The Last Rose of Summer

By Augustine Nash

‘He stood as usual waiting a smile touching his lips. And then from behind his back he produced one single pink rose that was perfect in every way.
Placing it in my hand he said, “I picked this out of our garden, the last one on the bush, the last rose of summer especially for you.”’
A heart-wrenching tale of forbidden love through the war years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookPartnership.com
• Release date: Dec 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783015900

Book preview

Three

Forward.

It was the birthday card which took me back in time, a single pink rose which provokes painful memories and strikes my heart with longing.

I am eighty years old today and as usual sit by my bedroom window with my breakfast tray set in front of me all lay out with the best china. That is Annie’s touch, such a faithful servant and companion for all these long tedious years even though she is now past retirement age she will not leave me, I am thankful for that.

Early morning sunshine covers the garden shining down bathing my shoulders in warmth which is comforting. Out there is another remote world lost to me for ever as I have grown older and weak and can no longer bother to leave this room, trapped inside these four walls.

My eyesight grows dim and yet I can still see the shadow of the big house where I was born and grew up; an old Georgian Manor typical of its day part of my father’s huge estate; draughty in the winter yet cool in the summer. My parents had a position of high standing in the community which sadly, I never measured up to.

It is early June and already the rose garden is in full bloom. I can imagine their powerful scent. I must ask Annie to pick me a bunch. Beyond stands the old apple tree with a circular seat built round the trunk where in the past I have often sat lost in thought. It is always laden with such good cooking apples, too many for our use but the birds enjoy the drops.

My breakfast is cooked to perfection, two lightly boiled eggs with toast and marmalade, in my opinion the best meal of the day. I pick up the only birthday card I will receive, run my finger over the pink rose, so beautiful and yet so haunting. If only I could travel back in time and live my life all over again, yet as the old saying goes, ‘If wishes were horses beggars would ride.’

However, there is nothing to stop me thinking back to that special year and to describe how it all began, even if it pains me to do so.

One

May, 1914

1914 was the year that changed everything, yet when it began not many would envisage the upheavals. King George V was on the throne and Prime Minister H. H. Asquith was head of a Liberal Government which was not particularly popular.

I was a naive seventeen years old at the time, sheltered from the real world by parents who were very wealthy. I had been provided with everything money could buy, and only lacked for one thing, the love of my father and mother, who hired a Nanny after I was born and left everything to her. Mary McCann became the centre of my narrow world, and I grew much attached to her.

I was educated at home and never attended the local school or mixed with children, other than my two cousins who came to stay in their summer holidays. I was never lonely, as I grew up learning to amuse myself and had a love of reading. Curling up in an armchair in the nursery I would lose myself in classic stories specially picked out for me which was deemed suitable.

My parents led busy lives, holding dinner-parties for their upper class friends which I was only occasionally allowed to attend. Nanny and I took all our meals in the nursery delivered by one of our many maids and I would listen to the interesting tales she would tell about her own youth, far different from mine.

As I recall it was very wet at the start of 1914 and cold winds had swept across our vast estate, though we only had one covering of snow. The large rambling house was cold in the winter with draughts creeping in anywhere they could. The fire in the nursery was comforting and I would sit huddled over it until there were patches of red on my legs and Nanny would move me back tucking a soft woollen blanket round me.

May of that year brought variations of temperatures, with rapid changes from warm days to cold. The day it all started was fine so I slipped out of the back door to seek a little freedom on my own; this being Saturday where I was not required to learn anything.

Surrounding me was the most magnificent gardens kept well-tended by the two gardeners and was my mother’s pride and joy. I walked down the path underneath the arches covered in sweet-smelling honeysuckle which had suddenly burst into flower. Later the clematis would grow upwards and mingle producing the most beautiful blue flowers with pink and white centres, but it was not time for them for at least another month.

The sun shone down in a golden glow causing my spirits to rise, banishing a long dull winter. Pushing open the small wicket gate I entered the large rose garden where every kind of bush had been planted with blooms of many colours. Nanny often came to pick a bunch to decorate the nursery, burying her nose in the petals to smell the scent. Could there be anything more glorious? she would ask, and I had to agree.

Beyond the rose garden were the vegetable plots and then an orchard full of apple trees covered in white blossom. I continued on underneath the trees until I came to an archway which led out onto the estate.

It took about ten minutes to walk through the parkland where all sorts of mature trees stood, mostly planted by a previous generation. In the distance I caught sight of the lake, shimmering underneath the sun’s rays. Here was a place I came to for seclusion to dream of many things which were beyond my reach. Round the edge of the water grew bulrushes and wild yellow irises complementing each other when fully out.

