Page 42 of A Season for Scandal

“You do have somanyvirtues,” Oliver agreed, and I knew that he meant something quite different.

I didn’t know why teasing Oliver Lockhart brought me such pleasure, but it did, and if it coincided with the goals of the Aviary, then so much the better.

“Goodness me,” Mrs Lavigne said. “How lovely, Mr Lockhart. How did you and Miss Bloom meet?”

“We met at the library,” Oliver said shortly, reaching for a biscuit, which he crammed in his mouth, presumably to prevent future questions.

“Ah!” Mr Lavigne twinkled at me. “Charming. A fellow novel reader, I presume?”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid my sister is the great novel reader in the family. I was actually in the horticulture section.”

“Horticulture?” Mrs Lavigne’s eyebrows lifted, as she eyed me over the top of her tea cup. “You have an interest in gardening, Miss Bloom?”

“More than an interest,” I said. “I am a florist by trade. My family own a flower shop in London.”

“Aflorist?” Somehow Mrs Lavigne managed to inject the word with enough horror that you’d have thought I told them I ate children for a living. “Forgive me, Miss Bloom,” she said. “I hadn’t realized that your family were … in trade.”

At this, Oliver seemed to show some sign of life. “Why should that be a surprise, Mrs Lavigne? As you know, I amin trademyself.” His words were dangerously calm, but I saw the flash of temper in his eyes.

“Oh, well, that is quite different,” Mrs Lavigne began, as though it was obvious.

Mr Lavigne reached across and put his hand over his wife’s for an instant. “Forgive my wife,” he said jovially. “In France, people are much more comfortable talking openly about such matters. We have all of us perhaps forgotten our English manners.”

Although he said the words lightly, something uneasy filled the room. Across from me, Helene shifted in her seat.

“Of course you are right,” Mrs Lavigne said brightly. “Please forgive me. The England I remember was so rigid and set in its ways. It is charming to find that in these modern times, true love triumphs over social expectation.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said carefully, “but certainly in the case of Mr Lockhart and myself, we both inherit businesses from our grandfathers before us. I don’t think there is really anything to scandalize society about our marriage.”

“And Miss Bloom is the only one of us who actually inherits anything of true value,” Oliver put in unexpectedly. “The business she has helped to build is something remarkable, while I am left trying to untangle a poorly run, morally bankrupt mess.”

“Oh, but, Mr Lockhart, how can you say such a thing?” Mrs Lavigne laughed. “When you have all this.” She gestured at the room in which we sat – though dreary and uncomfortable, it was undeniablygrand.

Oliver only scoffed into his teacup.

“Are you not pleased with your future home, Miss Bloom?” Mrs Lavigne asked me sweetly.

“Very pleased,” I responded calmly. “Though I must confess, it is the garden that holds the greatest promise for me.”

Mrs Lavigne wrinkled her nose. “I myself cannot stand getting my hands dirty, but I suppose that is what gardeners are for.”

“And you, Helene,” I asked quickly, determined to draw her out. “What are your interests?”

“Oh, our Helene is accomplished at so many things!” Mrs Lavigne broke in. “She embroiders like a dream and sings like an angel. Well, we should have known, with the way she takes to such things that she was born in a place like this, with every advantage given to her.”

“Funny, I don’t remember my sister being able to carry a tune,” Oliver said almost idly, though there was a keen look in his eye.

Before Mrs Lavigne could leap in again, Helene smiled, the expression almost fond. “No,” she said in her soft voice. “I was a dreadful disappointment to my singing master at first, but I did improve eventually.” She looked down at her hands. “I remember singing here once – at Christmas. Father said at least it drove all the guests away.”

Oliver looked stricken for a moment, then nodded.

“It is wonderful what a good teacher can do, isn’t it?” Mrs Finch said, unravelling the tension that filled the room once more with her calm tone. “My goddaughter knows that only too well.” The smile she gave me then was glimmering with mischief only I would see. The instruction I had had recently was very different to the accomplishments Mrs Lavigne spoke of – I doubted Helene’s teachers taught lock picking.

“I do,” I said, smiling back. “Did you go to school in Paris, Helene?”

“Just outside the city,” Helene said.

“And did you—”