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Ever since she could hold a spade dextrously, Rachel had dedicated a part of herself to gardening. It seemed like the only thing that coaxed her mother out of bed some days, the only other being food or tucking Rachel into bed. Though if she were entirely honest, she spent more nights sleeping in her mother’s bed, as the woman was terrified of letting her go. Rachel would be wrapped up in those slender arms, weakened by fatigue and malnutrition, and try to wish the sadness away. The memories from that time were more feelings than images, like the warmth of her mother, or the confusion that consumed her when Margot cried all night.
They both planted what would become Rachel’s stress relief, a simple white yarrow. She didn’t understand the significance of it, not even when it greatly contrasted her mother’s long black robes and loose wild hair. Rachel spent most of her time in the orangery, school wouldn’t be a concern as she was practically confined to the house for the time being. The maid would help her water the flowers, then she would eat some of the fruit from the trees her father had planted, reading a book already above the level of children her age. Margot would pine away by the window, never taking her eyes off her little girl.
When Rachel bought her own home, far more muted than her parents’ extravagant lodgings, she still maintained her plants. Bleeding hearts and cyclamen grew beautifully under her careful eye, the roots trickled down her family tree unknowingly. Even now, almost able to reach the apple that would fall from the tree, Rachel couldn’t imagine her father gardening. Something about his hedonism made it difficult to picture him covered in dirt, heaving from exertion, smiling down at something so small that he had created. Though he technically didn’t create it at all, it would grow into its own life form without him.
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Thomas’ narcissism has always masked the true sensitivity of his character. If he were able to be honest with someone, honest with himself, he’d probably have been remembered. That’s what bothered him the most in life, making a name people would know for centuries. Any passing fancies of interest were tossed aside for what he believed was his greatest prospect, the written word. Despite this supposed prioritisation, Thomas did have at least one interest he came back to, for better or for worse.
He loved the vast gardens of his family home, he would hide away from the world and write messily into his diary, hoping to hit gold with his words. Sometimes he’d draw sketches of the apparent veins in the leaves, or the curvature of a petal, but besides his forced written sincerity, it discouraged him. Nature was more beautiful than he could make it sound, or make it look. It dwarfed his achievements more so than any others, leading him to tearing out said pages in an almost jealous rage. If he couldn’t grace the page with his own perfection, then neither could his drawings.
It never stopped Thomas from plucking a flower or two, yellow carnation that’s bloomed proudly on his dark wooden desk, a beacon of hope he certainly needed. His finger would graze the drying flower with the delicate mess of glass, praying that some of its greatness may fill him and create poetry for the ages. It never did, but those flowers were still there when he left with Francis, so a part of him held onto the chance that his life had left one footprint in the sand. Perhaps those flowers were still there, drained of inspiration that was never properly honed.