Pippa got up and shook out her skirt.
“But don’t let me disturb your tranquility,” the gardener said as he picked up his bucket. “You appeared to be deep in thought. I am merely here to work, so do not let yourself be disturbed.”
He pulled out a cloth, dipped it into the bucket, and wiped the undersides of the leaves of the palm tree.
Pippa sniffed. “Vinegar?”
“It kills mites and lice.” He paused. “The activity also helps me think. It is repetitive and requires little physical exertion. That is helpful when one faces a mountain of troubles that one has to think through.”
“You have troubles, sir?”
“Oh yes, indeed.” The gardener sighed, and his shoulders slumped.
“I am very sorry, sir. Sometimes the mountain seems so great it eclipses the sky and the sun,” Pippa agreed. “It seems insurmountable.”
He eyed her. “You appear to have your share of troubles as well.”
“Oh yes, I do,” Pippa replied bleakly. “It has been months since I have seen the sun.” She watched him dip the cloth into the bucket and wipe the underside of a wide leaf.
“This is a camellia japonica, isn’t it? Linnaeus classified it in 1753.”
He looked up, pleased. “It is indeed. You seem to be extraordinarily knowledgeable regarding botany. Can you tell me the name of the plant beside it as well?”
“A nerium oleander,” Pippa replied, as she studied the plant. “It grows pretty pink flowers. I know a little about taxonomy, and can rattle off entire lists, but not how to tend plants. My father would have known, though. Papa used to say exactly what you said earlier. He said that working in the garden helped him clear his head. He came up with the best ideas when he was digging in the dirt.”
“He was a gardener?” The man wrung out the cloth and gently wiped the underside of a wide leaf.
“No, he was a mathematician and natural philosopher.” Pippa rubbed her eyebrow. “He died recently.”
The man threw her a sympathetic look. “My condolences. You must miss him terribly.”
She did, but it was not until he had uttered those words that the impact of their meaning hit her forcibly. Some of his gestures reminded her of her father. Or maybe it was simply his white hair. But her eyes watered, and she swallowed.
“I do,” she said thickly. “Very much so.” She swallowed and swallowed, but one tear trickled down her cheeks.
The man dug around in the pocket of his apron and pulled out a handkerchief. “It is clean.”
She took it gratefully. The fabric was surprisingly fine beneath her fingers, silk rather than linen, and embroidered with an elegant monogram she could not quite make out through her tears. “I am so sorry. I never cry. But lately, it has been a bit too much. And it is quite disheartening when your troubles seem unsolvable. Even though Papa would have disagreed with me. He claimed everything was solvable, but in this instance, I believe he must have been wrong.” She heaved a deep sigh.
The man made a gesture. “May I?”
Pippa moved aside, and he sat down next to her. “May I make a suggestion, Fräulein? Let us tell each other our troubles and then we shall decide whose mountain is bigger.”
A faint smile crossed Pippa’s face. “Shall we place a wager? I am certain I shall win, for my troubles are of such a nature that you will never have heard the like before.”
“You make me curious indeed. Tell me.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you certain you want to hear about my woes? It is a long, convoluted,complicated story doomed to a terribly sad, woeful end. There will be tears.” She thought for one brief moment. “Possibly some blood, too.”
“These tend to be the best kinds of stories. There is a reason we watch Shakespeare’s tragedies over and over again.” Maybe it was the kind twinkle in his eyes, or the hand movement he made that reminded her so of Papa, that made her decide to trust him.
So she took heart and told him the entire story. From how she lost her mother, how her father had raised and educated her, with what passion he taught natural sciences, astronomy and mathematics, and how he had passed down the same passion to her. How she had grown up in freedom in the mountains and had believed life would remain like that; how, one day, Klemens had entered her life and how she had grown to love him dearly. How, one magical summer, they had agreed to marry. And how it had all come crashing down, how it had all dissolved and disappeared like fog in the early morning hours.
“And why is that?” the gardener enquired. “From what you tell me, there is no reason whatsoever for you not to be happily married. He seems to be a charming lad, and you are clearly very much in love with him.”
She wrung his handkerchief in her hands. “It turns out my betrothed is not the poor student Klemens I always thought he was.” She took a big breath. “But a prince. An archduke, to be precise.”
There. It was said. The unspeakable.
