Flowers for the Gardener

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

This was not the time to have anything dying in the house. To Rich, the wilted flowers in the vase desecrated the table and represented love lost. He caught Rosie’s gaze and gave the arrangement a single nod. To his relief, she received the message and exchanged the glass jar with a jug of orange juice fast as a magician. If his mother saw, she said not a word. Good.

The spectre of death made the air grow heavy and unpleasant; suffocating, murderous to the appetite. A selfish, unwelcome thought came to mind: if his father had passed before he signed the final accounts, it complicated matters.

No point worrying; simply another problem for him to add to a long list. In the event it proved necessary, he would call the office as soon as nine o’clock rolled around, but better first to check the pile of paperwork through which he still needed to wade. Due to bereavement and procrastination, the workload grew, but not one folder accompanied him to breakfast by reason of avoiding his mother’s wrath.

“Your French toast.”

Rosie’s voice brought Rich back to the more urgent topic of food as she placed a plate in front of him on the table. Ahhh…As much as he adored the woman’s cooking, the aroma of the dark, fresh brew of most-excellent coffee she poured into a cup at his side captured his interest more. A suppressed yawn strained his jaw—he required caffeine. When she set the coffee pot back on its stand, he summoned enough energy to express his gratitude. “Thanks for going to the trouble.”

“No problem, Rich.”

He returned Rosie’s smile, caught sight of his mother’s face, and froze in the brittle glaze of an icy stare. What annoyed the matriarch this time? The too-familiar expression she pulled always made him want to be anywhere but near her.

Enough seconds passed for him to reach for the milk before truth dawned. The ice queen’s dagger-like shards didn’t spear in his direction. The shredding gaze targeted Rosie. His mother’s narrowed eyes and pinched lips spoke of her indecision to speak. Her ensuing complaint shattered his hope for a convivial meal.

“We use full Christian names in this house, Rosamund.”

Tired of such s**t, Rich opened his mouth to object, but not a single word issued. He sipped his drink while he sought an appropriate remark, but nothing materialised as he put down the cup. The steam from the Java heated his skin to an uncomfortable degree by the time he took a finger from the rim.

His mother’s remark appeared to stump Rosie. “Y-Yes…Ruby. My apologies, Richard.” The woman’s dark gaze flicked his way, right eye—obscured from his mother’s view by the angle of Rosie’s face—winked. “Will that be everything?”

“Yes, thank you, Rosie.” Rich displayed an over-the-top show of teeth, ignoring his mother’s sigh.

“She’s called Rosamund,” his mother admonished when Rosie took her leave. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Because the staff should understand their place.”

“Not at all. We let them use our first names. What more do you want?”

The effort of biting back a retort hurt, but he felt too tired to voice his opinions. What to say? No way to explain why he preferred Rosie’s company, or his wish to eat in the kitchen with her. Otherwise, he preferred the smaller space so often referred to as the breakfast nook. He didn’t eat there because of his mother’s objections. She consumed every meal in the formal dining room and expected an identical level of proper behaviour from everyone under the same roof. Anyone not working for the family, at least—she expected ‘menials’ to maintain a different set of rules.

To his regret, his mother hadn’t finished. “I’m not for shortening names, as you know. But…Rich. Ugh. What an awful contraction.”

“Better than d**k. In any case, it’s why you chose the name, isn’t it? Rich-ard. Bloody suitable, considering our status.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“How is Sapphire?” Rich enquired after his sister to underline the point.

Mother’s jaw tightened. She shook her head. “I will not get into this with you. I will never understand the youth of today. There are people starving. People who would love to own a fraction of our possessions. People who must fend for themselves.”

“You mean people who don’t retain servants.”

She stirred her tea, surprising him; he wouldn’t put it past her to call Rosie back to do that, too.

“Their being hired help does not make them servants.”

“Political correctness. Rrrruby—” he rolled the R, “—there’s no need to pretend when it’s just you and me.”

A sharp sniff of rebuke followed. “You may view me as colonial, but everyone is a product of…”

Her voice became a familiar drone, though an occasional snippet slithered into his eardrum. Best education. Advantages. Given the finest of everything. In an attempt to block the noise, he concentrated on the excellent breakfast prepared by Rosie. Alas, the dish, in part ordered because Mother didn’t approve of egg-soaked bread, lost his interest. The act of defiance now marred the flavour.

“Why do you wish to punish us for our wealth?”

A fine question. Difficult to explain. “I’m not referring to the money. It’s the attitude.”

The air splintered. Rich swore the sound of ice cracking filled the room as he visualised falling into frigid water, a sheet of crystals solidifying, defying attempts to hammer free. Fists—clenched beneath the table against his thighs—stung as he pummelled a freezing blockade. Lungs laboured as though he were drowning.

“You’re so bloody ungrateful.”

The sheer depth of her tone caused a weight to form in his chest. Could she be right? Yes and no. Why reside in what one of the local agents described as a Grade II hilltop mansion of ambassadorial proportions with commanding views when they gained no pleasure from living here?

What would his mother say if she knew an estate agent had viewed the place? The man left with strict instructions to contact no one but Rich. Better yet, to await his call, though the telephone conversation might not happen for several months, if at all. Rich wanted to make many changes now he was in charge, but doubted ditching the house was one to which mother would agree. Not yet, anyway. Not that he expected her to agree with any of his proposals.

He shifted, backside polishing the burgundy velvet material of the gilt chair. The dining suite looked awful, much as the rest of the Gardener mansion. Similar to the people within its walls.

“I’m finished.” The reference might be to breakfast, this particular discussion, or their relationship. Ruby set down her cup and pushed back her chair. “As you made Rosamund prepare such a God-awful concoction, I insist you consume it. The hens didn’t lay those eggs for them to go in the bin.”

She stopped by his side. “I realise what you think of me but I never approve of waste though we can afford to throw food.”

A sudden comical image arose of him and his mother pelting grub at each other over the dinner table. No way could he prevent his lips curling.

“I’m glad you find me amusing although how you can smile…” She paused, left hand fluttering—a wounded butterfly. “It’s only been…” She broke off again, but Rich didn’t need her to complete the sentence. His mother intended to say, It’s only been a couple of weeks.

“I’m well aware. I’m sorry Dad died. I hurt, too. Especially as I didn’t make it back in time.” There were things he would never now say to his father. Could be for the best. Maybe not. No way ever to be certain, but the greatest injury remained open: never having the chance to say goodbye. “Doesn’t mean I should, or always can control my emotions. Wonderful and terrible things take us by surprise. Shouldn’t mean we never smile again.”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” The quiet retort disturbed him. Better a shout. This response, the suppressed fury, at least revealed a clearer and more honest sign of her true feelings. His mother had shed nothing more than a single tear at the funeral. One drop dabbed away as though her eye ducts shamed her. “Don’t tell me how long to grieve.”

“That’s not…I didn’t mean…” The protest slithered away and expired. How could she think he laughed at her grief or disapproved? What he feared was his mother’s inclination to mourn in silence, to wear black for a year, or five, or ten, bottling up her emotions. The nine-bedroom house lacked the lustre of life when his father lived. Now…the weight of the estate condemned those who remained to premature burial. Rich wanted his mother to live. His saying so would only upset her, so he opted for silence.