“Seeds?” I asked in surprise. “I thought rose bushes grew from cuttings.”
“They do, but they also grow from seeds,” Miles replied.
“Where do you find those?” I wondered.
“When a rose is pollinated, the seeds develop inside the rose hip that forms at the base of the bud,” Miles answered.
“Oh. I wondered why sometimes that happened, and sometimes it didn’t,” I said.
“Some varieties are more prone to producing rose hips than others,” Miles remarked. “When developing hybrids, those make the best seed parents.”
“So the others are out of luck?” I asked.
“No, any rose that produces buds can serve as pollen parent,” Miles replied.
“How do you know all this?” I wondered.
“My grandmother, on the Bannerman side, enjoyed growing new hybrids. Her creations fill the center of the middle terrace, surrounding the swing.”
“That’s a lot of roses,” I was really impressed. “I had no idea!”
Miles’ eyes were teasing, as he shrugged.
“Give me a hundred and fifty years or so, and I’ll have you caught up,” he said, and I laughed.
“Gladly,” I smiled, and so did he.
“It’s fortunate roses do produce seeds,” Miles commented, as we passed underneath a wrought iron canopy, completely overhung with climbers. I recognized the peace roses, but the other two varieties were new to me.
“I guess so,” I replied. “Can you imagine trying to keep cuttings alive, while emigrating all the way from Wales, to the estate?”
“No, nor planting them successfully after,” Miles agreed. “Although, the grounds of the estate are remarkably well suited to growing roses. We have a number of the same varieties at the House of Bannerman, as they have here at Bannerman Manor. There’s a good chance the seeds that started both, originated from the same garden.”
“How amazing to realize,” I marveled.
“There are also differences,” Miles commented. “Such as this.”
I stopped to appreciate the intoxicating scent of the deep pink, heavily petaled bud on the bush beside us.
“It’s beautiful,” I admired it, as I wondered what the unfamiliar rose was called.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find it’s a hybrid, exclusive to this garden,” Miles said. “Our own estate has hybrids developed by my grandmother, mother, and Cynthia, which can’t be found anywhere else.”
“I like that,” I remarked. “It makes us unique.”
“Just that?” he smiled, and I laughed.
“You know that’s not the truth, but it is really cool. Everyone comments on how long the roses from our garden last. My bridesmaids were amazed their bouquets were still fresh, weeks later. That’s not normal, if you didn’t know.”
“I do recall hearing that once or twice,” Miles replied. “My grandmother spent years cross-pollinating hybrid after hybrid, to come up with a combination that would yield roses with greater longevity.”
“She succeeded,” I declared.
There was a clank up ahead, a faint squeak, the sound of a shuffling step, and a shadow fell across our path.
“Bannerman, did ye say ye are,” said a voice as gruff and weathered as the older man to whom it belonged. His blue eyes were sharp with curiosity, and a bit of resentment, as if he was unaccustomed to taking an interest, and wasn’t sure he quite cared for how it felt.
“That’s right. I’m Miles Bannerman, and this is my wife, Anika,” Miles answered. “Your roses are something to be proud of. There are a number of them that I don’t recall seeing anywhere else.”
A flicker of pride replaced the resentment.
“Ye’r not likely to, s’long as I’ve a say’n it,” Ben Weatherstaff replied. If he didn’t introduce himself, that’s what I was calling him, anyway!
“Your garden reminds me of ours,” I said. “Some of our roses are different, but many of them are the same.”
“An come from the same stock, so ye say,” he stated, with a searching look at Miles.
“That would be my guess,” Miles replied. “Our own estate was built before the manor. It’s likely that both gardens were grown from seeds taken from Bannerman Castle, in Wales, although I suppose cuttings could also have been used to start the roses here.”
“We’ve lots of pictures of our garden, if you’d like to see,” I suggested, and Miles removed his phone from his pocket, and selected an album.
“These are from our wedding, last May,” Miles said. As the man studied each image, his interest grew, and his wariness thawed.
“That one I know, an that,” the aged gardener remarked. “That there’s, new t’me. This’d be yer gran-mither, ye spoke of?”
