Walking in the Gardens by Raiyana

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Chapter 3

In Victorian England, the pansy flower was used for secret courting. The pansy flower was used to convey messages such as I’m feeling amorous towards you, I am thinking of you or I have thoughts of you or I’m missing you, but always it was about one person thinking of another.

helin = pansy

indil = lily

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3

Ecetindë does not seem to be mollified by time and distance. She continues to appear whenever I head for the kitchens, spending her time watching me closely; I don’t think Cormo has noticed, he’s too happy to have her close to see it, and his jovial chats have continued unabated.

I should speak to her, I know, but I really don’t have the courage.

Every morning, I tell myself to speak to her, be friendly, clear up any misunderstandings that may have arisen due what she may or may not have overheard – honestly, should she not know how her husband thinks? Cormo would never even look at another nissë, he’s far too honourable for such things – and every morning I find myself skulking out of the kitchens, cringing away from her gaze once Coimasiel has handed me my breakfast and tea.

I try to avoid the kitchens, these days.

I still deliver produce to Cormo, of course, but it’s amazing how easy it is to catch Coimasiel running to or from and passing my vegetables onto her if I put my mind to it.

Huffing at myself, I flick my long braid onto my back once more – the pins that keep it in its coil at the back of my head broke this morning and we have no one here with the skills to repair it, so I’ll have to wait a few months before the merchant from Tirion returns; he can sell me a replacement, or maybe fix the broken pieces.

I’d like to keep it, even if it’s only simple tooled leather and metal. It reminds me of Carastindo. He bought it for me, from a Noldorin merchant when I went to Alqualondë with the troops to see off the Host of Finwë Arafinwë.

Thinking about Carastindo makes the helini before my eyes blur slightly, the bright yellow not enough to wash away the image of his green eyes – a mirror to my own, Ammë always said – or the way he smiled at me when he promised to come back. Ammë made no such promise; she and Atto probably knew better, but Carastindo was so excited to be going with his King. He’s always been far more Noldo than I, even if we both inherited Atto’s moonlight hair and jade eyes rather than Ammë’s storm-cloud gaze.

When the helini become sharp once more, the Sun is setting. I do not have a tree for this time of day, but I lift my face to let the warmth caress it as it sinks beyond the horizon.

 

Lady Indis’ arrival – along with more than the number of people who were here before – has changed little, for me, at least. The orders from Cormo, still delivered in his usual friendly flirtatious manner, though he looks at me with slight concern when I don’t respond like I usually do, have increased, but no more than our harvest can handle.

She likes cordof compote, apparently; I find myself quietly pleased that I planted another tree a few years back. It is almost ready to bear proper fruit now, even though the yield is still small, but the orchard’s bounties are plentiful nonetheless.

I have seen the Lady Findis, too, her hair the colour of rich honey from the bees that we keep in the hills where the heather blooms but streaked with her ammë’s golden locks. Her eyes are blue, like Lady Indis’, and, even though she is weighed by grief, she is not so diminished as her ammë, who appears almost asleep though she walks and talks, quiet like a whisper.

Lady Indis does not leave the house, and the one time I did see her – when they arrived – I found myself suddenly thankful Atto and Ammë died together. At least, they might find comfort with one another in Mandos; Lady Indis has no such comfort from her husband, and her children have scattered across the world.

 

Lady Findis looks more sad now than when they arrived here – I catch glimpses of her standing in the windows, staring out at my gardens as though they are miles away instead of right at her feet. Somehow, she seems wistful, as though she wants to escape, wants to run through the orchards, feel the wind and the sun on her face, her feet caressed by the soft grass.

It makes me sad, to look at her.

 

I’m nearly startled out of my wits – certainly out of any eloquence – when I find her staring at my carefully tended bed of helini one morning. They’ve been living here for months, and I think this is the closest I’ve been to her.

“Would you like to learn, my lady?” I ask, obviously startling her. I feel a stab of guilt when she jumps up, whirling to stare at me with the perplexed kind of recognition that means she knows she ought to recognise me, but she really doesn’t know who I am. I almost smile. She looks like a rabbit caught by the hunter’s eyes, almost ready to bolt. I smile at her, trying to warm her with it; knowing I shouldn’t think so, I still want to make her look at me with happiness softening the stark lines of her face.

 “Learn…?” she asks, frowning as though she’s trying to place my face in the gallery of people who ensure that the house keeps running smoothly, even if Lady Indis is a most undemanding mistress compared to some.

“I am Alálamë,” I reply, taking pity on her. The obvious relief in her face when I save her from having to admit that she doesn’t know me makes my smile widen; I feel something curiously like satisfaction light my soul at the thought that I made her life a touch easier. Keeping my eyes from roaming her face – she’s much prettier up close, even if the lines around her mouth seem almost etched into her face; I want to smooth them away with my fingers – I nod towards the flowers beside her. “I tend the gardens, my Lady.”

“Yes…” she says, looking like her words surprise her as much as they do me; I’d expected a dismissal of some sort. “I-” I don’t know what she wanted to say, but no more seemed to be coming, so I simply smile at her, trying to remember to keep my eyes lowered – she is the daughter of a King, after all – as I step past her, kneeling by the riot of colourful flowers.

