Page 41 of A Season for Scandal

“Yorkshire Fog,” Beth said, sounding suddenly shy. “It’s just grass, I know, but Oliver said you had a liking for flowers, and we don’t have much to choose from around here, as you can see.” She waved her hand towards the window, and I moved over, pushing the heavy curtains to one side.

“What is that?” I managed.

“Itwasthe garden,” Beth snorted derisively. “Though that’s not what I’d call it now. Mrs Lockhart had it kept beautiful, but after she died…” She trailed off here, but I had to admit I was barely paying attention; I was so enthralled by the view.

We were higher up than I thought, and clearly at the side of the building now. Sprawled in front of me was a tangle of weeds and unkempt garden – huge in scale, like the rest of the house. I could just make out the shape of the overgrown footpaths that cut through what must have once been a lawn but was now a waist-high spread of grasses, gently bobbing in the breeze. There were hints of flower beds, stone walls, crumbling and tumbled over with ivy. And the elevated position meant that all around it, the view of the moors spread out like water, green and restless.

As I looked at it, my heart started beating faster and one word rang in my mind, clear as a bell.

Mine.

I jumped back from the window as if it had shocked me.Mine?What sort of a reaction was that? A wildly inappropriate, demonstrably false one. Flustered, my eyes darted to Mrs Finch, who was watching me with an impassable look.

“Perhaps, Beth, you could give us your impressions of the Lavignes while we are alone,” she said.

My hand pressed against my chest, where my heart still thumped too hard, too loud. Yes. The Lavignes.Stop being distracted, Mari, I chided myself.There is work to do.

“They are all right, I suppose,” Beth said grudgingly. “Polite, not too demanding, careful with Oliver when he’s around.”

“But?” Mrs Finch prompted.

“I can’t put my finger on it exactly. They’re too comfortable here. It’s as if they think the place belongs to them now. As if they have a … claim on it. Which I suppose they might…”

“Do you think Helene could be Oliver’s sister?” I asked when Beth left this thought unfinished.

Beth’s head tipped to the side. “If that isn’t the question I’ve been asking myself every minute of this last week…” She sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve been here my whole life so I knew Miss Ellen up until the day she and the mistress disappeared, and the truth is that Helenecouldbe her. She has the look of her, and she certainly seems to know a lot about her, remembers things that I don’t see how she could know otherwise. Miss Ellen, though, she was a real bright light – full of questions, forever getting in scrapes.”

“That doesn’t sound like the woman we just met,” I murmured.

“No,” Beth agreed, “but a lot can change in eleven years.”

“Particularly if Helene’s story is true,” Mrs Finch mused. “Such a tumultuous experience would leave its mark.”

“So it remains a mystery,” I said.

“Not for much longer.” Mrs Finch’s smile was sharp. “We’re here now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Tea was predictably uncomfortable. Fully recovered from the shock of our arrival, Mrs Lavigne seemed all too happy to fling herself into the role of hostess, peppering Oliver with questions about me and our engagement while his answers got shorter and shorter.

“But do tell us, Mr Lockhart,” she pressed, as she carefully poured herself a second cup of tea. “For how long has this romance been going on?”

“Six months,” Oliver replied curtly.

“Six months!” Mrs Lavigne exclaimed. “And to think you never said a word! I assure you, Miss Bloom, not a single word!”

“I can believe it, Mrs Lavigne!” I laughed. “At first even I had no idea about Mr Lockhart’s feelings for me.” Here I peeped at him from under my lashes. One of us, I reasoned, should at least be playing the part.

Oliver looked back at me, his expression stony.

“It has been such a whirlwind,” I continued breathlessly, enjoying his discomfort far too much. “We began writing to one another once a week, but soon the letters flew back and forth, and Mr Lockhart is such apoet. His way with words is truly moving.”

Oliver choked on his tea.

“Really?” Mrs Lavigne tried and failed to conceal her surprise.

“Oh yes,” I said. “My favourite letters were the ones stained with the tears he shed as he composed his beautiful odes to all my virtues.”