Chapter Nineteen

"Mr Lockhart, you're home!" A woman broke from the small group and rushed forward to greet us. Though her accent was English, it was touched by a musical lilt that I assumed was a French influence. "And you've brought guests," she added, as Oliver helped Mrs Finch and me down to the ground. There was just a hint of over-familiarity in her voice that struck me as strange. It felt as if she was the one welcoming us to her home.

"I have," Oliver said abruptly. "May I present Miss Bloom, my … fiancée." The word came out slightly strangled, but Oliver pressed on. "And her godmother, Mrs Finch."

He turned to us as the other two people stepped forward. "Miss Bloom, Mrs Finch – my sister, Helene, and her parents, the Lavignes."

I dropped into a curtsey and regarded the three strangers in front of us.

Mrs Lavigne was a handsome woman in her forties, dark-haired and elegant. She was dressed in a simple gown of dusky lilac that looked well made and expensive, and she stared at me with eyes round with astonishment.

"Your fiancée?" she managed. "But you never mentioned…"

Mr Lavigne interrupted, recovering faster than his wife. "What a happy occasion!" he boomed, reaching out to shake my hand in an energetic pumping motion. "Mr Lockhart has kept you a surprise, my dear!"

He was a slight man, several inches shorter than his wife, but an animated energy seemed to ripple over him. That and the enormous dark moustache that graced his top lip, carefully curled up at the ends with wax, made him seem larger somehow. Unlike his wife, his clothes were not at all tasteful or elegant; his orange waistcoat, clashing wildly with his forest-green suit, was loud and eye-catching. I thought I saw him send an approving glance towards my own gown, which was, I would admit, quite a vibrant shade of pink.

"Yes, Mr Lockhart," Mrs Lavigne said, rallying swiftly. "What a sly fellow you are!"

"It's all quite new," I said, casting my eyes down and aiming for demure shyness.

"I couldn't be sure Miss Bloom returned my feelings and would accept my suit," Oliver said with the stiff quality of someone reading from a script – precisely because Mrs Finch had scripted this for him.

"Mr Lockhart is too modest." Mrs Finch stepped forward, instantly at ease in her role as the doting godmother, well pleased with her charge's success on the marriage mart. "It was clear to me from the first that he and my goddaughter were meant for one another. I have never seen two young people so in love." She lifted a handkerchief to her eye and dabbed, her voice quivering with emotion.

Oliver frowned down at me, his brow deeply furrowed. He looked less like he was in love with me, and more like he had never before perceived a human woman. His eyes flicked to the back of my hand, which had come to rest lightly on his arm. He swallowed. "In love. Yes." The words were a croak.

It would have to do I supposed, resisting the urge to pinch him.

"And he couldn't wait to bring his future bride home with him to meet his long-lost sister!" Mrs Finch said. "Such a romantic tale, and so moving. It's like something from a novel!"

"Yes, yes," Mrs Lavigne said hastily, and I felt the weight of her gaze lingering on me. "Helene, darling, come and meet your future sister-in-law. It seems there is much to celebrate."

At this, Mrs Lavigne dragged her daughter forward, and I found myself face-to-face with Oliver's possibly-sister.

The first thing that struck me was that she didn't look very much like her brother. Where his skin was the warm gold of wet sand, hers was milk pale. Her hair was brown, and so were her eyes, but they were not so dark as Oliver's, nor did she possess his dark brows or enviably long lashes. There was, perhaps, some resemblance in the high cheekbones, the tilt of the chin, but it was not pronounced.

Helene was eyeing me with apprehension, and I had the impression at once of someone who was painfully shy.

"How do you do," she said softly. She did not hold out her hand, and I noticed she was wearing pretty lace gloves so there was no opportunity to examine the scar Oliver had mentioned.

"I'm very happy to meet you, Miss Lavigne," I hesitated. "I'm sorry, or do you prefer Miss Lockhart?"

A flush lit Helene's cheeks. "I … we haven't—" She cast a look at her mother. "I think perhaps Miss Lavigne?" she said finally.

"We still haven't got used to it." Mrs Lavigne smiled warmly at her daughter. "But even now that Helene is happily returned to the bosom of her family, we will always be her parents."