“This is my grandmother, Polly Bannerman,” Miles said, rather than clarify that the grandmother he spoke of, lived two centuries ago.
“‘Tis a fine job she’s made of it,” he approved, with a satisfied nod.
“Thank you, I’m sure she’d say the same, if she saw what you’ve done here,” Miles replied. “Our families lost touch over the years. Until a couple of days ago, when we received the Carlisles’ invitation to visit, we were unaware the manor existed. Now that we know, perhaps she’ll come and see for herself.”
“‘Tis glad I am t’be makin’ yer acquaintance, and yer gran-mither’s, should she do so. The name’s Finn,” he said, and removed his glove as Miles offered his hand, and they shook.
“We’re very glad to meet you, Mr. Finn,” Miles smiled, and amusement filled the old gardener’s eyes.
“If it’s mister ye be wantin’, that’d be Mr. O’Connell,” he replied, “but I be goin’ by Finn.”
“Finn it is, then,” Miles said. “You’re from Ireland?”
“That I am,” Finn O’Connell replied, with a proud lifting of his chin.
“My wife’s family is also from Ireland, originally,” Miles said, and I nodded.
Finn looked at me now, as if seeing me for the first time.
“An what would yer family name, be?”
“Riley,” I answered.
“‘Tis a fine name, an a fine family,” Finn nodded approvingly.
“Thank you, I think so too,” I smiled. “This rose is stunning. Is it one of yours?”
“‘Tis, indeed,” Finn replied proudly.
“How did you choose which roses to cross, in order to achieve it?” I wondered.
“There’s a good many factors to be considerin’,” Finn answered. “Color bein’ one, number o’ petals, scent, and length ‘o stem, all bein’ apparent. Resistance to diseases maybe’s not, but the need for it cannot be overstated.”
“I guess so,” I considered. “How sad to create just what you want, but it’s too sickly to survive.”
“You’ll be wantin’ it to thrive, at that,” Finn replied. “So best to be choosin’ parent stock that’s fittin’ yer qualifications. ‘Tis slow work, an a practice in patience.”
“How rewarding though, when you succeed,” I said, as I admired the rose once more. “I’m tempted to follow in the footsteps of Miles’ mother and grandmother, and try it myself. Do you have any tips for a beginner?”
“Tips, now, I have none,” Finn’s eyebrows drew together seriously, but there was a teasing gleam in his blue eyes. “How to go about it, ‘tis another matter, entirely.”
“That’s even better,” I smiled.
“Follow me, then,” Finn directed with a wave of his arm, as he turned and led the way. “After ye’ve got yer list, ‘tis time to be choosin’ yer most likely candidates…”
Finn walked us through the process step by step, from collecting pollen from one rose, to using a small artist’s brush to transfer it to another. He suggested labeling the stem, as otherwise the risk of forgetting the seed and pollen parents during the three or so months it takes a rose hip to form, is too great. He recommended coming up with a code only I would understand. It was one of the ways he carefully guarded
his own creations from those who might otherwise imitate and then market his work. He was determined to maintain the originality and unique character of the garden he loved, which we totally understood. After all, we had our own one-of-a-kind rose garden. We liked it that way, and that’s the way it would stay. That’s how I felt before I knew the investment made by the Bannerman women over the years, and I felt even more so, now. That’s why we didn’t ask what Finn crossed to come up with the amazing variety he accomplished over the years, nor did we ask for a glimpse of the greenhouse, where much of the magic took place. Maybe that’s why he unlocked the door, and invited us in.
“This is amazing,” I said, as I soaked in the significantly warmer air, and eagerly took in the details, as we took off our coats. The bags of potting soil, fertilizer, and fungicide. The shelf filled with two, four, six, and eight inch pots. The counter, utility sinks, and coiled hose. The long tables, filled with plants in various stages of development.
“These are so small,” I commented in surprise, as I looked at a row of single stem plants. “They’re not even a foot tall, yet they’re blooming!”
“That’s the way of ‘em,” Finn replied. “Very obliging, they are, ‘stead o’ makin’ ye wait to see the results. Small though the buds may be, they let ya know whether ‘tis a keeper, or no.”
