Page 71 of A Season for Scandal

Paris

August, 1898

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

We were in Paris.

Iwas inParis.

It didn’t sound any less ridiculous the more times I said it in my head, or even – on several occasions – aloud.

“I know perfectly well where we are, Bloom,” Oliver said bitterly. “There is no need for you to keepannouncingit.”

“But, Lockhart,” I breathed, standing in front of the window of my room in the Grand Hotel Du Louvre, looking down over the bustling Place du Palais Royal, lined with its impossibly grand buildings, all sand-coloured stone and soaring colonnades, and classical sculpture. “We are actuallyin Paris. Paris! France!”

Oliver groaned into a cushion from where he was slumped into the red silk of the sofa – because not only was I staying in an enormous hotel with two hundred rooms, two steam-powered lifts, a famous artist in residence on the floor above us, and its own telegraph room (“That will come in handy,” Mrs Finch had remarked), but my room was a suite, which meant it was actually several rooms full of glass chandeliers and oil paintings and antique furniture, and I hadneverseen anything like it.

I glanced at Oliver, flooded with sympathy. “Are you feelinganybetter?” I asked.

Oliver lifted his head at that. “I told you already that I am perfectly fine. I don’t know why you have to keep asking. Between that and the constant ejaculations of ‘Paris! Paris! Paris!’ you are growing incredibly wearisome.”

I decided to ignore this outburst because he was still pale and limp.

“Just let me know if you think you’re going to cast up your accounts again,” I said cheerfully. “I will have to try to find the least expensive-looking receptacle for you to vomit into.” This would be tricky as everything in the room seemed to be made of solid gold.

“I did notcast up my accounts, you wretched woman,” Oliver groused, closing his eyes. “So stop saying that I did.”

It seemed Oliver had inherited his mother’s aversion to travelling by sea, and he had spent the entire ferry journey across the Channel clinging to the side of the boat, green-faced and miserable.

“I don’t care what you say,” I chided, “as soon as the hot water we sent for arrives, you’ll drink the tisane I’m mixing.”

I moved to the coffee table and bent over the leather case I had unpacked, a gift from Mrs Finch when Winnie and I began our experiments. It was neatly divided into three layers of small, square cavities, housing glass jars filled with various dried and powdered plants.

“Ginger,” I said, pulling out jars as I went, “and barberry and mint.”

“Sounds revolting.”

I fixed him with a hard stare. “You will drink it and then you’ll feel better.”

There was a knock at the door, and the arrival of the hot water (in an elaborate silver pot) coincided with the arrival of the rest of the Finches for our meeting to discuss our strategy.

Sylla eyed Oliver with distaste before dropping into an armchair. “Why do you still look so … clammy?” she asked in greeting.

“I am not clammy. I am perfectly fine,” Oliver ground out.

“I’m making him a tisane,” I said, and Winnie drifted over, eyeing my movements with curiosity.

“Barberry?” she asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I thought that was an emetic?”

“What is an emetic?” Oliver asked suspiciously.

“It causes vomiting,” Winnie said sunnily.

“I knew it! You’re trying to poison me!” Oliver exploded in outrage, while Sylla perked up, leaning forward with obvious interest.

“I am not poisoning you,” I said calmly. “Inlargequantities, barberry can cause sickness, but the amount I am using here will only soothe any stomach pain. It is all in the dosage.”

“Fascinating,” Winnie murmured. “Isn’t it curious how often we have found that the same ingredient can cause problemsandcure them?”