My usual spot beckoned, so for a while I sat down on the bank to observe the birds, some nesting in the reeds. A kingfisher alighted on the old wooden post with a broken chain, where once upon a time a boat had been moored. It was not warm enough to swim, so slipping off my shoes and gathering up my long dress I started to paddle in the shallow part.

The water was cold but invigorating, round my feet a shoal of Minnows’ their silver bodies shining as they darted about. I was thinking about the ball my parents had promised to give me on my eighteenth birthday which would be a grand affair. What colour dress should I wear and in what style? Nanny had suggested virginal white; however I preferred pink which would go with my long black hair styled with ringlets; the fashion of that day.

On turning round to step out of the water I saw him standing staring at me, a stranger who had no business being here. This is private property, what are you doing here? I asked.

Just taking a stroll, Miss high and mighty, he answered lightly, though his face gave way the contempt he felt.

I felt confused, out of my depth never having spoken with any man unless I was chaperoned and yet I felt a stirring of curiosity. He walked towards me his flat cap stuck rakishly on a head of naturally curly red hair, his face breaking into a cheeky grin which showed up his many freckles. .He was not well-dressed so I realised he must come from the village and was probably a poacher.

You had better leave now before the gamekeeper arrives, he is not a man who is very patient and would probably shoot you, I pointed out.

He laughed, That doesn’t frighten me, and do you think I care a damn? Anyway, what’s your moniker?

I had heard that expression before, My name is Charlotte Hunter-Blake, if you must know. I could not help myself adding, What’s yours?

Wilber Evans it’s nowhere near as grand as yours.

Do you live in the village?

In that row of cottages near the duck-pond, I work for Mr Hawkins, the farmer who owns them. You might say I come from common stock, hard working with no airs and graces, he answered, coming to sit down on the grass.

I slipped on my shoes and wondered what should I do next? This situation was totally new to me and somehow I was enjoying this illicit encounter.

Wilber went on, Them at the big house have no understanding of the poor, my mother worked there long before you were born and was no more than a slave. Of course, you would not understand such things, cosseted by servants and everything money can buy.

I detected a note of bitterness in his voice and felt uncomfortable with the huge gulf between our stations in life. Jumping up I said, I have to go now otherwise nanny will come looking for me.

As I walked away he shouted after me, You poor little rich girl!

My cheeks felt hot with embarrassment and I was inclined to agree with him, but it wasn’t my fault, I had never been given the choice.

My mother was working in the rose garden clearing the weeds which had suddenly sprung up. She was a handsome woman who wore grace like a mantle, slim with brown hair and cheeks which bloomed with health. She eyed me sternly, demanding, Where have you been? You are late for your music lesson.

In truth I had forgotten about it because the day had been changed this week. I’m sorry, I forgot, I said, fleeing indoors.

Mr Thomas was waiting in the drawing room with a look of annoyance on his thin face. He was a man who had little patience and showed his displeasure at my poor grasp of playing the piano. Do you think I can spend time here waiting about for you? he demanded.

It was just… I began.

I don’t wish to hear any more of your excuses; your father is not best pleased with your efforts.

I sat down on the stool with a heavy heart; father would no doubt send for me to give one of his lectures and then ban me from leaving my part of the house for one week. I began to play, stubby fingers moving over the keys like wooden stumps, even I could detect that I had no talent or an ear for music.

Throughout the lesson I was distracted, my thoughts flying away to those blue eyes and bright red hair, I kept asking myself if I would ever see him again.

Shall we leave it for today, unfortunately you do not have your heart in it, Mr Thomas snapped, all out of patience and slamming the door as he went out.

I was not sorry; it was a weekly ordeal that I hated.

Two

June 1914

Wilber Evans lived with his widowed mother and four sisters; the cottage was cramped and had little room for privacy which had to be endured. After his father had died with consumption he had become the man of the house trying to put food on the table and do his best to maintain some kind of existence.

He had gone to work on Thomas Hawkin’s farm just after his fourteenth birthday and at first had found it hard. His employer was a mean master who loudly complained at just about everything and wanted his pound of flesh. However, Wilber was a determined lad who never easily gave up on things, living every day as it came, come rain or shine.

In a few days’ time he would be eighteen years old, but that would pass without much fuss which did not unduly bother him. It was early Monday morning and the beginnings of a fine warm day; he walked along the beaten-track whistling a tune his thoughts on one thing, the girl he had met by the lake.

