The Signature of All Things

Pike,” she said, extending her hand as she approached him.
    “You must be Miss Whittaker!” he said, smiling warmly and taking her hand in greeting. “My eyes cannot believe what I am seeing here! You must tell me, Miss Whittaker—what mad genius took such pains to fabricate this garden according to strict Euclidian geometric ideals?”
    “It was my mother’s inspiration, sir. Had she not passed away many years ago, she would have thrilled to know that you recognized her objectives.”
    “Who would not recognize them? It’s the golden ratio! We have double squares here, containing recurring nets of squares—and with the pathways bisecting the entire construction, we make several three-four-five triangles, as well. It’s so pleasing! I find it extraordinary that somebody would take the trouble to do this, and on such a magnificent scale. The boxwoods are perfect, too. They seem to serve as equation marks to all the conjugates. She must have been a delight, your mother.”
    “A delight . . .” Alma considered that possibility. “Well, my mother was blessed with a mind that functioned with delightful precision, to be sure.”
    “How very remarkable,” he said.
    He had still not appeared to notice the house.
    “It is a true pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pike,” Alma said.
    “And you, Miss Whittaker. Your letter was most generous. I must say that I enjoyed the private carriage ride—a first, in my long life. I am so accustomed to traveling in close quarters with squalling children, unhappy animals, and loud men smoking thick cigars that I scarcely knew what to do with myself for such a long spell of solitude and tranquility.”
    “What did you do with yourself, then?” Alma asked, smiling at his enthusiasm.
    “I befriended a quiet view of the road.”
    Before Alma could respond to that charming reply, she saw an expression of concern cross Mr. Pike’s face. She turned to see what he was looking at: a servant was walking into White Acre’s daunting front doors, carrying Mr. Pike’s small piece of baggage with him.
    “My valise . . .” he said, reaching out a hand.
    “We are merely taking it to your rooms for you, Mr. Pike. It will be there, next to your bed and awaiting you, whenever you need it. “
    He shook his head, embarrassed. “Of course you are,” he said. “How foolish of me. My apologies. I am not accustomed to servants, and that sort of thing.”
    “Would you prefer to keep your valise with you?”
    “No, not at all. Forgive my reaction, Miss Whittaker. But if one has only a single asset in life, as do I, it is a bit worrisome to watch a stranger walk off with it!”
    “You have far more than one asset in life, Mr. Pike. You have your exceptional artistic talent—the likes of which neither Mr. Hawkes nor I has ever before seen.”
    He laughed. “Ah! You are kind to say so, Miss Whittaker. But everything else that I own is in the valise, and perhaps I value those prized little belongings more!”
    Now Alma was laughing, too. The reserve that normally exists between two strangers was thoroughly absent. Perhaps it had never been there at all.
    “Now tell me, Miss Whittaker,” he said, brightly. “What other marvels do you have at White Acre? And what is this I hear, that you study mosses?”
    This is how it came to pass that, by the end of the hour, they were standing together amid Alma’s boulders, discussing Dicranum . She had intended to show him the orchids first. Or rather, she had never intended to show him the moss beds at all—for nobody else had ever shown an interest in them—but once she had started speaking of her work, he insisted that she take him to see it.
    “I should warn you, Mr. Pike,” she said, as they walked across the field together, “that most people find mosses to be quite dull.”
    “That doesn’t frighten me,” he said. “I’ve always found fascination in subjects that other people find dull.”
    “This, we share,” said Alma.
    “Tell me, though, Miss Whittaker, what is it that you admire in mosses?”
    “Their dignity,” Alma replied without hesitation. “Also, their silence and intelligence. I like that—as a point of study—they are fresh . They are not like other bigger or more important plants, which have all been pondered and poked at by hordes of botanists already. I suppose I admire their modesty, as well. Mosses hold their beauty in elegant reserve. By comparison to mosses, everything else in the botanical world can