Page 63 of A Season for Scandal

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The next two days passed in a blur of preparations. Despite Mrs Finch’s airy confidence, throwing together a party for forty people at a moment’s notice in a house ten miles from the nearest town was no small undertaking.

It helped that Oliver had money to throw at the problem. A lot of money. I tried not to react to the number of carts and carriages that began arriving from York, unloading everything from glassware to shellfish, table linens to crates of champagne.

Servants employed by the agency that Mrs Finch had engaged descended in a mess of feather dusters and kitchen knives. Suddenly Beth was overseeing a kitchen staff of eleven and nine housemaids, while Barker found himself up to his elbows in footmen.

Oliver looked constantly as though someone was pinching him.

“There are peopleeverywhere,” he said to me on the morning of the party when we met in the hallway, his expression hunted. “I just found someone trying to bathe Marmalade.”

I lifted my brows. “I imagine that went well.”

“There was a lot of hissing.”

“From you or the cat?”

“Very droll, Bloom,” he said over his shoulder, already striding off towards his library, where I knew he would hide for the rest of the day. “With a wit like that, you’re wasted on flowers.”

In fact, flowers were precisely my focus. I had taken delivery of those myself at the crack of dawn. I knew perfectly well just how much they must have cost, almost down to the stem, and it was more than even my most spendthrift clients in London would have laid out.

Oliver had ordered so many that it was going to take me hours to arrange them all. Not that I was complaining. Not after Beth showed me to the flower room.

Unlike most of the house, it was light and airy – thanks to the tall windows that overlooked the lawn, and which had been given a scrub by the enterprising new maids. Long workbenches ran all the way along two of the walls, and mounted above them were hooks and pegs and empty wooden spindles for holding twine and ribbon. There was lots of clever built-in storage, too, and when I opened the cupboards I found dozens of beautiful antique vases and urns, thick with dust.

Though the room was mostly empty, the florist sent over enough trimmings to fill it out a little. Dozens of silver pails held the flowers, and even with my high standards I had to admit that the quality was exceptional. Barker appeared with brand-new secateurs and floristry wire, and when I thanked him for thinking of them, he told me with a knowing wink that Oliver had sent for the items himself.

All in all, Oliver’s flower room was easily four times the size of the space we had at Bloom’s for carrying out this kind of work, and I propped the door open, letting in the cool air and the smell of freshly mown grass, humming as I got to work.

I had been in there for hours, filling all the vases, making centrepieces for the tables, creating buttonholes for the gentlemen and corsages for the ladies out of sprigs of the soft, purple heather gathered from the moors at my request, when Oliver finally reappeared, sticking his head round the door.

“Izzy and Max are due to arrive shortly,” he said, wandering over to my workbench where I was putting the finishing touch to the final arrangement.

I wiped my hands down the front of my apron. “Is it that time already?”

“You were enjoying yourself,” he said, reaching out to touch the delicate white petals of an anemone.

I nodded. “I’ve missed this.” I gave an embarrassed laugh. “Silly to say after only a few days.”

“Not at all.” Oliver leaned back against the bench, his long legs stretched in front of him. “I understand. Flowers are your passion.”

“Yes,” I said, reaching up to straighten one of the stems. “I love the whole process – growing them, tending them, arranging them. Making something … beautiful.” I raised my eyes to his, then smiled and gestured to the gorgeous bouquet in front of us. “Not bad for something that started as no more than seeds and dirt.”

“No, not bad at all,” he said, his eyes searching my face. “Bloom’s must be very important to you,” he said slowly.

“It is,” I agreed. “I love the shop, our customers, the way that the flowers we sell become part of the fabric of their lives.” I hesitated, thinking about all the secrets that Oliver had shared with me. “Recently, though, I have been wondering…” I trailed off.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I fiddled with the hem of my apron. “I’m proud of Bloom’s, and my grandfather built that beautiful, special place from nothing. It’s extraordinary – it’s his legacy and it’s going from strength to strength.”

“But?” Oliver prompted gently. I looked into his face and saw no judgement there, only an attentive interest in what I was saying.

“But…” I exhaled. “I wonder if it’s … enough.” Saying the words aloud felt like a betrayal and I winced. “It feels as if there’s a limit to what I can achieve there – with the space, with the business, and perhaps I’ve reached that. I think that’s why I joined the Aviary, because the work they do is so …big. It helps so many people and I love that. And I lovethis.” I gestured to the flowers in front of us. “If only I could use my work to make a difference.”

Oliver nodded, as though it made perfect sense. “If that’s what you want, then I’m certain you will find a way to do it.”

“How can I?” The words came out small. “I’m already stretched so thin between the Aviary and the shop. My family needs me. I’m being selfish, ungrateful.”