Beauté Vénéneuse

CH. 1

ACT I - MOMENT CAPTURED IN TIME

Emerson watched the gardener as he pulled weeds from the soil, entranced by his strong arms and dark brown curls, glistening with sweat under the midday sun. He was nothing short of ethereal; a wayward seraph cast upon the earth.

Although he knew his feelings could imprison him, that they were wrong, unnatural - he couldn't stop the burning passion in his heart.

Emerson let out a deep sigh, watching the gardener from his window as he stood and wiped a hand against his brow.

While he trimmed an overgrown bush back into a perfect circle, Emerson wondered what his voice must sound like. Perhaps it would be smooth and strong, like silk. He could almost imagine the man's voice, speaking to him in gentle cadence.

The gardener's delicate beauty struck Emerson with a burst of inspiration. He collected his materials, swiftly setting an easel in front of his plush velvet chair; feeling a sudden need to capture his beauty on a canvas.

Emerson gazed upon the gardener, his muse - a man he'd never met.

Though he'd long ago become disillusioned with his daily strife, the man never ceased to garner his passion.

Emerson began his work as he admired him, letting the tip of his brush glide across the canvas.

Aside from the gardener, art was Emerson's greatest devotion. Only on a blank page or canvas could he capture the Earth's strange, untold majesty.

He had tried painting portraits of the gardener before, but he could never seem to get it right. He always turned out undefined, like a clay figure that wasn't quite finished.

Emerson needed a clearer view of the man - he could only imagine how beautiful he must be up close.

A knock on the door interrupted his work, making him jump in surprise, his brush streaking across the canvas.

"Master Ambrose, your lunch awaits you in the garden," one of his family's servants announced through the closed door.

Emerson cursed under his breath and set his brush down, "Ah, thank you, Celia!"

He frowned at the painting - he wasn't sure he could cover it up. But there was no time to worry about it now, he knew he would see the gardener while he was eating.

The man straightened out his suit and smoothed back his hair, glancing at himself in a passing mirror.

Until now, Emerson could only witness his beauty in the early morning, from the comfort of his room. He took a deep breath, doing his best to prepare himself.

"Hello Mother, Father." He greeted as he pulled out one of the white metal chairs and sat down.

He looked past his mother to see the gardener occupied with a rose bush, his heart melting like wax just at the sight of the man's back.

"Hello, Emerson, thank you for joining us." His father greeted icily. Emerson didn't have to wonder why, he'd eaten alone in his room for the past week, which was 'unbecoming for a man of his age'.

"Oh, you must try these biscuits, they are simply divine!" His mother gushed, though his attentions were focused on the man behind her rather than the refreshments.

"I'm sure, Mother," Emerson muttered as he watched the gardener, who glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, "do you happen to know what his name is?"

"The garden boy? Oh, I'm not sure. I don't think I've ever cared to wonder.. Do you know, James?"

"Why don't you ask him?" He replied, seemingly too occupied with a dainty sandwich to care.

"Oh, of course," She waved over the man, who reluctantly stood by the table.

The gardener was breathtaking up close, detail amplifying his beauty. He had gentle eyes the color of moss and earth. Freckles dusted his nose and cheeks, gracing his tan shoulders. Everything about him held such sublime elegance, it was almost hard to look at him.

"Is anything the matter, ma'am?" He asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

And his voice! It reminded Emerson of a piano, strong and melodic. He could listen to it all day if he had the opportunity. Oh, how he longed for such a chance.

"What might be your name?" She asked, taking a sip out of her impossibly small teacup.

"Oleander Meredith, ma'am."

Oleander. Emerson had never heard such a name before; how gorgeous, how unique it was! He could say it until it no longer had meaning.

The roots of his passion unfurled like weeds from his heart, spreading through his being in a way he'd never known.

Emerson needed Oleander in his life, there simply was no other way about it.

"Thank you, you may return to your duties now." His mother dismissed, Oleander leaving to tend to a patch of daisies.

"What's your interest with him anyways, Emerson?" His father wiped his mouth with a napkin, a seemingly permanent disdain behind his words.

"Oh, I just saw him tending to the garden before and.. ah, I couldn't help but wonder his name." He did his best to sound nonchalant, occupying himself with a biscuit. His mother was right, they were delicious.

"Yes, of course."

Emerson set his eyes once again upon the gardener, as discreetly as he could manage. Oh, how he wished to be alone with the man, to speak with him. He wanted desperately to hear his voice again.

Perhaps he could come out to 'admire the flowers' while Oleander was working and exchange a few words.

Of course, his musings were useless - there was little opportunity to grow close with the man. Even if Oleander shared Emerson's inclinations, he would never admit it. Not with such dire consequences.

Emerson sighed at his conclusion. He was bound by the chains of societal expectations, and could find no way to free himself. If he could change the sway of his heart he would jump at the chance, but he knew of no remedy.

As his lovesick eyes settled on Oleander, he felt a familiar pit of hopelessness form in his stomach. Emerson's passions were fruitless, he needed to accept it - optimism was a dangerous thing.

He took a deep breath as if to clear his mind. Emerson had to let go of his hope that something would form between them - there was no chance. But oh, how he adored Oleander.

"What on earth are you staring at?" His mother glanced around, turning in her chair.

"Oh, just the roses, they're beautiful." Emerson smiled gently.

"They certainly are," she agreed, turning to admire the flowers, "they're in full bloom, aren't they, James?"

"I'm sure, dear." He replied halfheartedly, frowning at the table.

"May I be excused?" Emerson's parents bid him farewell as he rose from his chair.

He walked through the lush garden, back to his room, taking one last glance at Oleander as he worked in the sun.

Oh, in spite of all logic and reason, he just couldn't give up.

Emerson decided he would have to get some houseplants.