She spoke firmly and sincerely. For Helene's sake, I was glad of it. Whatever was truly happening here, it seemed she had parents who cared for her.

"Although, if you are really to be sisters, surely Helene will suffice?" Mr Lavigne broke in. "And that way we neatly dodge all this confusion." He beamed, clearly pleased with his solution, and I couldn't help smiling back.

"How right you are," I agreed. "I hope you will call me Marigold," I said to Helene. "Or Mari, if you prefer. That is what my sister calls me, after all."

"I have never had a sister before." Helene smiled tremulously and held out her hand, which I took. "But I always wanted one."

"Then it's settled," I said.

"And we should get your guests inside and show them to their rooms," Mrs Lavigne said, again with that touch of condescension I didn't like. She certainly seemed very at home at Lockhart Hall.

If Oliver felt anything was amiss, he didn't show it. "Yes, thank you. Barker," he called over his shoulder. "I will show the ladies in, if you could take care of the luggage and arrange with Beth for some refreshments?"

"Right you are," Barker replied easily, already leading the horses away.

Mrs Lavigne's nostrils flared, and I guessed she wasn't too keen on the informality of the household. I had to admit, I was surprised by it myself. Mr Lavigne did not seem similarly troubled, only smiling wider at us all.

Without another word, Oliver strode ahead and through a front door that seemed fifty feet tall and built to withstand battering rams. Inside the entry hall, it became clear at once that this strange house was going to live up to its Gothic promises. The entrance was enormous, with high ceilings and – yes – a suit of armour hunched rather sulkily in one corner. For such a big space, it did not benefit from much natural sunlight, and as a result it felt dark, almost oppressive. The air was significantly cooler in here, the contrast sending a shiver dancing across my skin.

"Welcome to the mausoleum," Oliver muttered.

"It's certainly very … atmospheric," I said, eyeing the enormous and very ancient-looking chandelier still lit by candles.

Oliver snorted. "Oh yes, we've got plenty of atmosphere. Beth! BETH!" he yelled.

A woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She was around thirty, with dark curls and wide green eyes. This must be Barker's daughter because the resemblance between them was striking, her laughing expression so similar to his that I liked her at once.

"What did I say about shrieking like that, Oliver?" she chided. Her eyes slid to mine. "Er … Mr Lockhart, I mean."

"Beth, the Lavignes are well aware of how informal we are." Oliver grunted. "There's no need to go putting on airs for my … betrothed." He looked slightly less queasy this time, but I noticed Beth press her lips together.

"I am Beth Barker," she said, stepping towards me. "You'll forgive Oliver's poor manners, I'm sure. You must be Miss Bloom."

"I am," I said. "And I'm very happy to renounce ceremony too; Mari will suit me perfectly. And this is my godmother, Mrs Finch." I gestured to her.

Mrs Finch only smiled serenely, offering no one her first name. Personally, I thought this was because she didn't actually have one. I wasn't even convinced that Mrs Finch was her real name at all, and no one at the Aviary seemed to know very much about the woman, though Izzy had once told me that there was a Mr Finch somewhere.

"Perhaps you could show Miss Bloom and Mrs Finch to their rooms," Mrs Lavigne said, directing her words to Beth, while her gaze barely flicked in her direction. "And then we may all take tea in the drawing room."

I couldn't help the way my eyebrows flew up at this, and when I met Beth's eye, the glimmer I saw there made me think this was not the first time she had experienced Mrs Lavigne's high-handedness.

Oliver, on the other hand, seemed again not to notice. "I'm going to the library," was all he said, as he turned and stalked away. "Let me know when you want me. And tea had better involve something to eat because I'm starving."

"Believe it or not, that was Oliver on his best behaviour," Beth murmured to me in a low voice as she led the way up the staircase. The Lavignes headed off – presumably in the direction of the drawing room.

"Really?" I asked.

"Oh yes." A smile pulled at Beth's lips. "I've never known him to actually agree to sit down to tea before. Then again, we don't usually have visitors."

