Page 43 of A Season for Scandal

“I must say these biscuits are delicious,” Mr Lavigne broke in. “Beth truly has a way in the kitchen.”

Oliver hummed, the sound dubious. In truth, the biscuits were quite dry and strangely … salty.

“Yes, they are positively dangerous for the waistline,” Mrs Lavigne agreed. “Though, I’m sure Miss Bloom will manage one or two more.” She held the plate towards me, and in her eyes I saw a small spiteful look that I had seen many times before. Her gaze lingered on my body for only a split second, but I felt the intended barb wrapped in her light words, the way a cat might scratch: sharp, fleeting and deadly accurate. It was depressing how often such a thing happened, often enough that the jab barely registered as a surprise.

“I’m sure I will,” I replied amiably, taking another biscuit and biting into it with every sign of enjoyment. I understood exactly how much it irritated women like Mrs Lavigne to see me living my life, fat and happy and unapologetic. As expected, her smile dimmed.

“Perhaps now would be a good time for Mr Lockhart to give you a tour of the house, Marigold?” Mrs Finch purred, and I knew from the way she said it that she had noticed Mrs Lavigne’s little dig as well.

“Yes,” Oliver said at once, jumping to his feet. “What a good idea.”

“And I shall have a chance for a comfortable coze with the Lavignes. I’m fascinated to hear all about you,” Mrs Finch continued.

“But … surely” – Mrs Lavigne’s eyes flashed between Oliver and myself – “the young couple should have a chaperone?”

“Mrs Lavigne!” Mrs Finch sounded shocked. “I hope you are not impugning Mr Lockhart’s honour? Surely, here in his own home, with so many people in the house, he can be trusted to show his future wife the grounds unchaperoned?”

“Of – of course.” Mrs Lavigne looked flustered. “I only meant… I would never suggest such a thing. I—”

“I think we’ll be off, shall we?” Oliver interrupted smoothly as he stood, holding out his hand to me. When I slipped my fingers into his, he squeezed them a touch too hard, enough to let me know how he felt about all the teasing that had been taking place.

Without any further conversation, we left the room, my arm through his. I put a little extra sway in my step for Mrs Lavigne’s benefit. One thing was certain: she may hide it behind polite smiles, but the woman didn’t like me. I turned everything that had happened since we arrived over in my mind and came to the conclusion that I had put a spoke in the wheel of Mrs Lavigne’s plans. Whether that was because she was an imposter, or because she resented the interference of another woman in the home she wished to claim for her daughter, was a question to which I didn’t know the answer. Yet.

“So, that went well,” I said in a low voice, once we were safely out of earshot.

“Beautiful odes?” Oliver said icily. “Thetears I shed?”

“I thought it was a nice touch,” I replied, as we walked down a long hallway and then through several connected rooms. The house was colder here, the furniture covered in dust sheets. Light slanted in through half-shut curtains, dust motes wheeling in a sleepy dance.

“Andyouare doing very little to convince these people that we are happily engaged,” I pointed out.

“I’m sorry we can’t all be such accomplished actors,” Oliver grumbled.

“Actually,” I admitted, “I’m not good at acting. I hate telling lies – it makes my skin itch.”

“You seem to be doing a good job to me.”

“For some reason it’s easier when I know it will irritate you.”

“Bloom.” Oliver exhaled deeply, shaking his head. “You could test the patience of a saint.”

The laughter died on my lips as he pushed through a set of wide French doors, and suddenly we found ourselves outside.

Still arm in arm, we stood on a wide stone platform that ran the length of this side of the house. It had once been, I supposed, a terrace. A sun trap, warm under the early evening sun. Now the stone was rough, crumbling in places. There was a rotted pergola sagging against the wall at one end, the skeleton of some long-dead climbing plant still clinging in parts.

We walked down a short flight of stone stairs until we reached the lawn I had seen from my bedroom. The paving stones were unsteady, and Oliver held my arm a bit tighter. As I had thought, the grass here grew almost to my waist.

I held out my free hand, my fingers gently brushing against the tall fronds.

Neither of us said anything, only stood, looking over the wreck of what must once have been a beautiful garden. I could feel the warmth from his body against my side, could smell the sandalwood on his skin. He kept hold of my arm, even though no one could see us now.

“I never come out here,” Oliver said finally. “It’s much worse than I remember.”

I turned to look at him, but he kept his eyes firmly planted on the horizon. His face was blank, except for that tell-tale tightening about his jaw.

“All I see is potential,” I replied.

He gave that almost-smile. “Ever the optimist,” he said.