Chapter 26
Imogen
The house seems eerily quiet when I go downstairs. Every step I take intensifies the ache between my thighs, and every throb
intensifies my guilt and shame. How low did I stoop to practically beg for his touch? And how much further would I let myself
slide, given that I long for it again?
Pierre is alone in the kitchen when I enter. He greets me pleasantly, like always, but he seems a little annoyed. Does he
know what took place last night and is he angry with me about it, just like Lincoln seemed to be. More shame and guilt washes
over me.
“What is it to be, mademoiselle?”
“I’m not feeling very hungry actually, Pierre.”
“You must eat something, mon chou. How about a little toast?” His concerned tone suggests he’s not angry with me at all.
“Yes, a little toast would be nice. Thank you. Where is Mr. Knight?”
“Ach!” He takes the bread from its ceramic home. “He left early this morning.”
And now I have a generous helping of sadness to accompany my guilt. Nice! Lincoln has obviously gone because of me and that
fact is inescapable.
“I believe he has left you something on the table in the garden, mon chou.”
I peer through the window and sure enough there is a small brown paper parcel, tied with a bright purple ribbon. Another gift?
And now I’m flooded with elation and hopefulness. It’s all making me feel dizzy.
“Well, go and see what it is,” Pierre gently scolds me, making a tutting sound.
I rush out of the kitchen and into the garden to fetch my parcel, barely able to contain my curiosity. It’s a small parcel,
no bigger than a book, but a different shape. Tentatively, I trace my fingertips over the soft purple ribbon, before gliding
over the smooth brown paper. It’s all packaged so neatly. Did he wrap this himself, or have someone do it for him? I want
it to be the former, and I imagine his large powerful hands carefully folding the fragile paper, and then tying the delicate
ribbon, his brow furrowed in concentration. The image I conjure of him in my mind’s eye makes heat bloom in my core.
Gently, I tug open the purple bow, and then slowly unfurl the paper. I used to get one gift every single Christmas from Larissa,
and I would open it like this, savoring the anticipation. I cannot even imagine what might lie beneath this paper, and I haven’t
held the package and tried to guess, for fear that I might guess correctly and ruin the surprise.
As I peel back the paper, the bright purple fabric is revealed inch by inch. Unable to contain my excitement any longer, I
pull the wrapping all the way off, and an unexpected sob catches in my throat. I pick up the purple gardening gloves and hold
them to my cheek. They’re made of thick purple suede with palms crafted from some kind of flexible rubber—thick and sturdy
enough to prevent thorns from piercing through the fabric. And also there in the package, the blades glinting in the sunlight,
are a shiny new pair of pruning shears.
Pierre must have told Lincoln about my plans for the garden, and my love of purple.
And he must have got these for me during his last trip.
Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, well in my eyes.
He might explain the book away as a coincidence, even if the inscription was not, but this .
. . this was thoughtful and deliberate. It makes my heart ache with happiness and sadness at the same time.
If he can do this, if he can be this sweet and kind, how can he be so cold and detached too?
How can he push me away when I show him the most vulnerable parts of myself?
“Do you like your gift, mon chou?” Pierre snaps me from my thoughts of Lincoln.
“I love it, Pierre.”
“It is for the garden, non?”
“Yes. Some gloves and pruning shears.”
He smiles. “Then you will be able to get to work on your grand plan.”
“You told him?”
“Oui, mon chou. He likes to know how you are settling in and how you pass the time while he is away.”
Another thing that makes sense, but also doesn’t. For some unfathomable reason, Lincoln seems to care for me, or at least
about my well-being. The way he tended to my wound last night was proof enough of that. Absentmindedly, I brush the pad of
my thumb over the plaster on my pointer finger. Yet he ran away the moment there was any kind of actual connection between
us.
“Your toast is ready, mademoiselle. Come eat if you are to be toiling in this garden all day.”
I follow Pierre back into the house, with my new gifts clutched to my chest. A reminder of the enigma that is Lincoln Knight.