Aurora bit the inside of her lip, to keep in her snappish comment. Had it been her decision, she'd have sent the man inside and made herself scarce...but Papa had always told her to be a good host. So, despite her better judgement, a good host she'd try to be.
“There isn't much here except for herbs and other natural remedies,” Aurora explained, “the West garden is where our most beautiful flowers are, as well as our apple trees at the edge of the property.”
The man smiled. “I'm sure that the flowers are as stunning as the rest of this place, but it's the wildflowers that interest me the most. Is this cow-wheat?” He raised a brow and bent at the waist to gently touch the delicate purple flowers.
The little yellow flowers in question were swaying gently in the breeze, bright and colorful against the greying sky. They were perhaps one of Aurora's favorites for their beautiful simplicity — it was easy to let it grow out of control. but together she and Papa had managed to keep it within the confines of the flower bed, nestled behind the bergamot to brighten up the place.
“Personally,” the stranger was saying now, “I wouldn't have included it. The color is a lovely gold, but it can easily sap the nutrients from the soil and kill other plants nearby. Is it really worth the risk, for such a plain looking thing? The wild bergamot is much too valuable.”
Here he went again, acting all superior. Although the stranger smiled mildly the entire time, brushing a loving hand through the flowers, it hadn't seemed to occur to him that he was talking to a fellow botanist...Aurora would have assumed it was because she was a young woman, had he not given the air that he was like this with everyone.
“It's your father's garden though,” he conceded, “and I'm sure he knows what he's doing. He's certainly cultivated a beautiful space.”
We've cultivated it together,Aurora wanted to snap, but held her tongue. Over and over like a mantra, she told herself not to be rude. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold to that.
She bent to pick up her watering can, which was now empty. As she did, a bee landed on the side of the can and bristled its wings. It was so cute, she justhadto reach out and touch its hair. It was so soft, it was almost like a dog's fur.
“You shouldn't touch those. Bees rarely sting, but it could take your touch for aggression.”
No longer trying to hide it now, Aurora sent him a scathing look. “I've been picking up bees since I was eight, and I've only been stung once. It's wasps to worry about, and I haven't seen any yet this summer.”
“Even so, you should be careful.”
She felt like tellinghimto be careful, because this wasn't his garden; but once again, Father's voice echoed to be a good host, so Aurora said nothing. If it meant ending this conversation quicker, then she'd happily stay quiet and let him talk.
“I think,” Aurora said sweetly, “that we should go back to the house. You were here to see my father, weren't you?”
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment she worried this stranger knew she wanted rid of him; but he only shrugged and nodded, apparently satisfied.
“I suppose that is it late, and you don't want to hear me talk all day. If you wouldn't mind, though, I would love to see the rest of the garden.”
Aurora realized that there was no getting out of this and sighed. A quick tour it was, then, before going inside. “I can show you our rose garden, if you like? Father is experimenting with different colors. I think he wishes to curate his own variety someday.”
“Excellent, I would love to see.”
At least the rose garden was on the way to the house, albeit through an indirect route. It took them around the side of the house, past Father's shed, and towards the back patio. There, a rainbow of climbing roses spread across a stunning framework of latticed wood, interspersed with little flower beds that held even more flowers. It was like a miniature maze, but instead of organized green shrubs, it was all roses.
She heard the stranger sigh happily, his shoulders relaxing. “It smells so sweet,” he said absently, “but not overpowering at all.”
“Like I said, Father wants to curate his own variety; something with a delicate scent and a unique color. Unfortunately, he can't quite decide on what he likes best.”
Aurora reached out to touch a flower, the petals coarse beneath her fingers. She especially loved the soft orange roses, almost peach in color, because they had such a pale hue. When it began to get dark at night, they reflected the moonlight.
“I can see gallica roses here, and Provence roses too — but there are some I've never seen before. Do you think he would mind, if I took a cutting or two back home with me?”
Aurora fought to keep her face even. Kind. What kind of a question, to ask someone he didn't even know. “He's protective of his roses,” she replied plainly, “you should ask him yourself, but I can't guarantee he'll say yes.”
Although he frowned, thankfully the stranger didn't press the matter of roses. Instead, he turned his attention back to the bergamot — even though it was nowhere in sight.
“Then how about the wild bergamot you have? I'm sure that growing my own could come in useful, if ever I fall ill. Surely you don't grow it just for looks.”
Aurora kept walking, trying to spur him on without asking quite so outright. “I'll be honest,” she said, wincing in annoyance, “it was my father that insisted we have it to make teas and other remedies, but I don't entirely believe in its health benefits.”
“Then you can't know much about the stuff!”
“I know plenty, thank you; but that is beside the point. There's very little proof that it actually helps, whereas things like chamomile have been proven to have health benefits.”
Although he grumbled, he followed her lead as she took him around the back of the house.