The Blue Rose

rose.

It was hard to accept the fact that millions of pounds were about to slip through their fingers. While she still struggled with the idea of equating a simple flower with such a vast fortune, Alex took it all in his stride. Over the last weeks, it appeared that he was growing more and more accustomed to the idea of being super rich. Whether that would now be the case was up in the air – up to the lawyers.

But The Parsonage was another matter entirely. Whatever happened, they mustn’t lose that, too. While waiting for the outcome of Graham’s challenge, she could only pin her hopes on Alex’s conviction that their house was not in jeopardy. ‘Don’t worry, Kate, the lawyers will sort it out,’ he kept reassuring her.

That made her think of Adell. He had called immediately after receiving the copy of Stanhope’s letter, to say that because he’d been under the weather he had only taken a cursory look at it. After Kate pressed him for his thoughts on the Cookes’ claim, his answer had been ambiguous and unconvincing. He had said merely that his first-blush assessment found it frivolous but that he needed more time to evaluate it.

Adell had been more emphatic on the matter of the missing journal Graham claimed to possess, and the possibility that a formula might now exist whereby the rose could be cloned. He had gone on to allow that for it to be taken seriously the hybridizing formula could never be accepted simply on its face value. It would obviously have to be proven viable: that following its prescription would conclusively result in the creation of a blue rose. That could take three or more years to be validated. He added that as a routine procedure, he planned to make a request that the missing journal be presented for their inspection.

With Vicky’s death and now the business with Graham, she’d almost forgotten about the American. She was surprised he hadn’t made further contact. Then there was the man who had sent them the letter too – Tanaka. Had they heard the last from either of them? Somehow, she doubted it. ‘What a bloody mess,’ she said quietly, kicking the gravel at her feet.

As she walked back to the house her mood lightened. She had an idea. Before taking Nell back to Market Drayton today, they would stop off in Marlborough. That would cheer them both up. They would have a lovely lunch at the Polly Tea Rooms and she could return the library books and pick up Alex’s painting that was ready at the frame shop.

At the reception after the funeral Kate and Alex had suggested that Nell come back with them before going home to Shropshire. After a phone call to her neighbour who was looking after her cat, it was settled. As a result, Nell had been their guest for the last three days. And Kate had enjoyed every single minute. She was going to be truly sorry to see Nell go.

As if someone had used an atomizer, the air became perfumed. Kate had brushed against a clump of lavender humming with bees. The scent rekindled memories of rainy days when, as a small child, she would secretly forage through the drawers of her mother’s scented bedroom chests, looking for dresses and shoes to try on.

It was at times like these that Kate missed her mother desperately. Her father too, but in a different way. She had never really had the opportunity to get to know him well. While she was growing up he was always on the road, working as a district sales manager for a car-parts manufacturing company. He had died in a car accident when she was in grammar school. She would never forget coming home from school that rainy day to be told the tragic news. Her grief-stricken mother had never fully recovered from the loss. It was as if a part of her had died with him. She now lived in America, in a suburb of Boston, with her younger sister, moving there shortly after Kate and Alex married. Kate would have loved to have her mother here this very moment, so she could see the house and the garden in its present glory. Soon after they’d moved in, Kate had sent her photos of The Parsonage, but somehow none of the pictures did the place justice. She would call her later. It had been at least two weeks since they’d last spoken. The prospect cheered her.

She paused at the sight of an old rose bush in full bloom. Stooping, she read its marker: La Reine Victoria. The sight and scent were overpowering. ‘This is really all about roses, isn’t it?’ she muttered under her breath. An old man’s infatuation turned obsession with roses. What would the Major say, she wondered, if he knew what had happened since she and Alex had become custodians of his garden and his beloved roses? Come to think of it, why hadn’t he announced to the world the miracle he’d wrought? Odd, she thought.

Her most recent tally of the roses in the garden added up to two hundred and ten different types. With few exceptions, they were old varieties: Gallicas, Damasks, Albas, Bourbons and the like. Old, meaning that the ‘youngsters’ in the garden were varieties dating from the nineteenth century. But the lineage of some of the senior citizens, like the Gallica roses, could be traced back through many centuries. She remembered quite clearly the day at the nursery when Vicky had told her that the oldest and the most famous of all the Gallicas was a rose called Officinalis – also known as the Apothecary’s rose, because of its medicinal use. It was the red rose, she said, chosen by the House of Lancaster during the Wars of the Roses, which started in 1455.

‘Kate! There’s a phone call for you – Kate!’

Looking up toward the house she saw Alex on the veranda in his dressing gown. ‘Oh, there you are,’ he called down. ‘It’s Peg – she wants to know whether you want her to work tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be right up,’ she replied.

Peg ran the antiques shop when Kate wasn’t there. Thank goodness she’d been able to fill in these last few days.

Kate walked up to Alex and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, brushing away the moisture from her cheek.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She gave him a melancholy smile. ‘Where’s Nell?’

Alex nodded in the direction of the house. ‘She’s in the kitchen. Lord knows what she’s cooking up in there. When I last peeked in, she had practically every pot and pan we own pressed into service. The woman should run a restaurant.’

Kate managed a smile.

Yesterday evening, Alex and Kate had tried to persuade Nell to stay a couple more days but she was insistent on returning home. ‘Guests are like fish,’ she reminded them. ‘For two or three days, everything’s fine, but beyond that, the place starts to stink up a bit.’

This morning she was cooking ‘a proper English breakfast’, as she put it, for the three of them. The night before, she’d conjured up ‘a proper English dinner’, except for the Scottish trifle; and earlier, ‘a real English luncheon’.

After chatting with Peg for a couple of minutes, Kate entered the kitchen to find Alex already seated at the table, staring at his steaming plate with undisguised relish. ‘Gosh! What a treat,’ he said, looking at Kate with eyebrows raised.

In front of him, still sizzling, was a formidable array of sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, sauteed potatoes, fried tomatoes, fried bread – even fried kidneys.

‘I was going to do kippers too, but I didn’t, because I thought that might be a little too much,’ Nell shouted from the depths of the kitchen.

‘Thank God for that,’ Kate stage-whispered, sitting down across from Alex, eyeing the greasy assortment of food on his plate.

Nell entered carrying Kate’s breakfast and a large teapot. ‘Here’s some nice strong tea,’ she said, joining them at the table.

‘Well, I must say, Nell, you’ve done it again,’ Kate said, raising her knife and fork. ‘I can’t remember when we last had such a hearty–’ She was interrupted by the phone ringing.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Alex, getting up from his chair. ‘I’m expecting a call from a client, Mrs Hendrickson. I’ll take it in the living room.’

‘The lady of the loos,’ Kate quipped.

Alex picked up the ringing phone, fully expecting a ruffled Mrs Hendrickson.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Mr Sheppard?’

It certainly wasn’t Mrs Hendrickson. The man’s voice was cultured and completely unfamiliar to Alex.

‘Yes? Who is this?’

‘This is Ken Tanaka, Mr Sheppard. I’m calling about the letter I sent you.’

Damn. It was the other man after the rose. Hadn’t he passed Tanaka’s letter on to Adell? Yes, he had. ‘Do I need this?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Yes, Mr Tanaka. I recall your letter. But surely you must have heard from my solicitor by now?’