Page 17 of A Season for Scandal

Her gaze flicked to the flowers and then up to me. Her mouth softened into that almost-smile. “Sweet peas? How lovely. Now, let me see if I remember…” She tapped a finger against the desk. “Thank you for a lovely time?”

I nodded. “That’s right. Or in this case, simply thank you. Thank you for what you did for me. And for my family.”

“It’s what we do,” Mrs Finch said, eyeing me steadily. The words carried an extra weight, and I knew now that theweincluded me.

“Go on,” she said with a shooing gesture. “Go and get Winnie before she blows something up.”

“Is she joking?” I asked Maud in a low voice as we left the room.

“Oh no,” Maud replied cheerfully. “Win blows things up at least twice a month.”

On this reassuring note, she led me back out on to the landing and down a narrow corridor.

“That’s just a storage cupboard,” she said, gesturing to the door beside Mrs Finch’s office. “Then this is the training room.” She pushed open the next door along.

I opened my mouth to ask what sort of training, but stopped when I took in the scene in front of me. It looked as though I’d be gaining a better understanding of Grandfather’s boxing slang, after all. In the middle of the room was a small roped-off boxing ring. Leather punching bags hung from the ceiling on iron chains. My eyes widened when I noticed the large glass cabinet against one of the walls.

“Are those … swords?” I asked faintly.

Maud’s cheerful demeanour didn’t slip. “Fencing foils mostly. The odd sabre. I take it you don’t fence yet? You’ll learn. You’ll learn a bit of everything here. Mrs Finch has some of the best instructors in the country to give us lessons. Fencing, boxing, knife-fighting…”

“Fighting … with knives?” I managed, the words an embarrassing squeak.

“Much easier to carry about than a sword,” Maud pointed out practically. “What about shooting? Can you shoot?”

“No,” I said, feeling as though I was already an enormous failure. But, really, how many young women knew how to win a knife fight or shoot? I was a florist for goodness’ sake; I could tell you the flowering season for carnations or when to deadhead your roses, but I’d hardly been filling my non-existent spare time with target practice.

“Not to worry,” Maud said, clearly reading my expression. “Most of the girls don’t know how to do these things when they arrive. Within six months you’ll be able to disarm a man and neatly slice out his kidney should the need present itself.”

I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or deeply disturbed by this information.

Both, I decided.Definitely both.

“And this down here is Winnie’s lab. Winnie’s in our charm too.” Maud pulled me along to the next room.

This, it turned out, was a fully working science laboratory, and a slim, pale-haired young woman stood at the long wooden work surface that ran the length of the room. She was bent over a microscope, which she was using with intense concentration.

The walls above the work surface were piled high with hefty-looking scientific tomes, and I spotted several I had read on the subject of botany. The rest of the walls held mahogany cabinets similar to the ones in the haberdasher’s downstairs, only these were labelled with the names of various chemicals.

“Win?” Maud said loudly. “Win, Marigold Bloom is here.” She repeated herself three times, and finally the woman looked up, blinking huge blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, as though she was waking from a nap.

“Maud?” she murmured. “When did you get here?”

“Ages ago.” Maud laughed, stepping forward and rubbing gently at a smudge on Winnie’s cheek. There was something in that touch – something tender and easy that spoke to a relationship that went well beyond friendship.Lovers, I thought.

Winnie leaned into Maud’s hand and looked at her adoringly. “You should have given me a shake.”

“And risk blowing up our newest recruit?” Maud teased.

At this, Winnie’s eyes turned to me. “You must be Miss Bloom!”

“Marigold,” I corrected her, reaching out to shake her hand, which was soft and white but stained with black ink. “Mari, usually.”

“The botanist,” Winnie said.

“Florist,” I replied.

“Your family owns Bloom’s, don’t they? I saw some fascinating hybrids on display in a friend’s home from there last year. Would they have been your work?”