Another short story I sent into a competition. It had to inspired by a painting and I liked the one below “A Garden” by Albert Moore. The word count was very tight on this, it had to be under 1500.
A Season of Change
They were watching her from inside the villa.
They always watched her, but there was no need, not any more.
Maybe in the beginning, but not now.
It was best not to remember the beginning, better to tuck it away in the back of her mind and try not to think of it.
He had, after all, been kinder than she’d expected.
Perhaps kinder than either of them had expected.
The garden began to calm her as it always had. Her hands moved among the blossoms, choosing and rejecting.
At first she’d 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 to her. The plants and the herbs had been unfamiliar, and the scent that filled the courtyard had been softer and subtler than the rich, heavy fragrances of home.
Was it the paler light of this northern land that didn’t encourage the vibrant blooms of home?
Was that why he’d wanted her? To see if he could transplant the warmth and colour of the south to this land?
Once she’d believed that she would wither here and die, but she’d survived.
He’d had no patience with her and refused to allow her the solitude she’d craved.
He forced her to leave this place and visit other people.
At first she’d dreaded those visits. All the time she knew there were questions they longed to ask, remarks they hoped would fall unconsidered from her lips. Remarks that could be treasured and embellished and passed along. Words that would find their twisting, twining way back to him.
It was the gardens that had provided her with conversation and evasion. The long silences that come between strangers could now be filled with questions about what grew beyond the salon windows.
Sometimes she returned with a treasure. Some plant dug from its home to be replanted in what she’d now to call her home.
She wondered what the gardeners had felt about her small offerings. They’d never said anything, it wasn’t their place to say anything, but she’d found her new trophies didn’t often survive their exile.
So she’d taken their care into her own hands, until he’d seen her carrying the heavy jug. She’d recoiled at his rage and fled from him, but after that the gardeners watered and cared for everything.
Some of her plants were in flower now, things she’d planted with her own hands. A small part of herself given to this land so far from all she’d known.
She turned her back on the watching maid, there were tears on her cheeks and if they were seen he’d know within the hour.
He’d be angry and she couldn’t blame him for being angry. Tears weren’t part of the bargain he’d made.
Her fingers closed around the soft petals and crushed them.
It had been her father’s proud boast that he was so rich and so powerful that his daughters could choose their husbands. It’d been with smug satisfaction that he’d seen the eldest three married where they wished and their spouses grateful for the privilege.
Soon it would have been her turn; she’d have taken her place in Society and looked about her for that one special man. She knew that she’d know him the minute she saw him, he’d walked through her day dreams and her sleeping dreams.
Theirs would be a marriage without barriers; their understanding of each other would be so complete that there’d be no misunderstandings, no wounded feelings or jealousies. Their devotion to each other would be total and there’d be no corner of their minds closed to the other; theirs would be a marriage of souls as well as bodies and minds.
She wondered again how her father could have done this to her. All her life he’d assured her of his love. A day had rarely gone passed without him telling her and her sisters how lucky they were to be so loved.
Even his most carping political opponents agreed that he was a devoted father.
If he’d only warned her, given her the smallest clue, things might have been so much better.
Mother had sent her to the garden with wine and glasses. Father was entertaining a very important guest; she must serve them and make herself agreeable.
He had been standing beside a trailing vine smothered with purple, crimson streaked flowers. Huge, soft blooms that strained the ground as they fell and carpeted the gravel. He’d been a weathered out crop of rock amid a lush jungle.
Their eyes had met and she’d felt uncomfortable, but unafraid. What had there been to be afraid of?
Father had introduced them and she’d been agreeable as good manners demanded, but he’d done no more than nod his head. She’d been slightly indignant at his gaucheness, but she’s poured the wine and tried to engage him in conversation, but he’d responded with only terse one word replies.
He might’ve been silent, but he’d never taken him eyes from her. They’d watched her every movement, every gesture. She’d felt trapped and had been very 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 going to be forced to give her in marriage in return for favours that would help restore his fortune.
He’d given her to the man in the garden.
Looking back she wondered why she hadn’t cried or screamed or pleaded, but she realised that she’d 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’d wept and pleaded for her forgiveness, but when she’d told him that she was sorry to disappoint him, but she couldn’t marry this stranger, he’d changed.
The weeping stopped and in the storm of rage that followed she learned of the sacrifices he’d made for his children, the suffering he’d endured and how hurt he was to find that it had been for nothing. His favourite daughter didn’t love him enough to do this small thing in return for all that she’d received
She’d protested at the injustice of this and then he’d hit her. A single back hand blow to her face.
Dry eyed and silent she’d gone to her room.
Dry eyed and silent she’d gone to her wedding.
Father had wept again through the ceremony. He bewailed the necessity of it, tortured himself with recriminations and drowned his grief in wine, but he’d recovered swiftly enough when the settlement was signed.
What followed had been far worse. Once they were alone together she’d not been able to hide her distress or her repugnance. His anger had been shattering and although he’d not taken it out on her, the silence of his rage, the suppressed fury of his shame and disappointment struck at her far harder and scared her far more than any physical violence could have done.
He’d taken her north as soon as possible, wrenching her away from everything she’d always known.
It’d been a terrible journey full of uncomfortable silences and her uncontrollable tears. He’d barely spoken to her
Their first months together had been no better and she’d sunk into melancholy. It was all so far away from that marriage of two kindred spirits she’d always thought would be hers.
She tried to remember when it had changed, but there was no single moment. Slowly, as a garden grows, so the understanding between them had grown. The silences had become companionable, not uncomfortable.
Behind her, deep in the house, she heard the sound of his voice. He’d come home earlier than she’d 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.
The End
