The Rose Girls

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘I’m twenty-one, actually, and I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, thank you very much.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘It is!’ Evie said.

  They locked eyes and seemed to be weighing each other up. Esther was the first to crack, lowering her gaze and rubbing the top of her walking stick, which was leaning up against her chair.

  ‘Well,’ Evie said at last. ‘I’ve leave you to settle in.’

  Esther gave a grunt and, shaking her head in despair, Evie left the room, determining to find a big patch of nettles in the garden and work out her anger with a fork.

  Celeste had just got off the phone, doing her best to apologise to the company who supplied the plastic pots for their roses. She had found their unpaid invoice under a heap of papers on her mother’s desk and had made the call with her heart in her mouth, uttering apology after apology at what she called ‘a horrible oversight’ but which was really just another example of the hopeless administration of Hamilton Roses under her two sisters.

  It had never happened when she’d been working in the office but, then again, she hadn’t had to cope with running the house and business whilst coping with their mother whilst she was sick.

  For a moment, she thought of the confrontation she’d had with Evie and how upset her little sister had been. Celeste felt so guilty about not being there for her more over the last few years, especially during the last weeks of their mother’s life when Evie had needed her most. But how could Celeste ever explain how her mother had made her feel? Evie would never truly understand that.

  Sitting on her side of the desk, Celeste gazed at the empty chair opposite her that had once been occupied by her mother. She could almost hear her mother’s voice.

  ‘You handle things all wrong,’ Penelope Hamilton had once told her, and she could imagine her saying exactly the same thing to her now. ‘You never really knew how to handle your sisters, did you? You never were confident like them or me. You were always the weak one, Celeste.’

  Celeste shook her head. Always and never. They were the two words most frequently thrown at Celeste from her mother and they were always meant to wound.

  ‘You’ve never dedicated yourself to this business,’ she would say. ‘You’ve always been self-centred,’ had been another favourite. ‘You’ve never been one to compliment me,’ was another, for her mother had been the sort who needed constant praise. Everything had to be complimented and, if it wasn’t, life could become hell.

  ‘You’re dead!’ Celeste cried into the empty study now. ‘You’re dead! So leave me alone!’

  She blinked the image and the voice away, her heart racing wildly. She had been right. Her mother still haunted this room, and no amount of ignoring the fact would change it. She leaned forward, pressing her head into her hands. This would never feel like home, would it? Even though it was the only home she had ever had. As long as she remembered the past, it would be all-encompassing, all-invasive.

  She shook her head. She didn’t have time to think about this now, and she was just about to make the next apologetic phone call when she heard a car pulling up in the drive outside. It was probably a delivery for Gertie or Evie and had nothing to with her but she couldn’t resist looking out of the window. To her surprise, she saw Julian Faraday’s green MG coming to a neat, sliding halt outside the front door. That was all she needed, she thought, making her way from the study to the hallway with Frinton barking loudly in front of her.

  ‘Celeste!’ Julian said with a big smile when she opened the door. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Surprised,’ she said. ‘Were we expecting you?’

  ‘Well, I was passing by and thought you’d like an update on the progress with the paintings.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Celeste said.

  ‘May I come in?’

  She opened the door wide enough for him to enter and Frinton jumped up at his navy corduroy trousers.

  ‘Hello, boy!’ Julian said, ruffling Frinton’s head and receiving a good licking in return.

  Celeste led him through to the living room and they sat down on the two sofas which faced each other across a threadbare rug.

  ‘This really is a charming room,’ he said. ‘I do love that little table and that clock.’ He nodded towards the little French clock above the mantelpiece. ‘And that’s a very fine punch bowl,’ he said, nodding towards a blue and white piece which sat on a table next to the fire.

  ‘You said you had some news about the paintings,’ Celeste prompted him, reluctant to be sat there all day talking about punch bowls.

  ‘Ah, yes. You know I mentioned the possibility of selling to a private buyer? Well, we’ve got someone interested in the Fantin-Latour,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If you’d be up for selling outside an auction. Our gallery has a list of clients whom we keep in touch with for when such pieces come onto the market. They’re usually willing to pay top dollar.’

  ‘And they’ve seen it?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Julian said. ‘We’ve sent them images and information and they’re going to fly in from the States in the next couple of weeks.’

  ‘Wow,’ Celeste said. ‘Flying in for our little painting.’

  ‘It’s not just any little painting, though,’ he said.

  ‘I guess not,’ Celeste said. ‘Still, I can’t quite imagine it hanging on any wall other than our own. Is that strange?’

  ‘Not at all. It would be strange if you didn’t feel like that.’

  ‘But we’ve got to sell it,’ Celeste said, thinking aloud. She couldn’t do a U-turn now – not with somebody flying in from the States with their chequebook.

  ‘Have you got a quote yet for the north wing?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible but I’ve been putting it off until we actually have some money in the bank. I know it can’t wait but I’m really dreading it. I just know the truth is going to be much worse than any of us can anticipate.’

