“Oh,monchou.” The tenderness in his tone chases away any lingering doubt I had at allowing myself to be vulnerable with him. “You are smart and quick-witted, yet you possess the most wonderful naivete and sense of curiosity that, yes per’aps is a childlike wonder, but it is also a beautiful part of you.” He pats my hand again. “Do not ever lose that.”
What a beautiful thing to say. My eyes fill with tears. Curious? I suppose I always have been, but that I am allowed to be so openly here is a revelation. “I was never permitted to ask too many questions growing up. My grandfather was very much of the opinion that children should be seen and not heard.”
He tuts. “You make ask all the questions you wish, mademoiselle. But that does not always mean you will be granted an answer. Now, tell me about your plans for the garden.”
I have so many I don’t know where to start. I’ve never been a gardener, but I do have a keen interest and good knowledge of flowers and plants. And something about being here amongst the overgrown rosebushes and tangled vines stranglingthe wildflowers, holding their delicately colored petals captive, makes me want to strip back the layers of neglect and reveal the beauty beneath. Not so much that it would lose its wild charm, but enough that we could walk along the small stone paths without brambles and thorns scratching my calves. “I thought maybe the wild roses could be trimmed back first. They’re so overgrown with thorns it’s difficult to see their delicate blooms.”
He nods. “A fine place to start, mademoiselle. I am sure there are some pruning shears out here somewhere.”
“Yes, there are.” I found some this morning hidden inside a small stone bunker. “They’re a little rusty but I’m sure with a little oil and sharpening they’ll work just fine.”
Pierre stands and offers me the crook of his elbow, like an old-fashioned gentleman in the movies I’ve been watching. “Come show me the changes you wish to make.”
I link my arm through his, a huge smile on my face as we walk through the garden together and I chatter excitedly about the subtle changes I’d like to make. And he listens intently while I describe the purple fireweed and lupines, the vibrant pink of the bitterroot and the bright yellow coneflowers, nestled amongst the Indian basket grass.
“How do you know the names of all these wildflowers,monchou?”
“I had a book about wildflowers when I was growing up. I’m sure I could identify every one that grows in North America.” I smile, recalling the worn brown edges of that book. I read it from cover to cover at least one hundred times. I would use it to identify the blooms when I’d go exploring on my grandfather’s estate. There weren’t nearly as many as there are here though. The groundskeepers used to cut back all the flowers as soon as they bloomed, something that always made me inexplicably sad.
He pats my hand. “As I said, very smart. Now, I am detecting a chill in the air, which tells me it’s time for me to start preparing dinner.”
“Do you need me to help?”
“Non,monchou. You stay here and continue making plans for your garden.”
He goes back into the house and I do just as he suggested, my head filled with ideas and my entire body buzzing with excitement. My very own secret garden.
Chapter 20
Imogen
Despite savoring every single word of it, I still managed to read throughThe Secret Gardenin less than a day, and now the book sits in pride of place on the antique walnut dresser in my room. Always there whenever I need to escape into its pages.
Now I find myself in the library searching for a new read, once again entertaining the notion of the epic romance novel that might allow me to live vicariously through its pages. At this point, I’m willing to do anything to stop the highly improper and ridiculous thoughts I keep having about Lincoln. He left the day after he gave me the book—slipped out in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. From Pierre’s grumblings I assume his leaving was a surprise to him too.
I scan the rows upon rows of shelves, examining the titles and not knowing which ones might be the kind of story I’m looking for. Until I spot one that has a title that must be about romance—Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Larissa had a copy of this book. I saw her reading it once, and when I, being a curious child at that age, inquired about it, she scolded me. Then she told me it was a book for adults, full of sin and wickedness, and that if I ever looked between its pages, I would go to hell. I think I was about seven years old at the time, and I never questioned her logic, nor why she was reading it if it led directly to hell, but it’s a memory I’d forgotten until now.
I slip the book from its snug spot on the shelf and head to my armchair. Tenderly, I open the first page, my fingers trembling slightly as I dislodge the scent of old paper and ink. I glance around nervously, ensuring I’m alone before I continue reading. The harsh memory of Larissa’s words makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong, even though I’m most definitely an adult now. And if it did indeed lead directly to hell, then Larissa would be there.
The text is small and the language unusual, but I soon find myself lost in the pages, rooting for Constance to find her chance at true happiness and escape her loneliness. Quickly, the pages become shorter, or my reading grows much faster. From the first kiss on Connie’s cheek every page becomes more thrilling and exciting, until...
My eyes linger on the words. A flush heats my cheeks. Not because of the content, or the detail, but because of the tenderness—the quiet reverence with which Oliver touches Connie. Yet the passion between them is so fierce that it ignites the pages. A far cry from thepreparationI had for the act of sex. The vulgar, crude videos that were only ever about female submission and male pleasure. Base animalistic acts devoid of desire and connection, nothing like the depiction in the book. I wonder which of them is the true reflection of what happens between a man and woman? My rational mind tells me it can be both—perhaps even the most vulgar of acts can be tender with the right person.
I close the book and clutch it to my chest, too breathless with want and too unsure of what to do with all these feelings flooding my body to read any more. Closing my eyes, I tuck my feet beneath me and lean back into the chair, the scent of leather reminding me of Lincoln, and suddenly my thoughts are no longer of characters from a book, but of him. I long to be touchedthe way Connie is. I want to feel his lips on my cheek and his powerful hands gently caressing my skin, stroking me between my thighs, in that place that has started to ache only for him. And the though the thoughts are sinful and might send me straight to hell, maybe that’s not the worst that could happen. Not if I get to be loved the way Oliver loves Connie. And if I got to be loved that way by Lincoln...
My heart is beating so wildly it might just pound straight out of my chest and fly away. But,ifthat were to happen... If Lincoln were to touch me the way I’d like him to, well then I think I’d walk straight into hell of my own free will.
Chapter 21
Imogen
According to the colossal grandfather clock in the hallway, it’s a little after eight, and traditionally the time when Pierre retreats to his own room on the ground floor of the house. I’m curious to see inside, but too respectful of his privacy to ever venture in.
However, I’m feeling... not exactly lonely, but like I want some company. It’s an unfamiliar feeling when I’ve always been so used to being on my own, and more than content with the company of books. And as well as that, I’ve been dreaming of a drink that some characters had in a TV show I watched last night.
I pause outside Pierre’s room. A faint amber light peeks out beneath the door and the muffled sound of the TV carries through the solid oak door.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for his potential rejection, and knock.