By this point we had reached the top of the staircase and Beth turned left, leading Mrs Finch and me down a long corridor. The scale of the building was almost absurd, and we passed a number of doors and made several turns before coming to a stop.

"Your rooms are down here," she said. "The Lavignes and Helene are staying at the other end of the house."

"A map would probably be most helpful when the time comes to search for them," Mrs Finch said. "If you could draw one up?"

"Of course." Beth nodded, reaching out to open the door in front of her.

"Never mind finding the Lavignes' rooms," I said. "We'll need a map to find our own!"

Beth gave a chuckle at this. "You soon get used to it," she promised. "Besides, almost all the rooms are shut up, so you can't go too wrong."

"Shut up?" I repeated as we stepped through to a bedroom that was large and just as gloomy as the rest of the house so far.

"Usually it's only us and Oliver who are here," Beth said. "But there are over a hundred rooms in the house. Most of them are left closed. In fact, this is the most people we've had in Lockhart Hall since Mrs Lockhart was alive." She gestured around the room. "I hope this is all right for you, Mari? Mrs Finch, your room connects through the door here." Beth opened the door in question revealing another room, the mirror image of my own.

"It's lovely, thank you," I said, because though it was dark, and though the giant furniture felt heavy and old-fashioned, I hadn't neglected to notice that the room smelled pleasantly of beeswax and clean linens, or that on the enormous dressing table there was a vase of slender grasses tipped with elegant tufts of pale lavender.

"These are pretty," I said, touching my finger to one.

"Yorkshire Fog," Beth said, sounding suddenly shy. "It's just grass, I know, but Oliver said you had a liking for flowers, and we don't have much to choose from around here, as you can see." She waved her hand towards the window, and I moved over, pushing the heavy curtains to one side.

"What is that?" I managed.

"It was the garden," Beth snorted derisively. "Though that's not what I'd call it now. Mrs Lockhart had it kept beautiful, but after she died…" She trailed off here, but I had to admit I was barely paying attention; I was so enthralled by the view.

We were higher up than I thought, and clearly at the side of the building now. Sprawled in front of me was a tangle of weeds and unkempt garden – huge in scale, like the rest of the house. I could just make out the shape of the overgrown footpaths that cut through what must have once been a lawn but was now a waist-high spread of grasses, gently bobbing in the breeze. There were hints of flower beds, stone walls, crumbling and tumbled over with ivy. And the elevated position meant that all around it, the view of the moors spread out like water, green and restless.

As I looked at it, my heart started beating faster and one word rang in my mind, clear as a bell.

Mine.

I jumped back from the window as if it had shocked me. Mine? What sort of a reaction was that? A wildly inappropriate, demonstrably false one. Flustered, my eyes darted to Mrs Finch, who was watching me with an impassable look.

"Perhaps, Beth, you could give us your impressions of the Lavignes while we are alone," she said.

My hand pressed against my chest, where my heart still thumped too hard, too loud. Yes. The Lavignes. Stop being distracted, Mari, I chided myself. There is work to do.

"They are all right, I suppose," Beth said grudgingly. "Polite, not too demanding, careful with Oliver when he's around."

"But?" Mrs Finch prompted.

"I can't put my finger on it exactly. They're too comfortable here. It's as if they think the place belongs to them now. As if they have a … claim on it. Which I suppose they might…"

"Do you think Helene could be Oliver's sister?" I asked when Beth left this thought unfinished.

Beth's head tipped to the side. "If that isn't the question I've been asking myself every minute of this last week…" She sighed. "I don't know. I've been here my whole life so I knew Miss Ellen up until the day she and the mistress disappeared, and the truth is that Helene could be her. She has the look of her, and she certainly seems to know a lot about her, remembers things that I don't see how she could know otherwise. Miss Ellen, though, she was a real bright light – full of questions, forever getting in scrapes."

"That doesn't sound like the woman we just met," I murmured.

"No," Beth agreed, "but a lot can change in eleven years."

"Particularly if Helene's story is true," Mrs Finch mused. "Such a tumultuous experience would leave its mark."

"So it remains a mystery," I said.

"Not for much longer." Mrs Finch's smile was sharp. "We're here now."