  They were silent for a moment and then Celeste cleared her throat.

  ‘And that was it, was it?’ she said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Julian said.

  ‘The news about the private buyer for the Fantin-Latour,’ Celeste said. ‘That was why you called?’

  ‘Yes,’ Julian said with a smile. ‘Thought I’d better run it by you.’

  Celeste nodded. ‘Well, thank you for taking the time to call by,’ she said, getting up from her chair.

  Julian looked flustered. ‘Right.’

  ‘That is all, isn’t it?’ she said, seeing his face.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

  They walked through the hallway, where Julian stopped to examine the barometer.

  ‘It’s saying Change,’ he said.

  ‘It always says Change,’ Celeste told him. ‘No matter what the weather is doing.’

  ‘I know a chap who could fix that for you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Celeste said, ‘I like it. It makes you feel optimistic if the weather’s bad and makes you realise the importance of enjoying it if it’s good.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s a very lovely way of putting things,’ he said, and they walked outside together. The sun was warm but there was a light breeze blowing and the scent of roses hit them almost immediately.

  ‘Gertrude Jekyll,’ Celeste said, ‘and Evelyn.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The roses I can smell.’

  ‘The roses your sisters are named after?’

  ‘That’s right. Two of Mother’s favourite scents. We always make sure there are plenty near the house – look.’ She pointed to a border nearby where the deep pink and apricot roses were growing in profusion.

  ‘And where is yours?’

  ‘Celestial is just around the corner but I’m afraid she’s
past her best now. She doesn’t repeat flower like the David Austin roses. But she has a special beauty that’s all her own.’

  ‘What colour is she?’ Julian asked.

  ‘Shell-pink. Her petals are almost translucent,’ Celeste said. ‘She’s a very healthy and robust rose.’

  ‘Like you?’ Julian said.

  ‘I don’t know about robust,’ Celeste said.

  ‘It sounds to me like you’ve weathered pretty well recently with everything you’ve had to cope with,’ he said as their feet crunched lightly over the gravel path.

  ‘What choice did I have?’ she said with a shrug.

  ‘Well, you could have gone under. A lot of people would have.’

  ‘Gone under?’ she said.

  ‘Given in, given up, run away, gone mad,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘You see – you’re robust!’ he said with a smile.

  She shrugged. ‘I just try to get on. I’ve a job to do here. If only –’ She stopped. Julian watched her for a moment before prompting her.

  ‘If only?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, suddenly realising that they’d walked out into the garden.

  She stopped and turned to look at the manor house, its castellations and mullioned windows perfectly reflected in the clear waters of the moat.

  ‘It’s an awful thing to say because I really love this place, but it doesn’t feel like mine, you know? Growing up here, it was my grandparents’ home and then it became my parents’. I was only ever passing through. When I left it to get married, I never thought I’d come back, and I can’t help feeling that I’m no longer a part of life here.’

  Julian frowned. ‘I’m sure your sisters don’t feel the same way. I bet they love having you back.’

  ‘They love that I’ve come to help sort everything out,’ she said and then bit her lip. What was it about this man that made her divulge so much? Was it that old adage about it being easier to talk to strangers than to friends?

  ‘You sound so tense, Celeste. You find it impossible to relax, don’t you?’ Julian said, and they began walking back to the house, passing under an arch covered in creamy-white roses that smelled of heaven.

  ‘That’s not true,’ she said.

  ‘No? Well, you’re doing a pretty good impression of somebody who can’t relax.’

  ‘It just might take me slightly longer than the average person to relax – that’s all.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Smell that,’ she said.

  Julian inhaled deeply. ‘That’s lovely.’

  Celeste nodded. ‘That helps me relax. Sometimes, I come out into the garden and do nothing but breathe. Does that sound funny?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll sit on a sun-warmed bench and close my eyes and inhale. Even when the roses aren’t in bloom, there’s always something wonderful to smell.’

  ‘Like earth after rain,’ Julian said.

  ‘Yes,’ Celeste said, looking at him. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That’s why I want to move out of the city,’ he said as they reached the driveway and his car. ‘I want to be able to smell more than the Chinese cooking coming through the vent from my neighbours’ flat.’

  Celeste laughed.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh,’ he said, which instantly made Celeste stop. The conversation suddenly felt far too intimate.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Work to do.’

  Julian nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep in touch about the Fantin-Latour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, watching as he hopped into the MG and waved a hand before driving across the moat and out into the lane.

  ‘What did Julian want?’ Evie asked, walking out from under the gatehouse and joining Celeste.

  ‘He had some news about the Fantin-Latour. Good news, I think,’ Celeste said.

  ‘About a possible sale?’

  Celeste nodded.

  ‘How can that possibly be good news?’ Evie said, glaring at her sister before marching into the garden, no doubt to take her anger out on some poor rose bush.

  16.

