is.”
“I really can’t afford another visit,” Effie added.
It was the one thing Poppy couldn’t argue with.
Finances were more and more distressing for the three widows. Their husbands had all died within the past few years—Gwen’s Sir Charles and Poppy’s Malcomb three years ago, followed the next year by Effie’s dear William. The men, who had all lived lives of adventure and exploration and excitement, had been felled by the most ordinary of circumstances—Sir Charles had succumbed to a recurrent bout of malaria, Malcomb passed on in his chair in front of the fire so peacefully it took Poppy several hours to realize he had indeed left this life and Effie’s dear William, having had a long and illustrious career in Her Majesty’s army without scarcely a scrape, fell from a ladder he shouldn’t have been on in the first place. It was scant comfort to Effie that she’d told him not to climb the blasted ladder.
While they were excellent husbands—even if they were scarcely ever present, which, depending upon one’s point of view, might have contributed to their long and happy marriages—they’d not given enough thought to providing for their wives’ financial futures in the event of their demise. Gwen suspected, as they had survived any number of perilous adventures, they never imagined their days would be cut short in the relative safety of home. The end result of their lack of foresight was that their widows were slowly and inevitably running out of funds. The three friends had each saved some money through the years, and Effie did have a small military pension, but they estimated it would not be long before they would all be penniless. Being penniless as well as in one’s seventies was not a pleasant prospect.
“Of course.” Poppy sighed. “We really have to do something about that.” She straightened her shoulders. “For now I shall see if your cook has the broth ready.”
“Oh, goody.” Effie forced a cheery smile. “Broth.”
“You’re fortunate your cook is so skilled at broth.” Poppy cast Effie an encouraging smile and took her leave.
“Mm-mm, more broth,” Gwen said softly, the corners of her mouth twitching in an effort to hold back a laugh.
“I hate broth.” Effie let out a resigned breath. “This won’t be nearly as funny next week when you’re the one in bed.”
Gwen lowered the paper. “Oh, no. We agreed there should be at least two to three weeks between illnesses so as not to arouse her suspicions.”
“I’m not sure I can do this again.” Effie shuffled through the envelopes on the tray. “There’s nothing worse than being forced to stay in bed when there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with you.”
“And who knows better than I?”
It had been Gwen’s bout with a persistent cold that had given them the idea of feigning illness in the first place. It had seemed a brilliant idea at the time. Neither of them had imagined how terribly draining acting ill could be. But it was all they could think of and they had agreed something must be done about Poppy’s melancholy state.
The three had been friends—no, sisters—for more than forty years now, drawn together by the absence of husbands wandering the world in search of adventure. Aside from Gwen’s niece and great-nephew, none of them had any real family nor had any of them been blessed with children. But through thick and thin, for most of their lives, they could count on each other. Now, Poppy needed them even if she would never admit it.
She was the youngest of the three by two years and had always been the cheeriest of the group. Nothing in Poppy’s estimation was so dire it would not ultimately work out for the best. Gwen was the most practical of the trio and Effie had long accepted she was the one more prone to sarcasm, snide comments and an often too-colorful vocabulary. She had once decided the three of them were very much like ancient Greek goddesses. Poppy was the goddess of peace and love and all things bright and happy. Gwen was the goddess of wisdom and practicality. Effie was the goddess of war. She rather liked that.
But the bright light that was Poppy had dimmed since Malcomb’s death. Oh, Effie and Gwen had mourned the loss of their husbands every bit as deeply. One would have thought, as they had lived much of their lives without their spouses, their passing would have been easier. But it was one thing to fear the man you loved might never come home and something else entirely to know that he wouldn’t. Perhaps because Effie and Gwen did not see the world through the rose-colored haze that Poppy did, it was somewhat easier to face whatever life now had in store.
Gwen had thought, and Effie agreed, that it wasn’t just Malcomb’s death that had depressed Poppy’s spirits. Her husband’s passing had been followed that same year by Sir Charles and then William the following year. Gwen had likened it to a plague only without the locusts. She and Effie had agreed, unlike so many widows of their acquaintance, they at least knew how to take care of themselves. Of course, they hadn’t realized the perilous state of their respective finances and they never expected Poppy’s melancholy to linger.
It was quite by accident that they discovered when she was busy, she almost seemed her old self. They had then cunningly guided her into volunteering to reorganize the library and collections of the Explorers Club. That in itself took nearly a year and far more of their own time than they had planned on. Who ever would have suspected Poppy had the talent of a general for barking orders and delegating tasks. Effie had always considered her a bit scattered. When one of the ladies on the board of the club’s Ladies Committee resigned to move to York to be with her daughter’s family, they had encouraged Poppy to stand for that seat. She was universally liked and no one ran against her but the position did not take up nearly as much of Poppy’s time as Effie and Gwen had hoped. Then Gwen had come down with a nasty cold and Poppy had charged in to help with her care, and her friends realized this would indeed give her a project of sorts to fill her time. At least until they could come up with something better.
“We’re going to have to think of something else soon, you know. Something to occupy her days and her mind.” Effie sorted her mail into two stacks—the accounts due she could fortunately still pay, and correspondence of an interesting nature. That stack was sadly comprised of only one crisp, cream-colored envelope.
“I am trying to think of something. I have no desire to take to my bed again.” Gwen returned to her study of the obituaries. “Oh look, that nice Mrs. Hackett died. What a shame.”
“I thought you detested Mrs. Hackett.” Effie picked up the envelope and examined it. The stationery was of excellent quality, the handwriting unfamiliar and a bit unsteady. She turned it over. Some sort of embossed seal was on the flap. How very interesting indeed.
“I did, but now she’s dead.” Gwen thought for a moment. “In the scheme of things, one could say I won.”
“Whoever is left standing wins?” Effie slit the envelope with a letter opener, a replica of a sword her husband had owned.
“Something like that.” Gwen settled back in her chair. “I don’t know why I insist on reading these death notices. It seems there is at least one acquaintance listed nearly every day. Why, everyone we know is dropping dead.”
“These things tend to happen when one reaches a certain age.” Effie pulled several pages from the envelope and started to read.
My dear Ophelia,
Forgive me for taking the liberty of calling you dear. In my heart, you have always been my dear Ophelia. But I knew the moment I introduced you to my good friend, William, on that summer night all those many years ago that I would never have the opportunity to call you my dear aloud.
Effie’s breath caught. Richard.
“Still, one does hate to be uninformed,” Gwen continued. “Imagine if I were to have a party. It would be dreadfully awkward if I were to invite someone who is already dead.” She paused. “Of course, they wouldn’t come so it might not be so awkward at that.”
I hope you received my letter of condolence upon William’s passing. He