“I think I’d be so thrilled to grow anything, I wouldn’t care if it was perfect or not,” I admitted, as Miles and I slowly walked from one end of the table to the other, studying each rose as we passed.
“A good deal o’ patience it takes to be raisin’ roses, and a bit of a stern heart, as well,” Finn replied, as he turned one of the pots to reveal that half the petals were small, and misshapen. “Givin’ all the time in the world, it’ll do no better. Ye’re best to be chuckin’ it, an startin’ over.”
I winced as Finn tossed the pot, defective rose and all, into the nearby garbage can.
“Yer wantin’ to be improvin’ yer garden, I’m assumin’,” Finn said in response.
“Well—yes,” I answered.
“Then ye’re best off knowin’ that failure you’ll find in plenty, an successes, few,” Finn cautioned. “Unless ye care to turn yer garden to a home for the diseased an disfigured, ye’re best off leavin’ yer kind heart with the savin’ o’ wee children an animals.”
“Ug! Okay,” I grimaced, and restrained myself from rescuing the slender stalk, and its misshapen flower. It was a plant, not a baby, for goodness’ sake!
“We can always enlist Nate’s help, when it comes to that,” Miles said, as he squeezed my shoulder lightly. To Finn, he explained, “Nate is our equivalent of a head gardener.”
“He’s doin’ a fine job of it,” Finn said approvingly, no doubt recalling the photos of the estate grounds, which we showed him earlier.
Finn went on to show us how to remove seeds from a rose hip, and insisted after all the hip was removed, a good rinse in a mixture of bleach and water was the way to prevent bacteria and fungus from growing, and ruining the hard-earned seeds. Next was a bath of peroxide and water, then it was into a folded paper towel they went. The wrapped seeds were placed in a baggie, along with another, dampened towel. Moisture was necessary for survival during stratification—which mimicked the months of fall and winter—but too much, would bring on the dreaded fungus, so periodic checks would have to be made and seeds cleaned, if necessary. Next, the bag was placed in the greenhouse refrigerator. If all went well, after chilling for about three months, the seeds would be planted in two inch pots. How long it took to sprout, if they did at all, varied greatly. As Finn said, patience was a requirement. I didn’t have a whole lot of that, but I was determined to try, anyway.
“You’ve got such an amazing setup here,” I said, referring to the greenhouse. And that, made me wonder… “Do you suppose a corner of the sunroom could be used to hold the potted seeds, once I have some?”
“It could, but why not use the conservatory, instead?” Miles suggested. I looked at him in surprise.
“I didn’t know we had one,” I said.
“I haven’t been in it myself in years, but we do,” Miles replied.
Finn looked surprised, and intrigued, so I took out my phone this time, and showed him a picture of the estate. Finn studied it, then chuckled.
“An now I see why ye might’ve missed it,” he remarked.
“That, and who knows what else,” I replied. “Grandma Polly declares she still hasn’t been in every room.”
“I’ll not be doubtin’ it,” Finn chuckled again. “I see now, as the manor’s naught but a cottage. Ye may feel a wee bit cramped, in’t.”
“Maybe,” I said, as we laughed, and I wrapped my arms around Miles. “As long as we’re together, I’m okay with that.”
“I’d say we prefer it,” Miles smiled, as he put his arm around my shoulders.
“Never be forgettin’ it,” Finn said, and his voice was thick with sudden emotion.
“I promise, we never will,” Miles answered solemnly.
“That’s the truth,” I confirmed just as seriously.
If only Finn knew about my truth ability, he’d know that really was the truth. Miles and I weren’t just saying it, we truly meant it, and would live out that promise. In spite of his lack of enlightenment, Finn looked satisfied. As he wiped the moisture from his eyes, he cleared his throat, then smiled.
“Glad I am to hear it,” he replied.
I wondered what his story was, but unless he lied about it, I wasn’t likely to ever know. It would be intrusive to ask, so instead, we respected his desire to keep his feelings in check and their cause to himself, and turned our gaze to the album Finn compiled over the years. Page after page of gorgeous rose buds were pictured there, the fruit of his labors, captured in the many images.
