Page 49 of A Season for Scandal

“Helene has not had a reaction to strawberries for many years,” Mr Lavigne said quietly, breaking the silence.

“She outgrew it,” Mrs Lavigne added quickly. “It happens often with children.”

Oliver seemed to realize he was still gripping Helene’s arm. “I apologize,” he said stiffly, taking a step back, and then another. “I didn’t mean to… I only thought…”

“An understandable moment of concern for your sister,” Mrs Finch said soothingly.

“Commendable, really,” Mrs Lavigne said, though her face was still pale, and she regarded Oliver warily.

“Yes, well.” Oliver’s eyes wandered over the rest of us. His hand went to his necktie, and he tugged at it as though it was strangling him. “I think that’s enough excitement for one night. If you’ll excuse me.”

And with that, he gave us a curt nod, swung on his heel and strode from the room before anyone could say a word.

“Well,” Mrs Lavigne said, after another frozen moment in which we all stood perfectly still. “I suppose we should all retire for the evening. It has been a long day of travelling for Miss Bloom and Mrs Finch.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr Lavigne exhaled loudly, his rigid posture finally relaxing. “We have been thoughtless indeed, making demands on your company. It is no wonder emotions are running high.”

Helene stood, watching the door where Oliver had left, gripping the back of the chair with her hand, and I saw that her knuckles were raised and white.

After we had said our goodnights, I sought out Beth and she took me to find Oliver. In the vast warren of this house, I had no idea where he might be, but I knew I would not be able to sleep until I had seen him.

“He’ll be in here,” Beth murmured, coming to a stop outside the door. She gave me a long searching look. “I am glad you came,” she said finally. “It is time Oliver had someone else on his side.”

Before I could respond, she disappeared back in the direction we had just come from. I stood for a moment, gathering myself.

I was in a part of the house that Oliver and I hadn’t reached during our tour, and I had no idea what stood on the other side of the door. Given the sheer number of rooms I had already encountered, it could be anything – there were plenty of colours left for a green room or a yellow room, or perhaps it was a room for smoking meats, or shooting poor people.

It turned out it was none of those things. When I knocked lightly and pushed the door open, I found myself standing on the threshold of a library.

The walls were heaving with books, carelessly disordered, but clearly well read – no handsome tomes for appearance’s sake here. There was a large desk, piled high with papers. Worn rugs that must once have been vibrantly colourful were strewn across the floor, making the space feel softer.

A huge fireplace stood on the wall in front of me, a fire crackling that sent warm orange light flickering over the scene. It felt comfortable, homey, like someonelivedhere. This, I thought, was what this house could be with some care. It didn’t have to be cold and impersonal. It could be a home.

Arranged in front of the fire with its back to me was a single high-backed armchair, and I could just see the arm of the man sitting in it, a glass of amber liquid clasped loosely in his fingers.

“Not now, Beth,” came Oliver’s voice, a weary edge to it. “I don’t want company; I want to get horribly drunk and scowl into the fire.”

I moved into the room, stepping forward until I was level with the chair. Oliver sprawled there, his jacket and tie discarded in an untidy heap on the floor beside him. His collar was undone, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows revealing strong, muscled forearms. His fingers, wrapped round the glass, were long and elegant. He wore a gold signet ring on the smallest one.

Curled up in his lap was an enormous orange cat, and the hand not holding on to the glass of brandy was gently stroking the purring creature.

“Why can’t you have company while you do those things?” I asked.

Oliver’s head swung to the side, his eyes lifting to meet mine.

“Bloom!” he exclaimed with enough energy to displace the cat, who gave a hiss of displeasure. “What are you doing here?”

I moved towards the fire, holding my hands out in front of me, enjoying the warmth that melted over my fingers and keeping my back to him so that he wouldn’t see too much of the concern in my face.

“I came to check on you, of course.”

“I don’t need anyone to check on me.” Oliver’s words were clipped. “Especiallynot you.”

I swung round at that. “What do you mean especially not me?” I asked, stung.

“It’s not appropriate,” Oliver said stiffly. “I have been … imbibing.”

“Imbibing?” I quirked a brow. “Oh, you mean you’ve been drinking. How can you have when we’ve only been apart for five minutes?”