“Your friend’s lover. You did meet him. Many times.”
Ida’s hands fell still now, the bouquet she’d been dressing falling back to pieces on the counter. “Bo, what are you saying?”
“Your friend.” Bo swallowed. “Her name was Madelief, wasn’t it?”
Ida paled. “How do you know that?”
“Because I knew her lover. He told me all about her.”
“Bo . . .”
“Your friend was Madelief,” Bo said. “And my friend was the man she was in love with.”
“Your friend? Who?”
Bo swallowed again. “Sir Geoffrey.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ida made the heretofore unheard-of decision to close her store early.
“What if people want flowers?” Bo asked, almost stupidly, but Ida had already pulled down the shades and locked the door.
“Well, they can pick daisies off the heath like everyone else,” she retorted, reaching up to a high shelf, from which she pulled out a bottle of vodka.
Bo gaped at her. “Vodka?”
“I need it. Want one?”
Bo shook her head. “No.”
“That’s fine. I’ll drink alone.”
Bo watched as Ida dumped out her half-finished tea from earlier, and without even rinsing the mug, instantly topped it up with alcohol. “I’m driving you home later,” she decided, and Ida gave a disinterested shrug.
“Fine. Now, tell me about Sir Geoffrey. Are you absolutely sure he’s the one who was with Madelief?”
Bo nodded. “He told me the story himself. Told me all about the worst thing he ever did. He was very clear that the woman’s name was Madelief, and that . . . and that he’d broken her heart.”
“Well, well, well.” Ida took a long sip of her drink. “So, he said it was the worst thing he ever did, hey?”
“You have no idea how much he regretted letting Madelief go.”
“She was his bit on the side, Bo, not an employee he had to fire.”
“You know what I mean.” Bo paused. “Actually, I will have that vodka, if you don’t mind?”
“What about driving me home?”
“Get the train like everyone else.”
Ida nodded, pouring out a measure of vodka into another empty teacup. She handed it to Bo, who brought it to her lips. It smelled of both alcohol and Earl Grey but that didn’t stop Bo from taking a large sip, wincing as the burn hit her throat.
“How long has that bottle been up there?” Bo spluttered, and Ida shrugged.
“About as long as I’ve owned this place. Now tell me about Sir Geoffrey.” Ida’s face darkened. “Tell me all aboutthe worst thing he ever did.”
Momentarily, Bo felt a dart of guilt. Geoffrey, eaten up by guilt, had shared this story with her, but never given her leave to tell anyone else. It wasn’t her story to share, Bo reminded herself. Geoffrey, full of shame, had confessed everything to her one night, and Bo could still picture him in her mind, ashen-faced as he quietly spoke.