“This one is called helin,” I say, reaching out to touch the dark purple petal, shading to white in the centre of the flower. “The kitchenmaids add them to teas; they claim it freshens the skin, but I grow these for the colours, mainly – I experiment a little with the patterns; see this flower?” I continue, forgetting that people don’t usually care to listen when I go on about my crossbreeding and pollination rate experiments. Looking up quickly – silence has meant my audience had wandered off in the past, and talking to myself is a step farther towards odd than I’m careful taking – Lady Findis’ attention remains on me, something soft in her eyes like a smile she’s not quite familiar with smiling. “They can achieve so many combinations of colours and hues; I must have given away thousands over the years in pots as presents.”

“Would you give me some?” Findis asks, and for a moment I can feel brilliant fire in my cheeks; he’s awfully bold to ask such a thing in a first meeting. And then I realise that I am her mother’s gardener and I should remember that before I go falling for the shy smile that crosses her face.

“If… if you wished me to, my Lady,” I manage, swallowing nervously, glancing up, it’s clear that Findis meant nothing by the request other than a liking for my flowers – which are pretty – and I have to tell myself that I don’t feel a sting of disappointment at the thought. Looking back down at our shoes – scuffed leather boots, splattered with mud, next to thin shoes of deep blue silk that would fare better in a ballroom than wandering through orchards and fields – only makes the difference between us starker.

“What’s that one?” Findis asks, graciously ignoring my awkwardness. Her hand, more golden in hue than my own sunbrowned skin, appears in my view, pointing between the flowers.

“Oh!” I cry, annoyed, swooping down and starting to pull at the plant, “it’s a pumpkin vine, my Lady, a vegetable. It’s not supposed to be over here, it must have crept along that garden wall.” I’ll have to have a word with Iorthon; the pumpkins are in his section of the vegetable gardens, and this vine should never have been able to grow this long.

“No, don’t!” The protest makes me tense, though less so than the hand suddenly landing on my shoulder, the length of her smallest finger lying against the skin of my neck, her knuckle pressing against my pulse. Her hand is soft, though her hold would be strong if she let it, I think wildly, a flicker of something uniquely – Findis – bright appearing where her fëa touches mine. I freeze, instinct to flee warring with the sudden desire to remain beneath her hand for as long as she’d let me. Dropping the vine, I relax my tense shoulders; Findis lets go almost immediately.

“As you wish, my Lady,” I babble, trying not to babble apologies at her – why do I feel like apologising? – and rising to my feet in a single move. I don’t look at her, dropping into a swift curtsey. Cursing my stupid heart, I don’t dare look back when I flee, running away from that touch – I will dream of it, later, I know – as fast as my long legs will carry me. Hiding in my tree, I try to calm myself, try to make my fëa stop longing for a repeat of that light brush against Findis’ that promises to be far too dangerous for my poor heart.

It does not work.

 

 

I repeat my admonishments to myself, even as I greet the sun, feeling too agitated to let the warm light calm me as it usually does.

Passing the bed of helini on the way to the kitchen, I stop almost despite myself, bending to pick one before I can stop myself.

Coimasiel doesn’t offer protests when I tell her that Lady Findis requested a flower accompany the tray with her breakfast that is delivered to her bedside every morning. She just nods, putting the small helin in a vase of finely blown glass. I’m thankful for her, I really am; Cormo would have asked questions I can’t – or won’t – answer, not even to myself.

The yellow petals mock me as I gulp down my tea, clutching the mug and warring with my desire to steal it back and pretend that I never did this.

Instead, I flee the warm kitchen, carefully ignoring the vibrant colours of the helini for the rest of the day. There are other flowers to tend, in the gardens after all; the bed of indili by the south terrace needs weeding.

I try to tell myself the fact that they’re on the other side of the house to my helini has nothing to do with my decision to attack this task with far more vigour than I usually would have.

I wonder what Findis will think of the flower – of its promise.

I curse myself for a fool.

Someone is singing, a pleasant tune in a strong voice that keeps breaking through the waves of self-recriminations that run through my head. Looking up, I intend to glare at whomever is interrupting my whirling thoughts, only to see Findis standing in the upstairs window, singing softly as she brushes her hair.

The sun catches in the gold, throwing the shadow of the tree beside the window across her face, the play of light over the planes of her face making my mind grind to a halt.

I don’t know how long I stare, remaining on my knees in the flowerbed, but I don’t think she sees me.

Pushing myself up as the song – it is familiar, but foreign; perhaps my ammë sung it once? – comes to a close, I catch sight of the small helin, golden against the green of her dress, in its vase on the windowsill.

She kept it.

Pushing my way between the tall hedges that mark the beginning of the small maze, I curse my long plait, feeling a few hairs snagging on the branches, but it was the first hiding spot I could think of.

I don’t want Findis to think I was spying on her, trying to see what she thought of my small gift.

 

I pick another helin for her the next morning, even as I tell myself it’s a silly thing to do.