A/N: A little bit of Chelsie fluff…..
Her mother always told her that some people are born with a green thumb* and that some people are not. That it is a gift. She supposes that she was born with the gift, that she inherited the knack of growing flowers from her mother whose garden was always so lovely. As she watches her husband tend their garden, she wonders if her mother was wrong. Though she is the one who tended the little potted plants scattered about her sitting room and helped to arrange the floral decorations at the Abbey, he has taken to gardening like everything else he sets his mind to.
He has read every book and pamphlet on roses, soil conditions, and fertilizers that he can get his hands on. He has spent endless hours up at the Abbey talking with Mr. Thompson about how to plant and tend a proper garden, what needs full sun or partial shade, and how often to water. A few days a week, he walks over to the senior Mr. Molesley's house, helps with plantings and clippings, asks questions and scribbles the answers into the little notebook that he tucks into his coat pocket. Mr. Molesley is very patient with him and sometimes, he is ashamed of the impatience that he has shown Mr. Molesley's son.
Every morning after breakfast, while she does the washing up, he gathers his gardening tools from the shed and begins the tasks of weeding and pruning, clipping and watering. When she is ready, she joins him, gently pointing out things here and there, careful to suggest and not to criticize; after all, he is a man and his ego is sometimes fragile.
He is a more than capable student and the fruits of his diligence show brightly. Theirs is a beautiful garden and the roses are particularly exquisite.
She tries to be gentle, but tells him that they haven't a chance. That for as long as anyone can remember, excepting the year that she half begrudgingly handed over the trophy to Mr. Molesley, the judges have awarded Best in Show to the Old Bat. Though he says nothing, he still bristles when she calls the Dowager such disparaging names. She hands him a glass of lemonade and a cloth to wipe the perspiration from his brow. He empties the glass of lemonade in one long, refreshing gulp and hands the glass back to her. He is dripping with sweat and dirt is smeared across his brow and along his cheek and chin. Taking the cloth in both hands, he scrubs it across his face and wipes away most of the grime. Folding the cloth into a perfect square, he places it into her waiting hand. Looking down at her, he smiles, eyes dancing with optimism. He will not yield, the stubborn man, he will continue to tend the roses in their garden just as he has and they will enter the best ones in the village flower show. After all, he tells her, there is a first time for everything.
She turns, heading back toward the house to wash the glass and put away the cloth. As she does, she laughs, a tinkling little giggle, and mutters something under her breath about his being daft. Before she is out of his reach, he stretches down to grasp her apron string. He catches it gently pulling her back to him. He places a sweet kiss to her lips, leaving a grimy little smudge where his chin brushes against hers. He thanks her for the lemonade and her company, as she brushes his hair away from his eyes.
She offers him a gentle smile, a loving word of her confidence in him. Perhaps they will win the flower show, who knows, she says. In this moment, it really does not matter to her because he has done something that he has not done before in the year that they have been married. He has kissed her in broad daylight in their flower garden. Perhaps there is a first time for everything, she muses.
*green thumb: someone who has a special affinity or skill for growing plants and flower.
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