by newspapermen transcribing the words of the government’s witnesses. These folk, servants and sailors mostly, sat for days on end answering questions put to them by the Lords, who flocked like ominous black-robed ravens.Was the Queen ever alone with this man? How was she dressed? How was her manner?
Since so many of these witnesses were Italian, many of whom had little to no English, the trustworthiness of Italians and servants as a class became a contentious touch point of the overall debate.
Mrs. Biswas’s reading of theTimes’accounts became an every-evening event in the Four Swallows, with the whole pub ready to cry out in protest or mockery, whichever caught their fancy in the moment. To some it was a meaningful political event that would have repercussions in future elections and parliamentary proceedings; to others it was the closest thing to theater that could be had for the price of the beer you were going to buy, anyway.
It made for tumultuous nights, and during the days Penelope was more than usually glad to be so often out of doors and on her own. Though, if she were being brutally honest with herself, the solitude of beekeeping was less soothing than it used to be.
What a change a few short months could make: where it had once felt odd to walk the bee circuit in reverse with Agatha Griffin at her side, now it was the old, original method that felt strange and wrong. Penelope was focusing so much on the person whowasn’tthere as she walked along the high street that it took her a few minutes to notice how many more people there were around her than usual.
Some of them had white sashes or rosettes, the insignia adopted by Queen Caroline’s supporters. Some had banners and handmade bunting. And they were all walking in the same direction: the rectory.
