Bless the woman, it came swiftly.
My dear Flood,
My bed is far too big now for just one person. We must get you to London sometime—I’ll be visiting Melliton next week, of course, but that’s seven whole nights from now.
Imagine what we could get up to in seven entire nights...
And then followed a page of such dazzling and specific lechery that Penelope flushed head to heel. She was briefly worried the letter itself would burst into flame, or the chair beneath her catch fire from the heat that coursed over her skin.
Such a letter demanded revenge: Penelope sharpened a new quill, closeted herself in the study where no one would see, and wrote back three pages of even more explicit longings.
And so they went on, torrid promises flying back and forth, a game of wits that was both frustrated teasing and sensual fulfillment. Dreams recounted and embellished. Scraps of the most scandalous verses Penelope had found in her years raiding Isabella’s library. One of Agatha’s letters was simply a series of erotic woodcuts, some of which were old commissions she’d done and some of which she’d carved specially for Penelope—definitely the one where two tiny andextremelynude figures embraced, framed in vines and flowers, as a swarm of lazy bees bejeweled the sky around them.
The correspondence was punctuated by visits where Agatha and Penelope acted out as many of those shared fantasies as desire and physical stamina would allow. As the weather warmed and winter thawed into spring, they began walking the bee circuit again, finding time in the hollows and dells for a little discreet love play beneath the boughs and blossoms.
It would have been a halcyon time—were it not for the regular pricks and stings of the Mendacity Society, whose presence was becoming more and more of a goad in the town.
Harry was fined for swearing, then fined again when he swore before the magistrates; Miss Felicia Plumb was questioned at length about the origin of the lace on her attire—which it transpired she’d made herself, with months of painstaking effort; Mr. Koskinen was penalized for fishing on a Sunday morning. Mr. and Mrs. Biswas kept closer to each other than ever when they served customers at the Four Swallows in the evening, while Mr. Thomas and Mr. Kitt were now careful to always have a third person seated between them.
As spring advanced, the whole country decked itself out in a festive mood for King George’s approaching coronation. Agatha went exploring in Griffin’s warehouse and brought out plates of antique ballads from the last coronation. Reprinting these was an easy way to keep the Melliton press-works queue full, leaving no gap for Lady Summerville and the Mendacity Society to sidle into.
I feel like such a hypocrite, Agatha wrote after a few months had passed.To spend so much of my time dreaming about you, while disapproving of Sydney and Eliza. They have put a little distance between them, to placate me, but their misery is contagious and we’re all in a sad state. Sydney spends even more time out of the house than before—and Eliza, even though I appreciate her efforts and her skill at managing the contributors, spends far too many of her hours escaping into endless, anxious work.
She showed me one set of etchings for the upcoming issue of theMenagerie: frock designs for the coronation Herbwoman and her attendants. White gowns in cream silk net, with crosswise garlands of green leaves and pink roses, also in silk. It put me strongly in mind of what you Melliton ladies wore to Brandenburg House, not even a year ago. And yet the same color scheme that spoke so loudly of support for the Queen back then is now a prominent feature of the coronation of her loathed royal husband!
I would venture to guess that the fashionable ladies involved in this particular ceremony are too high in the instep to be aware of the meaning of the color scheme. Except that it appeared so often in the caricatures—and there were plenty of high-born folk at Brandenburg that day, punting down the river and cheering for Revolution and Reform.
Perhaps all that rebellion was only a season’s amusement for them, as easily changed as a hat or a pair of gloves.
It pains me when I think back to that day. I was never a reformer. I mistrust revolution—the people who call for one never seem to consider how many people have to die in them. But for one wild moment, I had hope that things might alter for the better, simply because people decided they should.
Looking back, I marvel at such naivete. Surely a mature woman of nearly five decades should have learned this lesson before now?
Penelope wrote back:
I know just what you mean. Lady Summerville, who was so willing to lead us to parade on the Queen’s behalf, has been holding more and more teas and luncheons in support of the King. Lady S seems to think that the actual ceremony will somehow transform him from the decadent prince we know he’s been into the virtuous king he ought to be. As though he will treat power any differently now that it’s officially his to wield. To my bafflement, this seems to be a common opinion, which otherwise reasonable people are willing to believe. Mrs. Koskinen turns almost purple every time someone repeats it, and I can’t blame her.
It troubles one’s sleep. And there are so many better reasons for sleeplessness—for instance...
The heightened attention to royal feasting and finery was a goad to the reformers among the Melliton folk. Talk about corruption and the government spiked bitterly—though not where any of the Mendacity Society could easily overhear.
Mr. Thomas was muttering darkly on just this subject one evening at the Four Swallows. Harry egged him on, to John’s amusement, while Nell Turner played instrumental tunes on her guitar, perched on a stool in the front left corner—Penelope was happy to be squeezed up on the back bench beside Agatha, thigh against thigh, as the music and the familiar arguments swirled in the air around her.
They all jumped when the door banged open. There on the tavern’s threshold stood a tall and slender man: dark hair tousled by the wind, hands braced to either side, his form framed portrait-perfect in the doorway.
Nell looked up and her finger slipped; one jarringly wrong note marred the tune, until she recovered herself and determinedly redoubled her volume.
The audience went quiet—not precisely silent, but conversations trailed away and benches creaked as people shifted their weight. Eyes grew narrow, and a ripple went through the crowd as people turned to make sure they had a view.
Agatha leaned closer to Penelope. “Who’s this?” she breathed in her ear.
Penelope’s mouth pinched. “Mr. Turner,” she replied. “Nell’s husband.”
“I see.” Agatha quirked a brow and considered the new arrival. Her frown showed she didn’t like the conclusions she’d drawn. “Odds that he’s here to grab a quick pint and enjoy himself?”
“Rather slim.”
“Thought so.”
