All around the manor, is Powys at its wild best. Flowers that grow of their own accord, trees that cover the hillside, planted centuries ago some of them. Some of them, the descendants of trees that were planted. But behind the manor, leading out from two window-doorways, is a more formal, manicured garden...
Stone steps are set into the hillside, uneven, with landings every twenty steps or so, where former hillside fortifications turn to plateau gardens. Roses. Honeysuckle. Violets. Herbs. And from each plateau there is a stone-step pathway, leading to hardier, wilder paths. Less regular. Primrose allowed to grow wild where cornflowers are kept tamed.
It is hardy...
Beautiful...
Wild...
Welcoming...
And at each plateau hangs a glowing lantern. Soft golden light affords a nighttime view of the gardens, the manmade waterfalls and cascades. Without overly intruding upon the moonlight and the starlight above.
Down the mount that bears the manor, the plateau gardens descend and flatten. Until they spill into the green grass and trees of the surrounding valley...
When she was out here earlier, Sandrine investigated alone. She walked in baggy khaki pants and white shirt, feet covered in soft shoes, and a hat upon her head.
But as twilight has waned, she freshened up and changed to evening clothes -- a simple black dress and low heels -- her hair piled upon her head. It is a glowing mass, and certainly of some length, with large waves, if she wore it down.
"I love the lanterns," she says softly, hand upon an archway as she passes beneath. Relucantly she lets it go, a lazy draw into the open space. Her fingers trickle from the iron, as if sad to depart it. "It is gorgeous, Davydd," Sandrine says quietly, as if only meant for you. Her blue eyes look to one of the lanterns, a smile drawing across her lips as she watches the light dance upon the shade.
"All so calming," she adds, looking towards a nearby waterfall. "I could stay here forever, in this space..."
When you say it like that, I find that I could too...
He is clothed in a shirt of swirling greens, dark and brilliant, long sleeved -- rarely seen in anything without long sleeves. Have you ever seen him without? And how beneath the light it makes his eyes seem. And between gaze and untucked shirt, he shines. Emerald and forest interplaying. It lies lightly over him, an odd delicate touch. And his trousers beneath, a black wool -- which picks up the black thread running throughout the shirt, otherwise unseen. Feet encased in suede hiking boots.
And tonight he has dropped the pretense. His curly hair is left to its own designs. Even though short, not past his shoulders, it curls with natural ringlets. Only tamed by the cut in spots. The beard is left, partial, just around his mouth and chin.
As he passes beneath the light of the lantern, at your side -- his smallest finger sometimes hooking about one of your own -- Davydd turns to you and smiles. Outward after a moment does he turn his gaze. To the cascading water. The surrounding hills. "She's quite persuasive," he whispers back, "Powys. It is easy to see why we fought for her." He turns his head and looks to you, leaning in toward you, his voice for you alone. "I am glad you enjoy her and that you are here with me to see her." He is quiet a moment as the two of you wander, the smile hangs upon his lips. And then grows. "The way you move through gardens... it is a passion of yours." As if he knows. "It is a passion of mine. The green earth..."
"What makes you say that?" Sandrine laughs disingenuously, nodding immediately afterwards. "I can't think of any place I'd rather be, than in a garden." Finger curls around yours, and then breaks the connection as she wanders on, turning by a lemon tree. "My apartment in London...it is in a cooperative." She grins mischieviously, proud of the next part, "It has a greenhouse on one side. It is the end apartment on that floor." She barely contains her laughter, spinning about towards the waterfall.
"It is solace, my paradise," she confides, peering into the tumbling clarity. Her hand reaches out, feeling a trickle upon her finger. "It is where I sit, think...where I dream. When I am at home, and not handling correspondence, I am in my greenhouse."
Water tasted, Sandrine looks at you, her pale brows arching. Her nose is pointed, and her cheeks angle in Nordic fashion.
But she is ruddied gold, highlighted by her hair and nearly natural makeup.
Lips purse as she examines you, nose tipping up in bemusement. "You have made calls, hmm? To ask about the gardens?" What have you learned, Davydd. Fess up! Sandrine narorws her gaze and smiles, heading back towards you, hands landing at your arms again.
