She winced, but said nothing, ignoring how his words made her stomach twist. While her automatic response was to snap, Aurora held that urge back
Father was already under so much pressure, and Aurora wasn't going to make things worse by starting an argument in their own home.
She noticed Father now, glaring at Mr. Buckley from the corner of his eyes. “I would appreciate if you could refrain from speaking to my daughter like that,” he said coolly, “now, good day, and get home safely.”
Only once the two men were gone, the door shut behind them, did Aurora dare to return to the living room. It smelled of strong coffee and cigars; Father had always hated smoking, even if it was popular amongst other men, but those like Buckley insisted it was their right.
Ignoring the stale scent, Aurora darted into the living room and leaned over the small desk in the corner. “Mr. Buckley and Mr. Richards are gone,” she chirped, trying to raise his mood, “maybe you should break for supper.”
In recent years, Father's vibrant blonde hair had gone grey at the temples. It was the job, Aurora thought sometimes; or rather, how people treated him because of it. Father was what Aurora called a “plant breeder”, creating new varieties of plants and flowers. He also worked for the Duke as his own personal gardener; that was where Father earned his money, and gave him the opportunity to create beautiful new varieties of flower.
Lots of people said it was too feminine a job for an older man. A glorified florist, Mr. Buckley called him. Aurora knew better; it was the best job in the world, and she hoped to continue it.
He tugged anxiously at his hair now, staring down at a half-written letter.
“While I would love to take a break,” he said with a sigh, “I'm afraid I should really finish this first. There are a lot of invitations to look through, so I know who's coming. I don't even have a proper guest list yet, I can't remember where I put last year's roster–”
“Papa,” Aurora cut in, because if she didn't then he was only going to spiral. She was twenty-five now, and had years to learn the signs. “Let me help. I can go through the invitations to find out who is or isn't coming — and then create a new guest list.”
He shifted in his seat, restless. Anxious, even. When Aurora had been young, Father had been the most patient man in the world — but recently he was short with her, prone to outbursts of frustration when Aurora least expected it. It was no different now, as she saw how he was trying to stay together.
“That's kind of you, but it isn't your duty to help me. This is my responsibility — and you need a life outside of me and this garden.”
Aurora paused, brows furrowed. “I don'twanta world outside of this garden — and anyway, why shouldn't I help, if you need it.”
“Because I can't rely on my twenty-four- year- old daughter to do everything,” Father snapped, and his fingers tightened around his pen. “And besides, you should be out there exploring the world, making friends with people your age. Did you know that Mrs. Belfour's granddaughter is marrying next year? You should be thinking about finding a husband, too.”
Aurora paled at the thought. Physically paled! Deep down, she knew that it was expected of women her age to be married, or at the very least being courted by a nice man. Yet, Aurora had never been able to put herself in that position; why did she need a man, when everything she loved was inside this home, or her father’s garden?
“Other girls can do as they please,” Aurora pointed out, “and if Mrs. Belfour's granddaughter has found love, I'm happy for her; but it isn't for me.”
“My Aurora, I worry-”
“And you don't need to. If you can take care of yourself without help, then so can I.” There was quite a lot more than she could have said, but Aurora was trying not to antagonize him more than necessary.
It was perhaps a stroke of luck, that Father was too exhausted to argue. With a heavy sigh, he set down his pen and pressed his palms flat to his temples; as sure a sign as any that he had a headache coming on. Aurora sympathized.
“Perhaps it's time for bed?” she suggested gently, “I'm quite tired myself, and I've to be up early tomorrow to run errands in town.”
“You're right,” he replied, “I should rest. I'll be no help to anyone if I'm too tired to think properly.”
Ah, good. This was what Aurora had hoped for — once Father was asleep, he rarely woke before dawn, not even for a glass of water as Aurora herself often did. She would pretend to ready for bed, wait until Father was asleep...then see to the invitations herself. Yes, Father would realize in the morning what she had done, but that was tomorrow's problem.
Father remained oblivious, as they bid goodnight to each other in the dark hallway. He traipsed upstairs to bed, while Aurora pretended to blow out the candles in the living room — but she left the lamp above Papa's small desk, where she could just barely see the stack of invitations waiting to be read.
Only once she could hear Father's soft snoring, did Aurora dare to pluck one from the pile.
As she worked her way through the invitations, noting down who was attending Father's meeting, Aurora's mind began to drift. Papa brought up courting more and more these days, insisting that Aurora needed to meet a nice young man and settle down. He was worried, she knew, but it didn't make it any easier to digest.
Once, several years ago now, Aurora had drawn the eyes of a young man. Christopher Allan had flirted, made her feel special in a way that nobody else had before, or since. He had been a handsome man of good standing, the kind of man that all kinds of women swooned over...but she had quickly learned thatpopulardidn't meangood,and he had left broken hearted only two months later.
A familiar tickle scratched the back of Aurora's throat, and she pressed a hand to her chest. She thought of the dried bergamot that Father kept in the pantry, but the cough never arrived. Instead, the itch faded away, and Aurora continued with her task.
She recognized most of the names, even if there was no face to put to them. Mr. Buckley and Mr. Richards were coming, of course, as were several others that Aurora had met before. After all, this meeting was a yearly affair at the botanist’s museum —the men took turns to organize — and many were repeating guests. All were wealthy botanists, some more famous than others. As a plant breeder, Father wasn’t the most well-known on the list, even as the Duke’s gardener. He certainly wasn’t famous compared to those that taught at universities, or owned enormous botanical gardens to show their efforts.
Some of the men were less familiar, only vague memories or names recognized from conversations with Father — there was only one name that Aurora didn't know at all.
Lord Winters Winter, the Earl of Glouchestershire. He must have been important to be anEarl,and Aurora felt a sudden flash of guilt for having never heard the name before –but perhaps he was new, was all. Somebody that Father hadn't invited before, or a new botanist still trying to find his footing. Except, what would an Earl be doing, as a botanist? She couldn't picture it.