Page 39 of A Season for Scandal

“Yes,” I replied, fixing a sunny smile on my face. “Time to meet the family.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Mr Lockhart, you’re home!” A woman broke from the small group and rushed forward to greet us. Though her accent was English, it was touched by a musical lilt that I assumed was a French influence. “And you’ve brought guests,” she added, as Oliver helped Mrs Finch and me down to the ground. There was just a hint of over-familiarity in her voice that struck me as strange. It felt as if she was the one welcoming us to her home.

“I have,” Oliver said abruptly. “May I present Miss Bloom, my …fiancée.” The word came out slightly strangled, but Oliver pressed on. “And her godmother, Mrs Finch.”

He turned to us as the other two people stepped forward. “Miss Bloom, Mrs Finch – my sister, Helene, and her parents, the Lavignes.”

I dropped into a curtsey and regarded the three strangers in front of us.

Mrs Lavigne was a handsome woman in her forties, dark-haired and elegant. She was dressed in a simple gown of dusky lilac that looked well made and expensive, and she stared at me with eyes round with astonishment.

“Your fiancée?” she managed. “But you never mentioned…”

Mr Lavigne interrupted, recovering faster than his wife. “What a happy occasion!” he boomed, reaching out to shake my hand in an energetic pumping motion. “Mr Lockhart has kept you a surprise, my dear!”

He was a slight man, several inches shorter than his wife, but an animated energy seemed to ripple over him. That and the enormous dark moustache that graced his top lip, carefully curled up at the ends with wax, made him seem larger somehow. Unlike his wife, his clothes were not at all tasteful or elegant; his orange waistcoat, clashing wildly with his forest-green suit, was loud and eye-catching. I thought I saw him send an approving glance towards my own gown, which was, I would admit, quite a vibrant shade of pink.

“Yes, Mr Lockhart,” Mrs Lavigne said, rallying swiftly. “What a sly fellow you are!”

“It’s all quite new,” I said, casting my eyes down and aiming for demure shyness.

“I couldn’t be sure Miss Bloom returned my feelings and would accept my suit,” Oliver said with the stiff quality of someone reading from a script – precisely because Mrs Finch had scripted this for him.

“Mr Lockhart is too modest.” Mrs Finch stepped forward, instantly at ease in her role as the doting godmother, well pleased with her charge’s success on the marriage mart. “It was clear to me from the first that he and my goddaughter were meant for one another. I have never seen two young people so in love.” She lifted a handkerchief to her eye and dabbed, her voice quivering with emotion.

Oliver frowned down at me, his brow deeply furrowed. He looked less like he was in love with me, and more like he had never before perceived a human woman. His eyes flicked to the back of my hand, which had come to rest lightly on his arm. He swallowed. “In love. Yes.” The words were a croak.

It would have to do I supposed, resisting the urge to pinch him.

“And he couldn’t wait to bring his future bride home with him to meet his long-lost sister!” Mrs Finch said. “Such a romantic tale, and so moving. It’s like something from a novel!”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs Lavigne said hastily, and I felt the weight of her gaze lingering on me. “Helene, darling, come and meet your future sister-in-law. It seems there is much to celebrate.”

At this, Mrs Lavigne dragged her daughter forward, and I found myself face-to-face with Oliver’s possibly-sister.

The first thing that struck me was that she didn’t look very much like her brother. Where his skin was the warm gold of wet sand, hers was milk pale. Her hair was brown, and so were her eyes, but they were not so dark as Oliver’s, nor did she possess his dark brows or enviably long lashes. There was, perhaps, some resemblance in the high cheekbones, the tilt of the chin, but it was not pronounced.

Helene was eyeing me with apprehension, and I had the impression at once of someone who was painfully shy.

“How do you do,” she said softly. She did not hold out her hand, and I noticed she was wearing pretty lace gloves so there was no opportunity to examine the scar Oliver had mentioned.

“I’m very happy to meet you, Miss Lavigne,” I hesitated. “I’m sorry, or do you prefer Miss Lockhart?”

A flush lit Helene’s cheeks. “I … we haven’t—” She cast a look at her mother. “I think perhaps Miss Lavigne?” she said finally.

“We still haven’t got used to it.” Mrs Lavigne smiled warmly at her daughter. “But even now that Helene is happily returned to the bosom of her family,wewillalwaysbe her parents.”

She spoke firmly and sincerely. For Helene’s sake, I was glad of it. Whatever was truly happening here, it seemed she had parents who cared for her.

“Although, if you are really to be sisters, surely Helene will suffice?” Mr Lavigne broke in. “And that way we neatly dodge all this confusion.” He beamed, clearly pleased with his solution, and I couldn’t help smiling back.

“How right you are,” I agreed. “I hope you will call me Marigold,” I said to Helene. “Or Mari, if you prefer. That is what my sister calls me, after all.”

“I have never had a sister before.” Helene smiled tremulously and held out her hand, which I took. “But I always wanted one.”

“Then it’s settled,” I said.