Page 45 of A Season for Scandal

I shivered again. How easy it was in my own life to imagine these things so far away, so distant. It had been less than seventy years since slavery was abolished in this country, and everyone knew that finally passing a bill in Parliament was a long way from dismantling a brutal and ongoing reality faced by many, no matter how pleased we liked to feel about ourselves.

After a long moment of heavy silence, Oliver cleared his throat. “And, of course, this is Ellen.” He gestured to the girl in the picture, and I stepped forward to look more closely.

“It could be her,” I said softly, taking in the small girl, with her light brown hair and wide eyes. There was an energy about her, a glint of mischief in her gaze. “She doesn’t look anything like you or your mother.”

“Ellen was adopted as a baby,” Oliver said. “She was the result of one of my father’s affairs, and when her mother left the baby on our doorstep, I think Father would have shipped her off to some horrible institution if my mother hadn’t stepped in. She wouldn’t hear of it. As far as she was concerned, from that first moment, Ellen was hers.” Oliver smiled, a small, soft smile that made my toes curl up in my pretty pink shoes. “I was only one at the time, so we were brought up together – at least until I was shipped off to school.”

“And your father didn’t mind such an arrangement?” I asked carefully.

Oliver gave a short laugh, every ounce of softness leaving his face. “Mind it? He didn’t seem to care much either way. He had very little to do with me, but he barely acknowledged Ellen at all.”

“And yet he left her money in his will,” I said.

“Mother presented Ellen to the world as her daughter. Ellen might not have looked like my mother, but she certainly looked like our father. Anything he left her was for appearance’s sake alone, believe me. And though it is a lot of money, in truth it represents an almost insultingly small fraction of his fortune. Something I intend to remedy.”

I took a moment to digest that, and what exactly it meant about Oliver’s own circumstances. Perhaps Mrs Lavigne’s shock at our connection was more warranted than I wanted to admit. It was also interesting that Oliver planned to settle more money on his sister. I wondered if the Lavignes knew about that.

“I take it that the story Helene told about singing at Christmas was true?” I said.

Oliver reached up, rubbed his brow. “It was. There have been so many things like that, things only Ellen would know. And the scar…” He looked at me. “Why can’t I simply accept that she is Ellen? When all the evidence points that way. I feel as if I am going mad, swaying wildly from one conclusion to another.”

“Perhaps you are just scared to believe it,” I said gently.

We were interrupted then by the sound of the door opening. Swinging round, I found Helene herself approaching us, somewhat tentatively.

“Mother said I should come and find you, Mr Lockhart,” she said timidly. “She wondered if you had any special instructions for dinner.”

“Why should I have any special instructions?” Oliver asked. “Beth will do just as she usually does. Cook the life out of whatever lump of meat she chooses to serve.”

I stifled a giggle at this, while Helene only looked at him, round-eyed.

“I’m sure Beth has it in hand,” I said, more diplomatically.

Helene, however, had been distracted by the painting we were standing in front of.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, lifting her hand to her cheek, which was flooded with colour. Emotion washed over her features. “It’s her,” she murmured.

“It is a good likeness of Mother, isn’t it?” Oliver said, his voice more gentle than I had heard it before.

Helene’s eyes flew to him. “Y-yes,” she said. “A very good likeness.” Her gaze moved to the image of a young Oliver. “You hated that suit,” she said. “She had to bribe you with cinnamon biscuits to get you to wear it.”

“That’s right.” Oliver exhaled. “I had forgotten.”

Helene continued to stare at the painting, the expression on her face strange, almost wistful.

I exchanged a glance with Oliver, and in his eyes I saw nothing but unanswered questions. My heart hurt for them both.

“We should return to the rest of your company,” I said. “It must be time to dress for dinner.”

“Dressfordinner?” That seemed to break through Oliver’s fog of uncertainty. He sounded disgusted.

“Yes, it’s what people generally do in polite society,” I replied evenly.

“People,” Oliver grunted. “This is precisely why people are dreadful. And why I choose to have as little to do with them as possible.”

“Well,weare people, and now you have our delightful company for dinner,” I said, casting a smile at Helene, who returned it tentatively.

“But why must I change what I’m wearing, only to sit down with the same people I have spent all day with?” he whined.