It was her fault her mother was dead.
Chapter 4
Singleton, 1940
Gertrude carried a cane basket resting over her wrist and a set of secateurs as she wandered the gardens. Today was Sunday, the day she put fresh flowers at Mama’s crypt and in the summerhouse. Bolstering up the memories to keep them fresh in her mind. After fourteen months she still couldn’t do it without breaking down and she doubted today would be any better. It had started off badly already and had the potential to follow tradition. Waking weepy from a disturbed sleep hadn’t been the ideal way to greet Papa over breakfast.
Why he had become angry was beyond her. More than once he’d told her he’d arrange for one of the gardeners to do it if she didn’t pull herself together. He didn’t deal with emotions well, which was bad luck for him considering he had two daughters and girls were known for being that way inclined.
“Really, Papa, it’s only been a year since Mama died. I’d think you’d be little bit more lenient when it comes to Gertrude grieving. She has every right to be upset still and your lack of understanding isn’t helping matters at all.” Wilz gave Gertrude a fleeting smile before attacking Papa again. “If you could show a bit of compassion and bother to visit the grave yourself, you might have a better understanding of how Gertie feels.”
She had thought the same thing, more than once in the last year. He wouldn’t even go to the grave with Father Roberts which raised an eyebrow from the young minister who’d carried out the service. It didn’t stop him from trying though. Gertrude had asked for guidance from the good father on more than one occasion, but it was difficult to put his advice into practice when Papa was so adamant and stubborn. Turning the cheek was getting harder and harder to do the more he dug in his toes about everything.
Perhaps he did his mourning in private, which would be understandable. Stiff upper lip and all that. But he’d huffed and stormed from the room when she’d brought it up once before and she hadn’t felt brave enough to broach the subject again.
When the girls were alone, Wilz puffed out her chest and laughed. “Did you see the look on his face? I don’t think he likes that I answer him back. That will teach him for being such a stick in the mud. Don’t let him boss you around, Gertie. You have every right to grieve for Mama for as long as you need.”
Dear Wilhelmina. How lucky she was to have someone who understood her so well and wasn’t afraid of Papa like she was. Not many young ladies would dare talk back to their father the way Wilz did, but she had more spunk than most young men. Mama had worried about her when she was younger and everyone was aware of it. Acting more like a young man than the girl she was, all in an effort to gain Papa’s respect once it was found Mama wouldn’t be able to have any more children, thus denying him the son he truly wanted.
He’d been horrified at her antics to begin with, but that hadn’t stopped her. She’d insisted on learning how to run the farms just in case he considered her capable of taking over. Eventually Papa had given in and tolerated her, or so Gertrude had overheard him say to Mama on more than one occasion. “At least the girl could make people take notice of her and she has a brain in her head, which was more than some men.” He’d sounded miffed and slightly impressed at the same time. Wilz hadn’t looked back and her confidence had grown to the point of bossiness, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
Gertrude passed under an arbour and entered the rose garden. Heady fragrances wafted around her, the sun bringing out the best of the perfumes. Mama would be pleased to see the display this year. So many blooms to choose from and not a single indication of the dreaded black spot that Wilkes had been struggling to curb since last winter’s wet season.
She dropped the basket on the ground and kicked off her sandals, knowing she would be safe here from Papa’s prying eyes. How horrified he would be if he could see her now, barefoot with her dress hitched up to let the sun kiss her knees. Even though modern times were coming, he insisted that they would not touch his youngest daughter or his beloved estate. Life would go on regardless of the outside world. Progress was not something he aspired to.
A fat bee buzzed past her face and landed on a barely opened bud of the deepest blood red. Drops of moisture weighed down its silky-soft petals but that didn’t deter the bee. Its little legs scurried over the yellow stamens collecting pollen before flying off to the next bloom. It was a case of collect and repeat, collect and repeat. How the little creatures managed to get lift with such small wings and oversized body always fascinated her.
Now that the bee had done its job and gone onto another bush laden with flowers, Gertrude could find no reason not to get on with the job. She lifted the secateurs and clipped the bloom, snipping the thorns off before placing it in the basket. Another few stems of the same hue followed before she decided to mix them with the brilliant-white rose named Alba, according to the name plate carefully maintained in front of the
