Redemptive Love

His smile deepening, Theodore glanced towards the vibrant blossoms nestled in the corner.
“Is the purple iris your favourite flower?” he asked lightly.
Isabelle managed a small, wordless nod.
“It is mine as well,” Theodore confessed, as he nodded towards them. “A blossom so regal, I often think of it as the empress of this garden.”
There was a long pause.
Her lips trembling, Isabelle at last spoke. “I—I am sorry, my lord. I had no right to gaze at it so freely. Please forgive me.”
Theodore’s eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “Since when was it a law that nature’s beauty was reserved only for the eyes of its owners? Such beauty is bestowed by God Himself, meant to be shared with all.”
And with that, he plucked a full-blooming iris from its stem and extended it towards her, a warm smile on his lips.
Isabelle gasped, staring at him in disbelief as though this were some outrageous act. She dared not accept it, shrinking back.
Undeterred, Theodore reached forth and gently took her trembling hand, pressing the flower into her palm, his fingers enclosing hers.
The unexpected warmth of her hand against his sent a thrill of pure, unguarded delight down his spine. It was a moment he could not put into words; it lingered in the air between them, the quiet intimacy deepening with each passing second.
Isabelle’s face flushed hotly, her fingers now holding the delicate bloom, and Theodore felt a matching heat rise to his cheeks.
Blushing like a schoolboy, he stammered, “I—I hope it brightens your day.” Without waiting for her response, his words came tumbling out as he bowed—“Good day to you, Isabelle”—before he turned and hurried away.
He fought the urge to glance back, fearing that meeting her eyes again might completely undo him.
As he hastened back to the manor, Theodore’s heart pounded with giddy exhilaration, a wide grin breaking across his face. He could hardly keep from skipping, as if he might dance his way home. Even the world around him seemed to rejoice: the sunlight shone brighter, the air smelt fresher, and the birds’ chirping rang out like a jubilant melody composed just for him.
He had barely made his way to the end of the cobbled path when his joyful daze was shattered by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a slap, followed by an anguished, feminine cry.
Theodore froze.
The jarring sound of yet another loud strike followed by the same piercing cry at last jolted him awake.
Turning on his heel, Theodore ran hotfoot back to the garden.
He burst into the clearing, his chest heaving.
There stood Grubbs, the head gardener, a man as grubby in demeanour as his name suggested, wearing a scraggly moustache and a ferocious scowl. He held Isabelle by the arm in a punishing grip, his face twisted with rage as he struck her yet again. Beneath his heavy boot lay the iris, trampled and bruised.
“Stop!”
Theodore’s voice rang out, his usually pleasant expression now contorted with fury.
He reached Grubbs in a few bounding strides and seized the gardener’s wrist before he could land another blow, startling the older man with the force of his grip.
“What is the meaning of this?” the young man demanded, his voice for once as fierce and cutting as his father’s. “How dare you strike a lady?”
Grubbs gaped at him, surprise momentarily dimming his anger. It was immediately replaced with indignant contempt. “A lady?” he scoffed, looking down at Isabelle. “This wicked wench deserved a good thrashin’! She dared steal a flower!”
Isabelle merely sobbed quietly.
Theodore’s face grew darker, and his eyes flashed. “She didn’t steal it,” he replied hotly. “I gave it to her.”
His words left Grubbs dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing as he attempted to justify himself.
Theodore’s gaze grew fiercer as he continued, “And even if she had plucked it herself, what right have you to strike her? No man—no matter his class—has the right to strike a woman. It is sheer wickedness!”
These words left Grubbs visibly shaken. The colour drained from his face, his bullying bluster now replaced with trembling. “I... I b-beg your pardon, M-master Theodore…” he stammered.
“Not to me,” Theodore snapped. “Apologise to her!”
With a reddening face, Grubbs turned to Isabelle. He removed his cap, bowing his head as he swallowed. “M-my apologies, miss,” he mumbled, his words swollen with discomfort.
Theodore’s eyes bore into him. “Mark my words, Grubbs. Lay a finger on her again, and I assure you, I will find another head gardener with a snap of my fingers!”
He suited action to word. With one last glare, he released Grubbs, who slunk away like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Turning to a still trembling Isabelle, Theodore’s expression softened. “Are you all right?”
Her eyes shining with grateful tears, she finally quavered, “Y-yes, I am. Thank you, my lord.”
Theodore nodded in return, both gallant and gentle. “You are most welcome,” he replied quietly.
His gaze fell to the sorry flower on the ground, crushed and dirtied, bruised beyond recognition.
Without hesitation, Theodore stepped into the garden nook and reached towards the same cluster of purple blooms when her voice, soft but firm, arrested his hand.
“No, my lord.”
His widened eyes stared as she bent to pick up the flower, her fingers brushing over its battered petals.
“This one is precious to me.”
Isabelle raised her gaze to him. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. A small, hesitant smile crossed her lips as she curtsied prettily and walked away, leaving Theodore rooted to the ground.
His eyes lingered after the vanishing form, starry with fresh wonder.
The true empress of the garden is... her.