Page 52 of A Season for Scandal

For a split second I wondered if I was so tired that I was imagining things, but then my training kicked in. “Oh, yes,” I said, sitting down across from the pair of them. “Those stories were always very … entertaining.” My eyes flicked to Mrs Finch, looking for a clue, but she only drank her coffee with an unruffled calm.

“Yes, indeed,” Helene agreed, nodding her head so that the curls arranged around her face bobbed. “Mrs Finch told me that for a brief time, her grandmother actually performed seances!”

“Mmm,” I replied non-committally, reaching for the silver coffee pot on the table and wondering what on earth Mrs Finch was up to now.

“Once, in Paris I went to see a spiritualist perform, an American lady,” Helene continued, and there was some colour in her cheeks. “She was marvellous. There was one point where the table we were sitting round levitated clear off the ground.”

“I should think that would have been terrifying,” I said, lifting the coffee pot in offer of refilling her cup.

“No thank you.” Helene shook her head. “I can’t stand coffee – my French friends found me a sore disappointment; it was far too English of me to prefer tea.” She smiled, and I chuckled.

“But to return to the levitating table…” Mrs Finch nudged.

“Oh, yes!” Helene tilted her head to the side. “It wasn’t terrifying precisely. More thrilling. I was fourteen and my friend and I had sneaked away from our lessons to attend.” Her smile dimmed.

“Well, I can’t blame you for that,” I said, wanting to encourage her to keep talking. “I’m sure I would have done the very same thing myself.”

“And I,” Mrs Finch agreed. “But then, thanks to my grandmother, I was fascinated by it all. In fact” – here, Mrs Finch sat back in her seat and I knew whatever this bizarre fiction had been in aid of was about to become clear – “Grandmother always said that I, too, had the gift.”

“Really?” Helene shivered, nothing but innocent delight in her face. I felt a pang of warmth towards her. I had been watching her so closely, and yet I was struggling to determine if she was telling the truth or perpetrating a ruse. Most of the time, I was certain that she was precisely the sweet, diffident young woman she appeared to be, but sometimes … sometimes there was something …off. Just a little out of balance, a tiny flicker across her face. A look that was almost pain or fear that had me questioning her.

Mrs Finch nodded solemnly. “Perhaps you would like a demonstration?”

“A demonstration?” A flash of uncertainty lit Helene’s eyes.

“Surely you’re not going to make the breakfast table levitate?” I grinned. “If I’m not mistaken, these teacups are antiques.”

Mrs Finch laughed. “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid.” She turned to Helene. “Do you know anything about palmistry?”

I could hardly suppress my laugh of surprise. The woman was a genius.

“Oh, yes,” I said eagerly, leaning forward in my chair. “Do show Helene.” I nodded encouragingly at the young woman. “It is simply fascinating, I promise you.”

“You want to read my palm?” Helene said cautiously, but I could feel her interest.

Mrs Finch shrugged. “I do not promise to be able to tell you much, but it is always interesting to try to get a glimpse into the future, is it not?”

“The future,” Helene murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, of course.” Then she laughed, embarrassed. “What do we need to do?”

“Why nothing at all,” Mrs Finch replied. “I will only examine at your palm, if I may? The right hand is best.”

“Certainly,” Helene said, holding out her right hand. Mrs Finch took it and gently turned it over.

“Fascinating,” Mrs Finch said. “Marigold, come here and look – I know you will be interested too.”

I got to my feet, carrying my coffee cup with me and made my way round the table to peer at Helene’s hand, which was cradled in Mrs Finch’s.

At once I saw the scar that Oliver had mentioned: a small crescent shape below her little finger. It looked absolutely real to me.

“Now this line here,” Mrs Finch said, pointing at the crease that ran down Helene’s hand from beside her thumb, “is your lifeline. And I’m glad to say that it is long indeed. I believe you will outlive us all, Helene!”

Helene chuckled. “Well, that is nice to know.”

“Hmmm…” Mrs Finch frowned. “This line is your heart line. Unfortunately it has been slightly disrupted by the scar you have here.”

“Oh, yes,” Helene said, and as she looked at the scar, an expression of such desolation passed over her face that I couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking of. Then she blinked and smiled shakily. “A silly childhood accident. Oliver climbed a tree and I did not care to be left behind. When I cut my hand on a jagged branch, it bled so much I almost fainted and would have fallen. He was furious that I had followed him when he told me not to, shouted at me the whole time, but he rescued me, carried me down on his back.”

I smiled softly. “Yes, that sounds like him.” It soundedsomuch like him that I knew at once the story was true.