Page 95 of The Queen of Roses

“Do you want to help heel it in?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said immediately, because what was the point of doing a task if one did not do it well?

He showed her how to grasp low on the plant’s base and instructed her to lift it into place.

“It doesn’t need to be perfect because it’ll only be moved once I create the borders,” he said.

Still, she was determined to do everything right and took special care when she placed the rose in the hole so that it leaned at an angle.

“It helps protect against wind rock,” he explained. “Now you take your spade and cover the roots with soil.”

“It seems a shame to do all of that work just to undo it all again,” she said, but she did as she was told and began to fill in the hole.

“Can you get those boots of yours dirty?” Macalister asked when she was done.

She stuck the toe of her right boot out from under the hem of her long skirts now dusted with dirt, transforming it from jet black to dusty tan.

“I believe they already are,” she said.

“Take your boot and gently firm the soil around the plant. That’ll keep it in place,” he said.

She did as she was told, awkwardly tamping the earth down.

“Then we water,” he said.

She looked about, spotting a green metal watering can with a long spout and prominent handle at the base of the bed.

“All right,” she said.

When she went to pick the watering can up, she found it almost impossible to lift because of the weight of it.

Macalister laughed. “Maybe I should do that for you.”

“No,” she said, holding up a hand. “I can do it.”

Stubbornly, she braced herself and hauled the can a few inches off the ground. She managed to move it approximately three feet before setting it down again. When she looked up, she saw her gardener leaning on the end of his spade, watching her with open amusement. Screwing up all her strength, she lifted the can again, water sloshing over the sides and soaking the bottom four inches of her hem and the tops of her boots. However, determined as she was, she continued to shift the watering can in little bursts until she was finally at the rose’s side. Then she tipped the can at an angle and soaked the base of the plant.

“That’s about enough now,” said Macalister after she’d given the plant a good, long drink.

She tilted the can back, stopping the flow of water.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Whitley. You just heeled in your first rose,” said Macalister.

She could hear the dryness in his tone, but that didn’t matter to her. Not compared to the deep sense of satisfaction she felt at having done something.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we do that about a dozen more times,” he said, pointing to the wooden buckets of roses with their roots in water sitting off to the side of the bed.

“Show me where to dig.”

A couple hours later, Adele’s shoulder was screaming at her, and when she peeled off her borrowed gardening glove, she found that the throb at the base of her right hand was because a blister had formed and torn, revealing raw red skin. However, she refused to complain when she helped Macalister return their tools to the shed that leaned against the caretaker’s cottage.

“Well, Mrs. Whitley, how do you feel after digging holes?” he asked.

“Right as rain,” she said, and then laughed because, surprisingly, it was true. She was tired and she was filthy, but somehow she felt lighter. Perhaps it was the time spent outdoors or maybe it was the simple fact that for the first time in weeks she had not felt the weight of her mourning pressing down on her.

Her time in the garden had done her good. She was certain of it.