Library

Chapter Twenty

Tea was predictably uncomfortable. Fully recovered from the shock of our arrival, Mrs Lavigne seemed all too happy to fling herself into the role of hostess, peppering Oliver with questions about me and our engagement while his answers got shorter and shorter.

"But do tell us, Mr Lockhart," she pressed, as she carefully poured herself a second cup of tea. "For how long has this romance been going on?"

"Six months," Oliver replied curtly.

"Six months!" Mrs Lavigne exclaimed. "And to think you never said a word! I assure you, Miss Bloom, not a single word!"

"I can believe it, Mrs Lavigne!" I laughed. "At first even I had no idea about Mr Lockhart's feelings for me." Here I peeped at him from under my lashes. One of us, I reasoned, should at least be playing the part.

Oliver looked back at me, his expression stony.

"It has been such a whirlwind," I continued breathlessly, enjoying his discomfort far too much. "We began writing to one another once a week, but soon the letters flew back and forth, and Mr Lockhart is such a poet. His way with words is truly moving."

Oliver choked on his tea.

"Really?" Mrs Lavigne tried and failed to conceal her surprise.

"Oh yes," I said. "My favourite letters were the ones stained with the tears he shed as he composed his beautiful odes to all my virtues."

"You do have so many virtues," Oliver agreed, and I knew that he meant something quite different.

I didn't know why teasing Oliver Lockhart brought me such pleasure, but it did, and if it coincided with the goals of the Aviary, then so much the better.

"Goodness me," Mrs Lavigne said. "How lovely, Mr Lockhart. How did you and Miss Bloom meet?"

"We met at the library," Oliver said shortly, reaching for a biscuit, which he crammed in his mouth, presumably to prevent future questions.

"Ah!" Mr Lavigne twinkled at me. "Charming. A fellow novel reader, I presume?"

I shook my head. "I'm afraid my sister is the great novel reader in the family. I was actually in the horticulture section."

"Horticulture?" Mrs Lavigne's eyebrows lifted, as she eyed me over the top of her tea cup. "You have an interest in gardening, Miss Bloom?"

"More than an interest," I said. "I am a florist by trade. My family own a flower shop in London."

"A florist?" Somehow Mrs Lavigne managed to inject the word with enough horror that you'd have thought I told them I ate children for a living. "Forgive me, Miss Bloom," she said. "I hadn't realized that your family were … in trade."

At this, Oliver seemed to show some sign of life. "Why should that be a surprise, Mrs Lavigne? As you know, I am in trade myself." His words were dangerously calm, but I saw the flash of temper in his eyes.

"Oh, well, that is quite different," Mrs Lavigne began, as though it was obvious.

Mr Lavigne reached across and put his hand over his wife's for an instant. "Forgive my wife," he said jovially. "In France, people are much more comfortable talking openly about such matters. We have all of us perhaps forgotten our English manners."

Although he said the words lightly, something uneasy filled the room. Across from me, Helene shifted in her seat.

"Of course you are right," Mrs Lavigne said brightly. "Please forgive me. The England I remember was so rigid and set in its ways. It is charming to find that in these modern times, true love triumphs over social expectation."

"I don't know about that," I said carefully, "but certainly in the case of Mr Lockhart and myself, we both inherit businesses from our grandfathers before us. I don't think there is really anything to scandalize society about our marriage."

"And Miss Bloom is the only one of us who actually inherits anything of true value," Oliver put in unexpectedly. "The business she has helped to build is something remarkable, while I am left trying to untangle a poorly run, morally bankrupt mess."

"Oh, but, Mr Lockhart, how can you say such a thing?" Mrs Lavigne laughed. "When you have all this." She gestured at the room in which we sat – though dreary and uncomfortable, it was undeniably grand.

Oliver only scoffed into his teacup.

"Are you not pleased with your future home, Miss Bloom?" Mrs Lavigne asked me sweetly.

"Very pleased," I responded calmly. "Though I must confess, it is the garden that holds the greatest promise for me."

Mrs Lavigne wrinkled her nose. "I myself cannot stand getting my hands dirty, but I suppose that is what gardeners are for."

"And you, Helene," I asked quickly, determined to draw her out. "What are your interests?"

"Oh, our Helene is accomplished at so many things!" Mrs Lavigne broke in. "She embroiders like a dream and sings like an angel. Well, we should have known, with the way she takes to such things that she was born in a place like this, with every advantage given to her."

"Funny, I don't remember my sister being able to carry a tune," Oliver said almost idly, though there was a keen look in his eye.

Before Mrs Lavigne could leap in again, Helene smiled, the expression almost fond. "No," she said in her soft voice. "I was a dreadful disappointment to my singing master at first, but I did improve eventually." She looked down at her hands. "I remember singing here once – at Christmas. Father said at least it drove all the guests away."

Oliver looked stricken for a moment, then nodded.

"It is wonderful what a good teacher can do, isn't it?" Mrs Finch said, unravelling the tension that filled the room once more with her calm tone. "My goddaughter knows that only too well." The smile she gave me then was glimmering with mischief only I would see. The instruction I had had recently was very different to the accomplishments Mrs Lavigne spoke of – I doubted Helene's teachers taught lock picking.

"I do," I said, smiling back. "Did you go to school in Paris, Helene?"

"Just outside the city," Helene said.

"And did you—"

"I must say these biscuits are delicious," Mr Lavigne broke in. "Beth truly has a way in the kitchen."

