Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Henni, during one of those rare hours when both had been granted a little rest, had led Pippa to a secluded terrace garden that scarcely anyone seemed to know about.
It perched atop the southeast wing of the palace, where a broad, flattened platform took the place of a roof, offering just enough space for an elevated pleasure garden with potted plants, flowers and trees.
Pippa had visited it several times since, to catch a breath of fresh air, and to be away from people. She’d never encountered anyone there, even though, of course, she assumed gardeners must be working there, since the plants were well-tended to.
Her favourite place was the greenhouse at the back of the terrace. It was long and filled with plants. It was a simple conservatory, or more like an orangery, which held a botanical collection of exotic plants, particularly citrus, camellias, rhododendrons, palms and ferns.
Pippa loved the smell of the plants; the humid feeling on her skin; the weak winter sun that shone through the panels.
There was a little bench hidden inside between two palm trees, and she liked to sit there and think, and just do nothing at all.
With a sigh, she sat down on the bench.
There was the sound of footsteps in the greenhouse.
Pippa froze. “Who is there?”
A gardener appeared, carrying a bucket with a sharp-smelling solution. “Ah. I did not know anyone was here.” He set down the bucket and wiped his hands on his apron.
They eyed each other curiously. He had a shock of white hair and was slightly stooped, though maybe that was because he was bending down to pick up fallen leaves from the ground.
He blew on one as if to dust it off and placed it carefully into the pocket of his apron.
“If you press it between the leaves of a book, it may be used for artwork,” he explained. “A pastime of mine.”
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, Fr?ulein? 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.
Both eyebrows of the gardener rose. “Dear me. That is an unexpected twist.”
“Yes, like that of a badly written romance novel,” Pippa agreed. “Simultaneously ridiculous and tragic. I would have laughed at such a story, yet it is true. One would not have believed this kind of thing were possible if it had not happened to me.”
“I would say it is extraordinary,” the man replied meditatively. “Quite extraordinary, indeed. Though why would you call it ridiculous and tragic?”
Pippa frowned. “Ridiculous because none of it makes any sense whatsoever. Like I said before, one would accuse me of inventing this story if it were not sadly true. And it is tragic, naturally.” Her shoulders slumped.
“Why?”
“Because I cannot possibly marry an archduke. Everything, everyone under the sun, from the chimney sweep to the Emperor himself, would oppose such a union.” She laughed darkly. “The very idea is preposterous. It is impossible for us to be even in the same room, breathing the same air.”
The gardener scratched his head. “It does seem to be somewhat of a conundrum.”
“Indeed.”
He regarded her steadily. “You said the young man promised marriage?”
Pippa nodded. “Yes. The date was set, and I had my dowry ready, even. We were to move into the little house at the end of the village. We chose it together. It is not too far from Papa’s house.
It had a small garden for chickens and a goat…
” Her voice trailed away. Chickens and a goat!
And a small stable for her horse. She was to care for the animals and help set up the village school, and he would go to Innsbruck, which was not too far away, and teach at the university there.
He had been so excited about it. How foolish it all seemed now.
“So he was entirely serious and not merely trifling with your affections,” he muttered more to himself.
“I used to believe so, once. I used to believe I knew him. That I could trust in him. With my entire life, I trusted him. And now…but now… I no longer know what to think. I find it so difficult to trust him.” She stared into the distance.
“I suppose Papa must not have known who he really was, otherwise he would not have let it come this far.”
“And what do you intend to do now?” He looked at her steadily.
She looked at him sadly. “I have to let him go, of course.”
“You do not intend to fight for your love at all?”
Her voice thickened. “I love him. But,” she lifted her hands in a helpless gesture, “what is one to do? The union is entirely impossible. I think I see more sense in the matter than he does. He is still in denial. He is holding on with all his might. But I have seen the situation for what it is.” She swiped the back of her hand across her cheeks quickly.
“I would like to go home, but my father has died, my home is gone, and I earn barely enough to pay the fare of the next mail coach. So I am stuck here, serving the secret police, who want to use me to spy for them. There.” She gave a watery chuckle. “What did I say? A tragic sob story.”