This is my first, and possibly last, attempt at romance.

Growing Things

They were watching her from inside the villa.
They always watched her, right from the start, but there was no need, not any more.
It was better not to remember the start; it was best to tuck it away in the back of her mind and not to think of it.
He had, after all, been kinder than she had expected, perhaps kinder than either of them had expected.
The garden began to calm her as it always did. Her hands moved among the blossoms, choosing and rejecting.
At first she had come here to escape the long silences; the sound of his glass tapping on the table and the impatient drumming of his fingers.
This garden had been very different from the one at home, but it had been a refuge.
Somewhere away from him.
There had always been beauty here, but at first it had been strange. The plants and the herbs had been unfamiliar, and the scent filling the courtyard had been softer and subtler than the richly laden fragrances of home. This northern land of pale light did not encourage the vibrant blooms she was used too.
Was that why he had wanted her, to have some part of the warmth and the colour of the south?
Once believed she would wither and die here, but he had had no patience with this, refusing to allow her the solitude she craved, forcing her to leave the house and visit other people.
At first she had dreaded those visits, knowing there were questions her hostesses longed to ask and remarks they hoped would fall unconsidered from her lips. Unconsidered comments to be treasured and embellished; comments that would find their twisting, turning way back to him.
It was the gardens that provided her with conversation and evasion, the pregnant pauses could be filled with questions about what grew beyond the salon windows.
Sometimes she returned with a treasure, some admired plant dug from its home to be replanted in what she now had to call her home.
She wondered how the gardeners had felt about her offerings. They never said anything, it was not their place to say anything, but she often found her new arrivals did not survive their exile, so she took their care into her own hands.
At least she had, until he saw her carrying the heavy water jug. She had recoiled at his rage and fled from him, but the gardeners cared for everything afterwards.
Some of her plants were in flower now, things she had planted with her own hands. A small part of herself given to this land so far from all she had known.
She turned her back on the watching maid, there were tears on her cheeks and if they were seen he would know within the hour and he would be angry. She did not blame him for being angry; tears were not part of his bargain.
Her fingers closed around soft petals and crushed them.
It had been her father’s proud boast he was so rich and so powerful his daughters could choose their own husbands. With smug satisfaction he had seen the eldest three married where they wished and their spouses grateful for the privilege.
When it was to be her turn she had confidently taken her place in Society and looked about her for one special man. She believed she would know him the minute she saw him, after all, he walked through her day dreams and her sleeping dreams.
Theirs would be a marriage without barriers, because their understanding of each other would be so complete there would be no misunderstandings, no wounded feelings or jealousies. Their devotion would be total and no corner of their minds would be closed to the other, a marriage of souls as well as bodies and minds.
She smiled to herself, what had she known of love? Her father had rarely allowed a day to pass without telling her and her sisters how lucky they were to be so loved; even his most carping political opponents agreed he was a devoted father.
If he had warned her, given her the smallest clue, things might have been so much better.
Mother had sent her to the garden with wine, father was entertaining a very important guest; she was to serve them and make herself agreeable.
He had been standing like a weathered out crop of rock in a lush jungle; around him a trailing vine had dropped huge purple and crimson streaked flowers to stain the ground.
Their eyes had met and she had felt uncomfortable, but unafraid, there was after all, nothing to fear.
Father had introduced them and she had tried to engage him in conversation while she poured the wine, but he had responded with only, terse one word replies.
He might have been silent, but he never took his eyes from her, they watched her every movement and every gesture until she felt trapped and glad when Father had sent her away.
An hour later Mother had come and told her. There was no longer any money and although it wounded him, her father was forced to give her in marriage to restore his fortune. He was giving her to the man in the garden.
Looking back she wondered why she had not cried or screamed or pleaded, but she realised she had been in a state of shock.
It was full day before she was able to go to her father and ask him not to do this to her.
He had wept and pleaded for her forgiveness, but when she told him she was sorry to disappoint him, but she could not and would not marry this stranger, he had changed.
The weeping stopped and in the storm of rage that followed she learnt of the sacrifices he had made for his children, the suffering he had endured and how hurt he was to find it had been for nothing, his favourite daughter did not love him enough to do this small thing in return for all she had received
She protested at the injustice of this and then he hit her, single back hand blow to her face.
Dry eyed and silent she had gone to her room.
Dry eyed and silent she had gone to her wedding.
Father had wept again through the ceremony, bewailing the necessity, torturing himself with recriminations and drowning his grief in wine, but he recovered swiftly enough when the settlement was discussed.
What followed had been far worse; once they were alone together she had not been able to hide her distress or her repugnance. His anger had been shattering and although he had not taken it out on her, the silence of his rage, the suppressed fury of his shame and disappointment struck her far harder and scared her far more than any physical violence.
He had taken her north as soon as possible, wrenching her away from everything she had known. It had been a terrible journey full of uncomfortable silences and her uncontrollable tears.
Their first months together had been no better and she had sunk into melancholy, it was all so far away from the marriage of two kindred spirits she had always thought would be hers.
She tried to remember when it began to change, but there was no single moment. Slowly, as a garden grows, so the understanding between them had grown. Behind her, deep in the house, she heard the sound of his voice; he was home earlier than expected.
It was wondrous how things grew, the flowers in her garden, the child in her belly and her love for this stranger.
Turning she held out her arms to greet him.

© Bev Allen 2013