“If there are more failures than successes, I can’t imagine how many seeds you planted to achieve all this,” I said. Miles and I were both extremely impressed.
“Many a year’s passed since first I begun,” Finn answered. “The successes have a way o’ takin’ the sting from the failures, many tho they be.”
“I can see why. I can’t imagine achieving anything as amazing as you have,” I commented, as we reached the end of the book. “I look forward to trying, anyway. You’ve whet my creative appetite.”
“Ye might just surprise yourself,” Finn replied generously. “Drop me a line if ye will, I’d enjoy knowin’ how you’re gettin’ on.”
“I will,” I promised.
“I hate to cut this short,” Miles said, with a glance at the manor. “I do wonder if our absence has been noted.”
Finn and I followed Miles’ gaze. I was more than stunned to see Ashley and Sir Edmund at the top of the back staircase, scanning the grounds. Together!
“That’d be Miss Fairgrave, an Sir Edmund,” Finn volunteered. “Is’t on house arrest, ye are?”
Finn was joking, and we laughed.
“It’s more like we evaded capture,” Miles smiled. “After breakfast, Anika and I decided to visit the rose garden, rather than wait to discover if there was an itinerary waiting for us.”
“I’m glad we did,” I declared.
“As am I,” Finn said. “If ‘tis not the two of ye they be lookin’ for, ‘tis someone else.”
They appeared to be nonplussed, and more than a little concerned, as their eyes carefully followed the landscape from one end of the manor grounds, to the other.
I knew the feeling! How could Ashley go on like Edmund didn’t break her heart just last night, grind the pieces under his heel, and turn a deaf ear, blind eye, and cold shoulder to her pain?
“We’d best find out,” Miles said.
“Yes we should,” I declared, probably with a bit more spirit than made sense to Finn. “Because, they may be looking for us. We don’t want to seem rude.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Finn,” Miles said. “If you ever travel to the states, we’d be honored to have you visit.”
&
nbsp; Finn’s blue eyes lit, as he imagined it.
“Never before have I been tempted. If t’weren’t for my own garden needin’ me… I just might.”
“The offer is open,” Miles said, and removing a card from his wallet, he handed it to Finn. “Just let us know.”
“Thank you so much for showing us your beautiful roses, and for all of the instructions, and advice,” I said. “If I manage to raise any seeds, it’ll be because of that.”
Finn chuckled for a moment, then he looked thoughtful. He turned to the refrigerator, then thumbed through the many packets it contained. He removed one, and handed it to me.
“Once ye’re home, see that ye plant ‘em, just as I said. It’ll keep yer appetite whet, while ye wait for yer own.”
I know my eyes were huge. They felt like they might fall out.
“I will,” I said, humbled by his gift, and eager to follow through. “Thank you, so much.”
“‘Tis welcome, ye are,” Finn smiled.
“Cait…” I read the handwritten label on the bag I held. There was no other marking, and no series of letters and numbers, as on the others. “Is this the name of the rose?”
“Right ye are,” Finn answered. “What ye hold in yer hand be tried, an true. I’ll not be sendin’ ye home with anythin’ else. Lest this Nate be willin’ to cross ye, ‘tis fearin’ I am, ye’d insist on keepin’ whatever come up, regardless.”
“Well… you’re right,” I admitted. “Whatever it was, it would be special because it reminded me of you, and your generosity.”
“Then ye be understandin’ I prefer it, if certain I am ‘tis somethin’ of beauty that do be remindin’ ye, ‘stead o’ trustin’ to whatever may chance,” he smiled, and I laughed.
“Yes, and I can’t wait to see what you chose,” I said. “I know exactly where I’ll plant them, when they’re ready.”
“Then ‘tis happy I am for ye to be havin’ ‘em,” Finn smiled.
We thanked Finn some more and said we hoped to see him again, then donned our coats, left the greenhouse, and followed the garden path back to the main house.
Chapter 7
“What on earth is she doing with him?” I exclaimed under my breath, as Miles and I approached the stairs at the back of the manor.
Ashes of Roses Page 14
