Mama had loved roses the best of all the flowers they grew at the estate. It was because of her the rose garden was so big and well cared for. She’d chosen the roses when she was a tiny girl, because they were her favourite flower and the garden had been built specifically for her. And when Mr. Wilkes was in the mood for a chat, he’d reminisce about the good old days when she’d been by his side taking care of the bushes. He’d been the gardener forever and his father before him, at least it seemed that way. When her mother had the roses put in, Wilkes was already learning from his father to tend the gardens on the estate, but it was the roses that he liked the most, a love he shared with the mistress, Miss Amelia Foxborough.
Gertrude sank down on the cool green grass and snipped the thorns and bottom leaves from her roses, trimming the ends, making sure they were all uniform, before gathering them into a bouquet, inspecting them for any imperfections. The thought of placing less-than-perfect blooms on the entry to the crypt made her skin crawl with disdain. Mama wouldn’t stand for it in real life and she shouldn’t have to put up with it in death either. Her youngest daughter would see to that if nothing else.
Satisfied they were perfect, Gertrude rose to her feet and headed toward the stone building on the other side of the rose gardens by the lake. The small family crypt perched on a slight rise looking over the water and beyond that, the house. If one stood next to the resting place, turned away from the house looking the other way, the Hunter River floated soundlessly by, punters making the most of the day on the water. The knoll was a perfect place for eternal rest, according to Grandpapa, and that was where he finally lay with his wife beside him. When Mama had passed away, she was placed inside with them as well.
Gertrude strode up the rise and did her best not to let the sudden wave of sadness overwhelm her. Tears filled her eyes regardless of her inner admonishment and she sighed in frustration. When did it become maudlin to mourn? She wished she knew. Wilz had comforted her many a time but never fell into the same malaise that affected Gertrude. The day of the funeral she had dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, but after that week of mourning, she’d gone about her business without the sadness that swamped her younger sister.
Could age have something to do with emotions, she wondered? Papa seemed to keep his stiff upper lip after the funeral, saying life must go on. That might be a male thing though. Perhaps they didn’t grieve quite so long as woman folk. Even Cousin Ernest had cried on the day Mama’s coffin was placed in the crypt but since then hadn’t shown a skerrick of emotion either. Had she received the weaker stamina that made her so miserable?
“I miss you, Mama.” Gertrude dropped to her knees beside the crypt and took the dead roses from the vase sitting on the door under the family crest. She tipped out the water and stood, glided over to the tap set by the lake to refill it ready for the new flowers. Once they were arranged in the vase exactly the way she wanted, Gertrude sat down and wrapped her arms around her knees, her back resting against the cool concrete building.
“I wish I could talk to you, Mama. Wilz is wonderful to listen to me, but it’s not the same. She has her own friends and life to live and I miss her when she’s down in Sydney. Your charities take up so much of her time and helping Papa on the estate takes up the rest of her hours. Papa is so strict with me. I know I shouldn’t mind but I do. He insists I learn how to run the house when all I want to do is join the Red Cross and be a nurse.” She picked at a blade of grass, snapping it off at the base. Slicing it with her thumbnail, she continued to sound out her frustrations.
“It’s not fair. Wilz gets to talk to all of these people even if she has no intention of helping our poor soldiers like I want to do. Papa says she is still doing her bit for the war effort by taking over from you and learning how to manage the estate in case something happens to him. I asked if he would let me help too, but he claims I’m too young and too delicate.” A sigh of frustration passed her lips. “He’s wrong. I know the Red Cross would take me if I applied.” She pulled at another piece of grass, this time biting the soft white base between her teeth, chewing on the tender shoot before spitting it out. “I don’t want to be the lady of the house in waiting, I don’t want to tell the farmers how to grow their own crops or how many sheep they should have per acre of their plots of land. Wilz does it so well and she’ll take over from Papa.” A wave of guilt washed over her saying that out loud. Papa was very much alive. “I want to travel overseas and help our troops. I want to feel useful for once, not stuck here doing nothing.” She huffed out a sigh of frustration and swatted at a fly that came too close to her face.
The ring of laughter bounced over the water. She’d know that sound anywhere. The musical tinkle that escaped Wilz’s lips when she was genuinely happy rather than the polite sound she kept for
