Page 37 of A Season for Scandal

The train moved so fast, and we shed the distance effortlessly, miles piling up behind us like a line of casually discarded clothes dropped on the way to bed. The world was, after all, so much bigger than London, and it had been – in the end – almost laughably easy to leave. I didn’t think my life was small; it was busy and full of good work and good people, triumphs and the occasional catastrophe, and it wasmine.

But.

That word lingered. But perhaps there could be more. It seemed more obvious here, setting out on this wild caper… Therewasmore. If I wanted it.

I was giving myself a headache.

We changed trains at Peterborough for York, and it seemed only moments before we were arriving, spilling out on to the platform with the other passengers. Two hundred miles further from home than I had ever been.

“Barker should have brought the carriage to meet us,” Oliver said, scanning the crowded station, as we made our way through the scrum. “I wrote to Beth, to tell her about our plans.”

Catching my look of curiosity, he added, “Barker is my aide-de-campe, and Beth – his daughter – is my housekeeper.”

“Aide-de-campe?” My brows lifted.

“It’s Oliver’s fancy way of saying he doesn’t want to hire any other servants,” Mrs Finch said. “Barker runs his household.”

“Don’t let Beth hear you say that,” Oliver muttered. “Ah!” He straightened up. “There he is now.”

With a flick of his wrist to the stewards who were carrying our bags, Oliver strode towards a carriage that was – as Daisy would say – bang up to the mark. Enormous, gleaming, gilded to within an inch of its life, with prancing gold unicorns painted on the doors.

I eyed it with alarm.

“Hideous, isn’t it?” Oliver said sourly. “I told Barker to replace the last one – after your colleagues reduced it to tinder, actually – and when he kept coming to me with talk of springs and axels and seat cushions, I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t care, didn’t want to hear another word about it and to just buy whatever the hell he wanted. I believe this was his revenge.”

Oliver looked at the fairy-tale carriage, suitable for Cinderella herself, like it was a mouldy old pumpkin.

“Here you are!” The man who must have been Barker stepped forward, all smiles. I’d place him somewhere in his fifties, and his accent was pure Yorkshire. “And this young lady must be your future bride!” His smile widened and he winked at me. I smiled back, knowing that Oliver’s servants were in on the ruse.

“That’s enough, Barker,” Oliver growled.

“Just happy to see you taking steps towards settling down, young Oliver,” Barker continued to tease him. Clearly used to this, Oliver only rolled his eyes, yanking the door to the carriage open.

“Barker, this is Miss Bloom and Mrs Finch,” he said gesturing between us. “Mrs Finch, Miss Bloom – this is Barker. Feel free to ignore every word that comes out of his mouth. Now, get in.”

“Oliver.” Mrs Finch’s tone was without emotion, and she said only that, uttering his name calmly while she treated him to a long look.

There was a pause.

“Apologies.” Oliver’s chin dipped. “I meant to say, would you care to get in?”

“Lovely.” Mrs Finch reached out her hand, and Oliver automatically lifted his to help her into the carriage.

“Miss Bloom?” He quirked a brow.

“Thank you, Mr Lockhart,” I said, sweetly slipping my fingers into his and allowing him to help me inside too. I got the impression that Oliver wasn’t used to performing such social niceties, and this impression was confirmed by Barker’s choke of laughter.

Swinging into the seat beside me, Oliver closed the door and stuck his head out of the window. “Can we get going now, please?”

Still chuckling to himself, Barker climbed up on to the box, and soon we lurched away, through the twisting streets and away from the middle of town.

The carriage was like nothing I had ever travelled in before. The seats were plush, soft velvet the colour of bluebells, and instead of the noisy rattle of a hackney over cobbles, the ride was smooth as glass.

Oliver lapsed into silence, and across from me, Mrs Finch pulled out her book once more. I returned to my new favourite pastime: staring out of the window. The view was hypnotizing – ever changing – and I watched avidly as we moved out of the city, and the scenery and the light altered in front of me like a magic trick.

“Oh!” I couldn’t help the breathy exclamation that fell from my lips when we eventually emerged on to the moors. “Please,” I managed, turning to Oliver. “Please can we stop? Just for a moment?”

He looked at me, his dark eyes inscrutable, then he reached up and knocked on the roof of the carriage. We came to an abrupt stop, and sending disjointed thanks over my shoulder, I yanked the door open and spilled out on to the road, almost falling to my knees in my hurry.