The Time of Lavender

A million stars twinkled in the velvet tapestry of the night, casting a silvery glow on the busy streets of New York City. Amongst the ceaseless bustle of taxis, the honks, and the swarm of people, a young woman named Abigail Finch stood alone on the terrace of a lavish penthouse, lost in her thoughts.In her late twenties, Abigail was the epitome of a modern woman - independent, successful, and driven. Her jet-black hair cascaded down her back, framing a face that held eyes reflecting the city's skyline, sparkling with dreams and ambitions. But behind the ambitious glow, there was a trace of longing, a silent yearn for something more, something different.The anticipation of the fundraising gala she was hosting for her art restoration project stirred a whirlpool of thoughts in her mind. She looked at the century-old pocket watch in her hand, an heirloom passed down through generations in her family. The timepiece, with its ornate carvings and delicate hands, was a stark contrast to h

The Provencal sun shone brightly through the curtains, stirring Abigail from her troubled sleep. She awoke, the events of the previous day flooding back into her consciousness. The realization that she was truly stranded in the 19th century left her feeling disoriented. Taking a deep breath, she decided to face the day, uncertain of what it held for her.Venturing out of the quaint guest room, she was drawn towards the smell of freshly baked bread and simmering stew. The scent was warm, welcoming and far different from her usual city breakfast of instant coffee and toast.In the kitchen, she found Vincent, the man from a time far removed from hers, cooking over a hearth. He had exchanged his artist's smock for a simple shirt and trousers. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, and his hair was disheveled, a few dark strands falling into his clear blue eyes."Bonjour, Mademoiselle Abigail," he greeted her, turning with a soft smile. The sight of his easy d

The next morning, Abigail found herself awakening before the call of the roosters, a strange pattern she seemed to be embracing in this unfamiliar era. The cobalt pre-dawn sky held a stillness that the city never allowed, a tranquility that whispered the promise of a new day. Clad in her borrowed nightgown, Abigail quietly descended the staircase, tiptoeing through the quiet house. She made her way to the porch, to drink in the sight of the vast lavender field under the mystical morning hue. The sight was akin to a dream, a violet ocean set under the canvas of the slowly brightening sky. As Abigail sank into the porch swing, the wooden floorboards creaked gently, echoing the whispers of centuries past. The swing swayed rhythmically, its cadence a soothing melody against the background hum of awakening nature. A soft rustle signaled Vincent's arrival, his disheveled hair and sleepy eyes a testament to the early hour. "You're up early," he remarked, his voice a hushed tone, careful n

The pattern of the days began to establish itself, familiar yet filled with novelties. Mornings were reserved for labor, with Vincent and Abigail working side by side in the lavender fields. The afternoons were calmer, dedicated to leisure, discovery, and shared experiences. Abigail learned more about Vincent’s art, his love for music, his connection with the land, and Vincent learned about Abigail’s fascination with the new, her determination to understand this past world, her love for the unexplored.One afternoon, under the canopy of an old, wise oak tree, they found themselves sitting on a blanket with a picnic spread out before them. It was a typical Provencal lunch, with fresh baguettes, local cheese, a selection of charcuterie, and a bottle of wine Vincent had fetched from the cellar. The food was simple yet delicious, the flavors a symphony that danced on Abigail’s tongue, awakening her senses to new gastronomic experiences.As they savored their lunch, the sun playing peek-a-

After the vibrancy and excitement of the 'Fête de la Lavande', life at the chateau resumed its usual rhythm, albeit with a notable change. The festival had opened a new door for Abigail, not just into the culture and life of Provence, but also within her own heart. She realized the beauty and simplicity of this era was slowly weaving itself into her soul, its enchantment impossible to resist. The mundane routines no longer felt monotonous. Instead, every day was a new discovery, a chance to learn, to immerse, and to grow.One morning, Vincent proposed the idea of painting a portrait of Abigail. "It would be a shame," he said with a teasing smile, "to not capture your spirit on canvas while the lavender is still in bloom." He suggested setting up the easel outdoors, in the heart of the lavender fields that had won Abigail's heart.In the days that followed, they spent hours out in the lavender fields, basking in the soft warmth of the Provençal sun. Vincent would paint while Abigail sa