Chapter 19
Imogen
Pierre sits beside me on the wrought iron bench we uncovered together earlier this morning. I pull off my headphones and let
them dangle around my neck. They’re the ones he kindly loaned me after lunch when he complained that my choice of music was
an abomination.
He rests his hands on his thighs and lets out a contented sigh, his face tilted up toward the sun. “I see now why this bench
is here. It faces south and gets the best of the sun’s rays for the day.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agree.
“Were you listening to your awful music, mademoiselle?”
“Actually, I thought I’d give the Boss a try. I was listening to ‘Thunder Road.’”
His entire face fills with delight. “Ah, a classic. And what, pray, did you think of it?”
“I like it. Some of the lyrics are beautiful—poetic. It’s pretty sad though.”
“Sad?” he scoffs. “How so?”
“When he sings about the ghosts of all the lovers she’s lost and how they’re gone when she gets to her porch. It’s a song
about regret and missed opportunities.”
He searches for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze when he finds it, his touch gentle and reassuring. It makes me feel strange—good strange. Like I’ve known him a lot longer than a month. “Or per’aps, mademoiselle, it is a song of hope and new opportunity?”
Maybe. Did I focus on Mary’s past rather than the future she could have if she just took the guy’s hand and climbed into his
car? “Then I’ll listen to it again.”
He gives my hand another gentle squeeze. “That is the beauty of songs, they mean different things to each of us. But it is
per’aps fate that you chose that particular song of his to listen to, as it happens to be my favorite one.”
“Really? That sounds like fate.”
He nods. “And you, mademoiselle. What is your favorite song?”
“I don’t have one yet. But I did enjoy ‘Style’ by Taylor Swift.”
He snorts. “Then let us not discuss music any further. Tell me something else you like. What is your favorite color?”
“Purple,” I reply without hesitation.
Pierre huffs a gentle laugh. “That was an emphatic response.”
I shrug. “It’s always been my favorite color. It’s just so vibrant and unapologetic. There should me more purple in the world.
What’s your favorite col—” I wince at my insensitivity.
He must sense my embarrassment. “It is okay, mademoiselle. I was not always blind, and I remember colors.”
“I’m sorry, Pierre. Sometimes I forget that you cannot see.”
He smiles warmly. “And that is exactly how I like it, mon chou.”
I smile, adoring his pet name for me. But it makes me feel both happy and sad that I was too young to recall my parents having
any such names for me. I’m sure they would have though, and I’m certain my father would have been wise and kind like Pierre.
“Green,” he says, reminding me of the question I almost asked.
“Green is a beautiful color. There are so many shades of green in this garden, Pierre. Deep rich emeralds, vibrant sage, and pale fern.”
He takes a deep inhale. “I know. I can smell them all.”
I gasp my amazement. “You can smell color? Is that a thing?”
He laughs and gently pats my hand. “No, mon chou. But I can smell the wildflowers, the greenery, apples, mint, sage. All the scents of the earth.”
“Oh.” I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment at my foolishness.
“I suppose in a way it is the same as smelling colors,” he muses.
I regard him with curiosity. There is so much more I’d love to know about him, but my politeness and breeding stops me from
prying as much as I’d like to. “Is it true that when you lose one sense the others are heightened?”
He considers my question before answering. “I do not know. But I suppose when one sense is no longer available, then we pay
more attention to the others, and in that way, then yes, they would be heightened.”
His kindness and patience embolden me to risk a more personal question. “How old were you when you lost your sight, Pierre?”
“Thirty-six, mademoiselle. Eighteen long years ago.”
That makes him fifty-four. “What happened? Was it an accident?”
He bristles, subtly shifting his body away from me, and I already regret asking the question because it seems to have upset
him. Understandably so, I suppose. “Non. Definitely not an accident, mon chou. It was a very deliberate event.”
I risk touching him, resting my hand gently over his, the way he did with mine a moment ago, and I’m filled with gratitude
when he doesn’t pull away. “I’m sorry, Pierre.”
He clears his throat and rolls back his shoulders. “All of us in this house know pain, non?”
We do. I’d like to understand more about his, and more about Lincoln’s too.
I want to know the stories behind his scars, and not just the visible ones on his face that he covers, but the ones he seems to carry deep inside him.
Why he hides himself in this fortress, and where he goes when he leaves for days at a time.
“Now tell me more about your plans for the garden,” Pierre insists, and I recognize it as an attempt to change the subject.
Before I do that, I feel the need to explain why I pry. “I’m sorry I ask so many questions, Pierre. But I . . .” I suck in
a breath because I’m about to admit a vulnerability, and that goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. “I feel like
I know so little about the world, and it seems so different from the one I grew up in. I was taught a lot of things most kids
aren’t, I suppose. I probably witnessed things others wouldn’t have too. I was taught how to survive, but in a lot of ways,
I feel . . . well, almost like a child.”
“Oh, mon chou.” 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 strangling the 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, mon chou?”
“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, mon chou. 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.