The DeLacey Garden
"The city when it appeared," Lady deLacey said as she opened the high door into the garden wall, "was very beautiful but without much - personality. These gardens existed," she led Paris, trailed by an attentive Ewen, and gestured gracefully as they passed through a pair of boxwood-walled vegetable gardens. These were proud in new lettuce, pale onion shoots, and fresh but empty stakes for beans and other climbers, their sections bordered by flowering chives and early marigolds. The lady was still speaking, "... laid out, but lacking in the plants that are needed on a yearly basis. Duke Evan has done well in getting the seeds needed to start again."
The paths were neat and fanciful patterns of bricks. The flowers bobbed cheerfully as the ladies' skirts rustled past. Paris looked around her appreciatively as the small party walked towards another boxwood arch in the hedging. "I was so lucky," Lady deLacey. "That part of this garden seemed to cover my own roses. I rather fancy giving space to beauty as well as necessity," she smiled at the younger woman, "as you will see." Ewen spoke up, with affectionate pride, "Mother has a knack with colour that one has to see to appreciate." The lady of the house smiled at her son, blushing slightly at his words. It gave Paris pleasure to see the regard with which they held each other. 'Ewen's a good boy' seemed to whisper somewhere in her mind.
Lady de Lacey moved forward, covering her pleasure and pride in words. "But this next part was inspired by you, my dear." Paris glanced back at Ewen, startled, and met his trademark smile and warm eyes. He nodded once and she turned her attention to the new garden. "...the second growth from the - olive tree you sent us. I found the grey-green of its leaves wonderfully inspirational and the fact that neither bee nor bird become annoying around it's fruit makes it a pleasant center piece." This garden was pale and misty in the Spring sunshine. The olive tree grew open armed in a great planter edged with wide stone blocks in which were masoned two stone benches curved for actual comfort. The medium area was planted with lavender, its grey green foliage echoing the tree's colour and its tiny blossom spears scenting the air. Here and there stood clumps of iris and early foxglove - all in pastel colours, pink, lavender, light yellows, and white - like small battalions of soldiers at the alert amidst sword-pointed leaves. Paris caught her breath. "Why, these colours are like early Spring always."
"Milady," a servant's voice came from behind. Lady de Lacey nodded at Ewen and moved back to speak to the servant. Ewen moved to Paris' side and bowed slightly again with his grin. "Let me take you to mother's roses. Mabillia always takes a while to get to the point." He drew Paris' arm through his. 'How broad his shoulders are,' Paris found herself thinking. 'Sometimes I think being around Rhori and Calais so much makes me forget ordinary male beauty.'
"Ordinary?" Serious' eyebrows lifted. "Beauty?" Real chimed in. "Isn't that a contradiction." Serious frowned slightly, "No, she might be right. Ewen is - unexceptional, but you have taught her to see him in the light he has earned." Paris found her blush mounting. Her own thoughts had distracted her as Ewen had opened yet another door in a wall.
Arches and trellises spanned and mimicked a knotwork of paths bordered lowly by patches of late crocus and modest heartsease. Climbing roses spread dark and glossy leaves over all the lattice-work. Here and there an early rose nodded its brightness at the tip of a swaying spray; but colour-tipped buds promised profusion once the sun's warmth steadied over the next month. A lark's voice rose to heaven from some hidden perch. Ewen drew Paris under first one arch and then another to the center of the knot. One moment flowed into another as he turned, looked into her eyes and enfolded her into a kiss. No kiss ever seemed long enough this week, but they separated as the lark finished and flew off. Ewen still held her hand. "It is hard," he said, his voice soft but hoarse, "not to want to do that far more often than propriety allows."
Paris swallowed and whispered, "It is hard not to want you to do that."
"Paris?"
"Ewen," his mother's voices called merrily, "have you shown her the stained roses yet?"
Ewen smiled ruefully, his eyes never leaving Paris'. He lifted his voice, "We're just now looking, Mother." Paris followed his gesture with her eyes. The buds hanging from the right side of the arbor seemed to be tipped with white; those on the left, red. But two opened blooms right above Ewen's head were white with a reddish pink edge that seemed to bleed towards the purity of the center of the flower. 'Stained.' Yes. It was different from any rose she had yet seen, but something about it caught at her heart. "Oh, Ewen," she whispered as the lady could be heard moving to join them.
"Garden Arbor" copyright 2000 P.Shea & S.Knowles. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.