  Gertie looked at her phone. James hadn’t called her for a whole week and had sent only one text during that time too. She sat down on the wrought iron bench that was positioned against the outside of the walled garden. A few years ago, they had made a border filled with only white flowers in honour of the famous white garden at Sissinghurst in Kent which the sisters had visited many times and which was a great source of inspiration to them. As well as being filled with perfect white roses, it was planted with lilies, tulips, foxgloves, anemones, delphiniums, alliums and jasmine. Its real glory was at night when the flowers seemed almost luminous, holding within them a ghostly, glowing light.

  Sitting there now, Gertie was little comforted by the white beauty that surrounded her. All she was interested in was her phone, willing it to ring or to beep. Any sign of life to tell her that she was important and merited thought from the man she was in love with.

  She looked up, her eyes not quite focusing on the pure white petals of the roses before her. Instead, she was imagining a place far away. She and James had often talked about leaving Little Eleigh because they knew that their relationship would never be accepted in their village, where memories stretched back decades. Gertie would always be the woman who had stolen James from his wife – his disabled wife. She would be gossiped about even if she wasn’t publicly shunned.

  So, even though it would break her heart to leave her home, she was willing to make that sacrifice for him, and they had talked endlessly about moving abroad – to a hilltop town in the South of France or Italy, perhaps, somewhere they could lose themselves and start afresh. Gertie had always dreamed of a life abroad and it was a dream she clung to whenever she felt lonely and uncertain of the future and whenever the strains of their mother’s illness had got to her. If I get through this, I’m going, she’d told herself. Only it hadn’t been that simple. There had been so much to do after Penelope had died and Gertie simply hadn’t been able to walk out on it all.

  If only James would give her some indication of when it would happen. She felt as if she’d stopped breathing a long time ago and hadn’t yet been given permission to inhale and exhale again.

  If only I could tell Celeste, she thought, truly believing that the weight of secrecy she was carrying would be lightened considerably if she could talk about it to her dear sister. Celeste had always been the best listener in the world. Guarded in what she revealed to people herself, she was, nevertheless, the perfect confidante, for she never passed judgement.

  Gertie had shared so many fears and doubts with her older sister over the years – fears about school and friends and the future, and doubts about boyfriends too. Celeste had always been there with her reassuring calmness and a sage nod of the head. But she had quite enough to cope with at the moment and Gertie didn’t feel that she could unload all of her worries onto her. Not yet, anyway.

  She looked at her watch and sighed. She’d spent enough time moping and had to get on. There was a lot to do before they left for dinner with their father.

  Marcus Coombs was short and portly with small eyes and a nose that was far too big for his face, even though his face was a considerable size. But, despite the oddness of his appearance, he had an infectious laugh that filled rooms and made people feel instantly welcome. The same couldn’t be said about his second wife, Simone.

  ‘I hate her,’ Evie said as they pulled into the driveway of their father’s house.

  ‘We know you do,’ Gertie said. ‘You tell us every time we visit.’

  ‘I don’t know why Dad can’t just come over to ours,’ Evie said.

  ‘I don’t think Simone would let him,’ Celeste said.

  ‘Why not?’ Evie said.

  ‘W
ell, he might decide he wants to stay with us rather than go back home to her,’ Celeste said and Evie giggled.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ she said.

  ‘She must make his life a misery,’ Gertie said.

  ‘No worse than Mum did,’ Celeste said, thinking of how life with their mother must have been a nightmare. Celeste often wondered how their father had put up with Penelope for so long, with her vicious mood swings and endless name-calling, but he’d seemed to have had the ability to shut off from her. Until the day he’d had enough, of course. Celeste remembered it well. It had been an unnervingly quiet departure, with their father packing a modest suitcase and walking down the staircase, whistling a tuneless whistle to himself.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Penelope had cried after him.

  ‘Away. I’m leaving you,’ he’d said, as if it was only to be expected. Celeste, who had been fifteen at the time, had watched from the living room door as her father had taken one last look at the barometer, nodding sagely at the word Change, and then had opened the front door and calmly walked out.

  The screaming hadn’t started until later that evening when their mother had taken things out on Celeste.

  ‘It’s your fault,’ Penelope had told her daughter. ‘He can’t bear to be around you anymore. You always ruin things for people.’

  It wasn’t until years later that their father had confided in Celeste. ‘Your mother wasn’t the easiest woman to love,’ he’d told her, ‘and I tried. I really tried.’ And Celeste had known that he was telling the truth because she’d tried to love her mother too and had failed.

  ‘Why do we have to do this?’ Evie whined, bringing Celeste back into the present.

  ‘Because we’re grownups and we have to put ourselves through this sort of thing occasionally,’ Celeste told her.

  ‘But Simone hates us as much as we hate her.’

  ‘Yes, but Dad loves her and we have to try and get along for his sake,’ Celeste said.

  ‘But she never makes an effort for us,’ Evie said as the Morris Minor van pulled up outside Oak House, ‘and every time Dad leaves the room, she says something nasty.’