Oliver hummed, the sound dubious. In truth, the biscuits were quite dry and strangely … salty.

"Yes, they are positively dangerous for the waistline," Mrs Lavigne agreed. "Though, I'm sure Miss Bloom will manage one or two more." She held the plate towards me, and in her eyes I saw a small spiteful look that I had seen many times before. Her gaze lingered on my body for only a split second, but I felt the intended barb wrapped in her light words, the way a cat might scratch: sharp, fleeting and deadly accurate. It was depressing how often such a thing happened, often enough that the jab barely registered as a surprise.

"I'm sure I will," I replied amiably, taking another biscuit and biting into it with every sign of enjoyment. I understood exactly how much it irritated women like Mrs Lavigne to see me living my life, fat and happy and unapologetic. As expected, her smile dimmed.

"Perhaps now would be a good time for Mr Lockhart to give you a tour of the house, Marigold?" Mrs Finch purred, and I knew from the way she said it that she had noticed Mrs Lavigne's little dig as well.

"Yes," Oliver said at once, jumping to his feet. "What a good idea."

"And I shall have a chance for a comfortable coze with the Lavignes. I'm fascinated to hear all about you," Mrs Finch continued.

"But … surely" – Mrs Lavigne's eyes flashed between Oliver and myself – "the young couple should have a chaperone?"

"Mrs Lavigne!" Mrs Finch sounded shocked. "I hope you are not impugning Mr Lockhart's honour? Surely, here in his own home, with so many people in the house, he can be trusted to show his future wife the grounds unchaperoned?"

"Of – of course." Mrs Lavigne looked flustered. "I only meant… I would never suggest such a thing. I—"

"I think we'll be off, shall we?" Oliver interrupted smoothly as he stood, holding out his hand to me. When I slipped my fingers into his, he squeezed them a touch too hard, enough to let me know how he felt about all the teasing that had been taking place.

Without any further conversation, we left the room, my arm through his. I put a little extra sway in my step for Mrs Lavigne's benefit. One thing was certain: she may hide it behind polite smiles, but the woman didn't like me. I turned everything that had happened since we arrived over in my mind and came to the conclusion that I had put a spoke in the wheel of Mrs Lavigne's plans. Whether that was because she was an imposter, or because she resented the interference of another woman in the home she wished to claim for her daughter, was a question to which I didn't know the answer. Yet.

"So, that went well," I said in a low voice, once we were safely out of earshot.

"Beautiful odes?" Oliver said icily. "The tears I shed?"

"I thought it was a nice touch," I replied, as we walked down a long hallway and then through several connected rooms. The house was colder here, the furniture covered in dust sheets. Light slanted in through half-shut curtains, dust motes wheeling in a sleepy dance.

"And you are doing very little to convince these people that we are happily engaged," I pointed out.

"I'm sorry we can't all be such accomplished actors," Oliver grumbled.

"Actually," I admitted, "I'm not good at acting. I hate telling lies – it makes my skin itch."

"You seem to be doing a good job to me."

"For some reason it's easier when I know it will irritate you."

"Bloom." Oliver exhaled deeply, shaking his head. "You could test the patience of a saint."

The laughter died on my lips as he pushed through a set of wide French doors, and suddenly we found ourselves outside.

Still arm in arm, we stood on a wide stone platform that ran the length of this side of the house. It had once been, I supposed, a terrace. A sun trap, warm under the early evening sun. Now the stone was rough, crumbling in places. There was a rotted pergola sagging against the wall at one end, the skeleton of some long-dead climbing plant still clinging in parts.

We walked down a short flight of stone stairs until we reached the lawn I had seen from my bedroom. The paving stones were unsteady, and Oliver held my arm a bit tighter. As I had thought, the grass here grew almost to my waist.

I held out my free hand, my fingers gently brushing against the tall fronds.

Neither of us said anything, only stood, looking over the wreck of what must once have been a beautiful garden. I could feel the warmth from his body against my side, could smell the sandalwood on his skin. He kept hold of my arm, even though no one could see us now.

"I never come out here," Oliver said finally. "It's much worse than I remember."

I turned to look at him, but he kept his eyes firmly planted on the horizon. His face was blank, except for that tell-tale tightening about his jaw.

"All I see is potential," I replied.

He gave that almost-smile. "Ever the optimist," he said.

"This is my job, Lockhart. You may safely defer to my expertise. This is no lost cause: only a place that needs a little time and care."

"Where would you start?"

"First?" I smiled. "I'd probably mow the lawn. I hear they even have machines for that these days."

We fell quiet again, and I took a moment just to feel the sun on my skin, to absorb once again the pleasure of so much space. It was quiet here, the kind of quiet that never fell over the city. The kind that was broken only by the cheerful trilling of a robin, who sounded pleased not only with himself but with the whole world.

"Why did you bring me straight out to the garden?" I asked.

"You said you were most interested in the garden," he replied nonchalantly. "I hadn't thought about it in a long time. Most of the time I make myself forget it's even here. It was … my mother's favourite place."

He doesn't say any more, and I don't ask him to. The pain in his voice is well hidden, but I hear it all the same, the jagged edges to the words.

"Even like this," I said finally, "it's still beautiful. Nature makes no mistakes."

Oliver's hand came up to cover mine, only briefly. It was barely a touch, but I felt it down to my toes.

"Sounds like something an optimist would say to me," he said gruffly. Then, shaking his head, Oliver turned, pulling me with him and back towards the house. "Anyway, let's go. Might as well show you the rest of this old wreck."

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