"Tell me, you have been doing research..." and she laughs, hands closing firmer around your forearms.
"I trust my own eyes more than reports," he is laughing and it lights his face. There is a look of mischief -- ah, but it is so natural to him. Perhaps it is the sparkling eyes. The Celtic glint his Irish brothers are also famous for. "I saw you in Kensington," he looks to you, turning to you as you grasp his forearms. With a lean, his forehead is against your own. "You knew the names, I heard you. You plucked and pruned, I walked with you..."
He has eyes of a falcon, this Llewelyn...
"I would like to see your greenhouse. You have seen two gardens now of mine... it would only be fair..." A hand lifts, a touch to your cheek, a capture of breeze-blown golden hair. "It is where I go to think, this garden. In London... I used to go to the public gardens, jump the gates at night...it has always been so for me..."
And now he doesn't wander. Now, with a strand of hair captured he stares. And then, Davydd laughs. A broad grin and a warm one. Sudden like lightning. His laughter is thunder in comparison. "I have the nine sacred flowers planted here. It is good luck they say. The old woman of my village, she said... plant the nine sacred flowers and trees, and fortune will be yours..." Teasing quip, that lilts upon consonants, drags upon vowels.
Perhaps she was finally right, that old and now very dead woman...
She is getting more comfortable being close to you. Sandrine smiles as foreheads touch and as you curl a strand of her wavy hair. "Yes, you have some of the oldest. Ah," Sandrine stands sufficient again, "...I must think of the English words."
"But yes," she sways in black, "...you must come to my greenhouse. Sometimes, I sleep there..." Sandrine finishing with a bite of her bottom lip.
A secret shared in the garden.
"But, yes...you have...roses of many varietals. Always a wonderful thing...they can tell you much about the health of your soil. A veritable Malmaison," she grins at you, finger pulling you along.
"I see a few irises, blue and yellow, gladiolus...and foxtrot?" Is that the right one? Sandrine narrows her eyes again, almost wolfishly, "...oh...no. I think that is what is called snapdragon. Foxtrot is different," she nods, content with that analysis.
"Here," she pulls you towards a bed, "I had to tidy a bit of the gladiolus, they were budding again a little too soon," copper hair nods. This is a serious thing. "And," she points, "...you might take hips from your Madame Fourtrier," a rose of palest pink, "...and perhaps do a hybrid cross with one of your Sunbeams," something yellow. "That would prove an excellent experiment," she nods, confident now.
It shows in how she holds your hand altogther, instead of a finger. How when she talks, Sandrine looks at you and twists to the flowers of interest. How she expects you are interested. How strong her voice is.
"And your lemons..." she shudders and shakes her head, "...just beautiful. I will try to wake earlier tomorrow to meet your gardener. Or stay up later," she nods assiduously. "Yes, later. He may come in the early morn..."
You were here...
He hadn't thought of it... or hadn't realized. And the surprise shows itself warmly. The cocking up of fiery brows. The smile that claims slightly parted lips, and he begins to look where you point. Taking your advice in. Looking as you gesture, as you speak.
But mostly, his interest is focused on you. This woman, this woman. What am I to do? She is... a gift. She is perfect. I do not know what to do with what I have been looking for. I am... so unused to finding it...
"The lemons," Davydd picks up, his larger hand swallowing yours, far more fine, "...were a gift to me. I am shocked they have lived so long in so cool and wet a place as Powys. A gift from the gardens of Chinon... William does far better with fruit trees. More sun. But I? I have better roses..."
Still, the rivalry is healthy. And it is healthy. He grins at it. And soon, his hand is not content to merely have your hand. The strong arm lifts, and his touch lands now upon the small of your back. Maybe soon it will be at your waist...
Then around you...
He looks to you, a tilt of his head and copper curls move with the wind. "Rhys is a good man... shall we walk the garden again in the pink of dawn?" Davydd murmurs.
And his walk with you is now a touch against you.
I want you to stay with me...
I want you to stay with me tonight...
I want you to stay with me for a while...
"I should have him build a greenhouse," Davydd says quietly, lilting, "...to see if he can grow those roses pink and gold..." They will remind me of you. The smile cuts across his mouth, warming features. "They are your colors," he whispers. "If he is able to hybrid such a flower, I will have him name it for you..."
