Page 28 of The Perfect Rose

“Now, do you see the largest branches of the bush, how we left some of the little ones on?” Clara nodded. “Those are our healthiest branches, and we want to keep them growing the best we can. They are most likely to produce beautiful flowers. Do you see any branches that are dead?”

Clara pointed. “These ugly gray ones.” She pointed to three of the dead limbs. “Do we cut those ones out next? The plant doesn’t need ’em dead, does it?”

“Very good. Yes, those get pruned next. Sometimes, they are pesky things and they don’t want to be cut down, but they need to be. That is why we cut all the little limbs off first. This way, when we try to prune those dead branches, our arms are less likely to get scratched.”

Rose and Clara continued working about the rose bush, clipping branches and clearing the ground around it. The plant, almost finished, was looking a little sparse, but Rose knew it would pay off eventually. The bush would fill in with new growth and new life and it would fill with beautiful blooms. She set her gaze to the tops of the branches that were left and sighed. There was one last step she needed to teach.

“Do you see the remains of those roses at the ends of the branches, Clara? Once a rose has passed its prime, it will begin to wilt. The bloom won’t be pretty anymore.”

“I know,” said Clara. “They bow their heads and thank God for the life they was given. That’s what mama says.”

“I like that thought very much.” Gratitude would be so much better than the feeling of shame and ruin. Perhaps one day, after this mess of a house party was over, she could think of roses in that way. But it wouldn’t do for now. “What my mother taught me was that when a rose’s time is done, you clip it off so that the plant can give its energy to the new blooms trying to come out.” She snipped a dead bud from the branch.

Clipping those blooms shouldn’t have been such a real thing. But Rose knew in that moment that her mother was finishing pruning her. Rose had been given her prime season, and now, she was wilting, past the point of beauty and inspiration. It was her time to be cut from the bush, so that her mother could spend her time and energies with the younger blooms: Belle and Lavender and Ash. That was why she’d doubled the dowry—that was why Rose was to be married in a few short weeks or months. Her prime season . . . was over. Hot tears stung Rose’s eyes and trailed down her cheeks. It had been so long since she’d cried, Rose was instantly ashamed. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand.

Clara reached out and took Rose’s hand. “It’s okay to cry. I miss the flowers too.” Tears welled up in Clara’s eyes. Goodness, she was a sympathetic girl. She’d fastened a hold in Rose’s heart.

Rose squeezed her hand. “Clara Smith, I believe you are an angel.”

It was in this position, her hand encircling Clara’s with both of them teary eyed, looking at the rose bush, that Miriam found them. “Is everything all right?” She looked back and forth between their faces, still holding the loud baby close to her chest and rocking back and forth.

Clara sniffed. “It’s okay to cry sometimes, Miss Hastings. And I don’ like to cry alone. You can cry with us too, if ya want.”

“I believe Henry is crying enough for all of us just now.” Miriam continued rocking the baby and peeked over her shoulder. The duke, Mr. Redford, and Mr. Hastings stood just next to the house staring at them. Rose quickly turned her back to the group of gentlemen, mortified to be found in such an emotional state. She focused on taking deep breaths.

“I think Henry is wanting his mother.” Miriam continued. “Hopefully she’s been able to sleep this past half hour.” Miriam offered a kind smile to Rose.

Rose wiped her tears and willed her heart to stop pounding from the realization that so many people had been witness to such a special moment to her. She pushed the thoughts of others from her mind and bent down to look into Clara’s eyes. “Thank you for spending your afternoon with me, Clara.”

The girl rose up on her toes and put her arms around Rose’s neck. “Thank you for teaching me, Lady Rose.”

Chapter Twenty

If there was a single scene that could have endeared Rose to a gentleman, it was the one Frederick had just witnessed. He didn’t realize how tender a moment he would come upon when he’d rounded the corner of the house. But Frederick, Samuel, and Owen had all watched in stunned silence as Rose finished teaching Clara how to deadhead a rosebush and heard the emotional conversation that followed. It hadn’t been an appropriate time to interrupt, yet, he couldn’t have pried himself from watching if he’d been paid to do so.

After saying a short goodbye to Clara, Lady Rose looked up and Frederick’s heart hummed in his chest. Her beautiful, red-rimmed eyes were so vulnerable and unsure. He wished for nothing more than to take her into his arms and reassure her that she was enough, just as she was. But that would undo his resolve from just an hour ago. He forced himself to leave with a small smile and a dip of his chin before he turned to mount Bug.

The stable hand helped the ladies back into their saddles, and Frederick took the lead toward the next house they were delivering a basket to. Once again, Miriam fell in beside Samuel, and Owen—eyes full of adoration—fell in beside Rose. Frederick forced himself to stay facing forward, but his mind whirred. If Owen took a fancy to Lady Rose, he would not be likely to court her in a normal way. And even if he did, would the Countess Gardner tear Owen to pieces from the inside out? The match could never work, though Owen wouldn’t see the intricacies of what was prudent if he became fascinated with her.

Frederick glanced over his shoulder again, only to see that Lady Rose had stopped her horse to watch Owen gathering a piece of wood along the side of the road, no doubt for another boat. Owen smiled up at Rose and handed her the thick branch as if it were a bouquet of flowers. Frederick slowed his pace. He didn’t want Rose to be left alone with Owen; he didn’t know what the man would do. Nothing that would physically harm Rose, surely; he was not of a violent nature. But he might very well declare his love and affection for her at the first available moment.

Lady Rose didn’t know Owen like the rest of the neighborhood did. What would she say to him? Would she wound his childlike innocence? Or worse, would she accept his offer of marriage? How many girls had Owen tried to convince to marry him over the years? Frederick should have seen this complication coming and let Rose know beforehand that this was likely to happen. But until this point, Owen had been quiet, blending into the background almost as much as the servants that were a part of the party; that was where Owen was most comfortable. It hadn’t even crossed Frederick’s mind yesterday to tell Rose about Owen’s tendencies and nature.

He reigned in his horse so that he might ride beside Miriam. “Do you think . . . Owen might do something that might be regretted?”

Miriam tipped her head to the side and then her eyes stretched wide. She whipped her head around to see Owen drawing lines with his finger upon a chunk of wood and telling Lady Rose something that had her smiling. Miriam put a hand to her mouth and stopped her horse. Without a word, she turned around and went to ride next to Lady Rose.

Frederick breathed easier.

Samuel looked at him with far too much interest. “I don’t blame you, you know. Especially after what we just witnessed at the Smiths’.”

“Blame me for what?” Frederick re-situated himself on Bug, a restless energy shooting through him.

“For falling for her.”

Frederick sputtered. “I . . . I haven’t fallen for anyone. I couldn’t possibly love a woman that reminded me so keenly of Kendra. Although Rose is beautiful, she drives me crazy, acting as if the world revolves around her and putting people down with the smallest of looks. Don’t accuse me of something like that, Samuel. I won’t have it.”

Silence stretched between them, tight as a knot in a rope. Frederick didn’t enjoy the fact that his friend was likely analyzing everything he had just said. Half of which were lies . . . maybe more than half. Frederick loosened his cravat. The untruth of his words sat heavy in his throat. Yes, Lady Rose reminded him of Kendra in many ways, but he knew the mask she wore now. It was unkind of him to imply that she truly was like Kendra. But admitting that she wasn’t was too much for him to say out loud. He wasn’t quite sure he was prepared to face the truth of his realizations as it was.