“I wish I knew what was causing this,” Father muttered as he brushed fair hair from Aurora's eyes. His own hair was fair too, billowing in the breeze, but he didn't try to tame his own. “Perhaps we should take another trip to the physician; bergamot tea isn't enough.”
Aurora simply stared into the depths of her teacup, at the muddy stains left behind. She knew that Father was what they called a botanist, who grew flowers and herbs and everything else. He had started to grow his own patch of bergamot to soothe her cough, and chamomile to help her sleep, as well as half a dozen other things for various remedies.If they had all of this, why bother with the physician at all?
It was as if Father had heard her thoughts, because at that exact moment he said, “the physician thinks that because you're not getting worse, then there's no cause to worry. I don't agree. There has to be a cause, and if there's a cause then there's also a cure.”
There he went, rambling to himself again. It was almost enough to distract Aurora from the thoughts crowding her mind, but not quite. A nagging sense of discomfort had started to grow deep in her stomach, and for once it wasn't because of her cough. No, this was something else; and with it, came the horrible thought that after today, Aurora's life was never going to be the same again.
Yet here, with Father, she felt safe. Protected. He had a beautiful garden that grew everything she could ever think of, and more; besides, this was her safe place, where Aurora could come to meander through the flowers and leave her worries behind.
Cuddling closer into Father's side, Aurora resisted the urge to yawn. These fits always left her exhausted and delicate, enough so that sometimes she slept for hours afterwards.
“Would you like to go inside?” Father asked gently.
Although the promise of her favorite armchair — or even bed — was tempting, Aurora shook her head. “No thank you,” she answered sweetly, “I want to sit here with you.”
Father nodded, of course, because he could never turn down such an innocent request. “Then let us at least move to a proper seat, hmm?”
Aurora didn't argue, as he helped her to her feet. There were plenty of wooden benches dotted about the garden, placed near the footpaths for easy access; Father took her to the closest one before insisting on returning to the house to brew more bergamot tea.
Aurora's hand shot out to catch the sleeve of his shirt. “Wait,” she said, eyes turning wide, “I feel fine now. Really. Can't we just sit together?”
He watched her for a brief moment, lips turning up in a smile. Finally he said, “all right, I suppose we can stay a while.” When he settled back down, Father put an arm around Aurora's shoulders and tugged her close. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but the words didn't quite form.
Meanwhile, Aurora was struggling with her own words. She wanted to talk about Mama, to hear Father's funny stories about when they were young — except, she couldn't find the right way to ask.
Father always got this sad look when he spoke about Mama, even if the memories were happy. In the aftermath of all she had learned, Aurora wasn't sure that she could bear to see that look again. Not right now, not with the knowledge of her death still fresh. Because even if Mama had died five years ago, when Aurora was born, it still feltnew.
After a long moment, Aurora found herself sinking down in her seat, staring up at the cloudless sky. It was such a warm and bright day, it seemed a shame to be thinking such sad thoughts.Had Mama liked summer, or had she enjoyed spring more, like Father did?
In the end, Aurora would never know. At least not firsthand; all she had were Father's stories and no memories of her own.
That tickle rose a third time, but Aurora fought it down before it could grow into something more. Father had that distant look, and she didn't want to worry him again. She didn't want to ruin this peaceful moment, either.
They watched the garden together, Aurora and her father. It was beautiful; rich green and a rainbow of color spread as far as she could see, until the flowers began to blur together and vanish into the distance. She began to list the different plants in her mind;chamomile, baby's breath, lavender, lemon balm...
She wasn't sure how much time passed that way, tucked into Father's side as she recited every plant she could remember. It could have been hours, but in reality it was much more likely to be only a handful of precious minutes.
Yet eventually, her eyes began to feel heavy and her breaths evened, as sleep threatened to take her. The breeze was soothing to her warm skin, rustling her hair and the sleeves of her dress. There was something about it, something Aurora couldn't discern, that put her instantly at ease.
She was hardly aware of Father's laughter as he looked down at her tired form, or of how he shifted to lay her across the bench. Her eyes fluttered closed, soon after, and the last thing she felt was Father's soft kiss to her forehead, before she fell into an easy sleep.
Chapter 2
August 1820. Present time
Aurora Washam
Aurora watched from the sidelines as Father talked with his botanist friends. Well,friendswas a loose term, because half the time it seemed as if Father didn't like them much at all; but they visited often to compare notes and talk about important things that Aurora wasn't privy to.
They sat in the living room now, two of Father's botanist friends, while Father shifted through invitations to the yearly meeting. She hated to see him so stressed while the others laughed and talked; it seemed that it was always Father who was left on the sidelines, excluded from conversation he should have been a part of.
Aurora could have made her presence known as she lingered by the doorway, relieved some of the growing tension in the room. She didn't, though, not knowing if father would have appreciated her stepping in — or if the other botanists would have approved of Anthony Washam's daughter getting in the way. They were old fashioned men, see, who preferred their women quiet and on the sidelines.
“I do believe that we should be going, Anthony,” one of the botanists — an older man by the name of Charles Buckley — stated. “Do try to have the guest list finalized by tonight, yes? It's important that everybody is here on the day.”
Aurora bristled at how Mr. Buckley spoke, but kept her lips tightly sealed. She stepped aside when Mr. Buckley and the other man, Mr. Richards, strode past.
“What are you doing, girl?” Mr. Buckley snapped, “hovering by the door like a lost puppy?”