Maybe he will call it Grace...
Maybe Sandrine's Blush...
"It is snapdragon," Davydd whispers, mouth to your ear as he speaks and as he continues with it. "That... they plant for me..."
Ah, well. It all makes sense.
But then you are behind me and my eyes close for an instant.
"I had not thought of pink and gold," Sandrine whispers, the feelings of last night flushing across her skin. They should give her goosebumps. She looks at the lemons again, the bright colors and waxy leaves commanding her attention. Otherwise, her senses would be filled with you.
"Rhys," she barely murmurs, "...is...very gifted."
"He will be thrilled to hear you say so," the R trills a little, an extra lilt, and he laughs. Such easy warmth. And his touch to your back, it makes itself more known. Sliding upward, his hand lifts to touch your hair. He cannot help it. He cannot help the touch. His hand, his touch... everywhere upon you.
Everywhere...
Even where his hand does not land, you can feel the presence, the energy lingering. Wandering. You have more than piqued his curiosity. You have more than interested him. You have offered yourself, and he is caught.
Now he wants...
Is it what you want...
"I will have him try... I will send you the results... aye..." Rose petal proof in the post. Davydd grins, brows waggling at that. And then his hand lowers again. To the small of your back and then, fingers curl around your waist. "I remember fondly sleeping outside in the summers... on soft vines, in the shade of trees. I miss it... I suppose I could sink into the earth come the dawn, but then... I would miss warming rays. What is an old man to do..."
You can do that?
Sandrine leaves her reverie, half-turning to see you. "Sleep in my greenhouse, maybe," she offers. "The lawn glades are soft," she explains, "...and when the sun rises, the panels close to cover against the rays." It is so easy.
She turns about in your arms, the nervousness upon her again. "I..." she acknowledging what is happening between you, "I...am...a little nervous," Sandrine laughs softly, timidly. It is been ages, since I was so close to someone.
And already, she looks to back away. Maybe we have gone too fast again. It was to be just a walk in the garden. How...did it change? A frustrated look crosses Sandrine's features as she looks down between you, but quickly it vanishes, hidden again.
I can do a lot of things...
He laughs warm and rich, free... that laugh. Not worried about its volume. It is rough and lyrical in the same moment. "Alright," he quips, taking you up on that offer, "... a night and a day in the greenhouse." He pauses, turning to you, eyebrows cocking upward, "Automatic panels on a timer, aye? I don't do well with sunburns. I look like a lobster, not a lovely sight, lass, I have to admit..."
But when you turn and speak softly, your face, your eyes lowering, the flash and the fire calm, and Davydd halts altogether. Eyes to his hand, your waist. And at the space that exists between you and he -- not emotional or...psychological. But actual. "Sandrine..." Davydd begins, and stops. And his hand moves, sliding from your waist to take a hand. He exhales.
Do you see the red, are we far enough from the lanterns? Or do you see what you are doing. His hand grasps yours lightly, but firmly. "I ... you know, I don't want to ..." there's a fidget, a clearing of the throat, "I know it has to be painfully obvious. I'm not the most subtle man in the universe. But... I don't want to seem like I want to rush you where I want to go. And I don't want to make you nervous..."
Please, kiss me and shut me up, Sandrine. Or put your hand over my mouth...
A slight smile is perched upon his mouth as he looks up. A finger lifting, to lift your chin, your face, your eyes to him. "It's alright," he whispers. "Look, it's a nice night... stars are out, it's not rainin'... how about we go for a drive..."
Red brows lift upward and he bends a little, a hopeful look claiming his expression. And he grins. "Aye?"
"No rush then," Sandrine manages, hearing you and feeling the gentle withdrawl. At least you know and understand. It is not that the feelings are not reciprocated.
But some of us need Time. Time... expanded ...is a Friend.
"A drive," she smiles, returning to form. "I'll...get my scarf and coat..."
Fingers pull from yours, but they are in no rush. Sandrine grins and steps away, turning to head within again to find something to wear in the cool evening's ride.
Posted by rowan at April 19, 2003 12:23 AM