He climbed the style and started across the fields, thinking how beautiful Charlotte had looked that day, a real mysterious lady of the lake. He could picture her now, blushing as she had stared back at him, long black ringlets reaching down to her waist and such expressive brown eyes. Of course she was out of his league and yet she had haunted him ever since that day, and he was of a mind to see her again.

He reached the run down farm and walked across the yard where the chickens ran free. Alfred the farm collie came to meet him, nuzzling his hand in an affectionate manner. Good girl, he said, knocking on the farm door.

Thomas Hawkins was a Batchelor who liked his own company, but hated house work so did as little as possible. In fact he was a lazy character and would rather put others to work than do much himself.

He peered round the door at Wilber as lately his eyesight was not good, but he was not prepared to do anything about it. Oh, it’s you, better get up to the top field and start cutting back the hedges, he said.

If that’s what you want Mr Hawkins, but if I do that now there will be no blackberries, Wilber pointed out.

Good, that will stop folks trespassing on my property, now get a move on I don’t pay you for nothing, and then the door was slammed shut.

While he was cutting back the hedges he cleaned out the ditches, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back, mind you in winter it was a different kettle of fish, where he shivered with cold. Yet he had grown hardy outdoors in all weathers.

Wilber never made plans, his life revolving round home and work, but he began to think that he might visit the lake on Sunday on the off-chance that he would see the girl from the big house. His heart began to beat faster at the thought, and an unusual feeling of excitement.

A month went by where each day went on as usual with nothing to relieve the boredom of lessons. One afternoon I had been permitted out with nanny to go shopping for new clothes, and afterwards to take high-tea in the most fashionable restaurant.

However, not a day went by where I did not think of that encounter by the lake and how Wilbur had looked at me, or perhaps I was making too much of it. The mind has a way of playing tricks, glossing over such incidents.

There grew a longing inside me to see him again, but that meant slipping away without being noticed. After the Sunday morning church service which we always attended, I saw my chance when nanny was taken ill and had to lie down.

After I had eaten my solitary lunch I hurried through the garden where the roses were in full bloom. I arrived at the lake and sat down, the sun beating with intensity, how I wished that I had remembered to bring my sun hat. I had no inclination to swim that day so I retired underneath the massive oak tree.

It was stupid of me to think that he would come, or had even remembered our meeting. I began to worry that I had been gone for too long and was about to stand up when there he stood in front of me, those expressive blue eyes showing me that he was glad to see me.

Do you mind if I sit down? he asked courteously.

I nodded, unable to speak, my heart beating loudly inside my chest. It was all so overwhelming and I so young and immature through being over-protected.

Tell me about yourself, he said, picking and chewing a piece of grass, his eyes never wavering from my face.

There is nothing much to tell, my life is one long round of lessons which will come to an end next year when I reach eighteen.

My family is poor but I would not exchange it for yours, money can cramp your style with everything being easily provided for. No, I say struggling through life makes a much better person, he answered.

Can’t we get away from how wealthy my parents are, why does it matter so much? I asked.

Wilber shrugged, It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference to me what others have got. My mother always says that it’s how you conduct yourself that matters.

Suddenly I became aware that I should be going home before my absence had become apparent. I jumped up and straightened my blue dress edged with embroidered lace. I have to get back, by rights I should not be here, I explained.

He got to his feet and stood close to me, and then he bent forward and kissed me. I remember that first kiss so well, soft, sweet and lingering, so unexpected, sending shivers down my spine.

Can you meet me here next Saturday afternoon? Wilber asked.

I don’t know I am not supposed to come here alone and if my parents found out I would be in a lot of trouble, I pointed out. And yet I wanted to say yes with all my heart.

I’ll be waiting on the off-chance, see you, he answered, then strode away to be quickly lost from sight underneath the trees.

I walked back through the rose garden stopping to pick a bunch. Just as well I did because at that moment father came strolling towards me. This is where you have got to Charlotte, he said, with a look which said someone had missed me.

I came to pick these roses for nanny as she is not very well, I answered innocently.

He grunted, informing me, We would like you to dine with us on Sunday evening, there are several suitable young men coming who might make you a good husband.

My heart sank; I wanted to marry for love not position. Very well father, as you wish.

Nanny was up and about again, Where have you been? she demanded suspiciously, causing me to feel like a prisoner with no hold over my own life.

I had never been accustomed to telling lies and did not feel easy about doing so. I was in the garden, such a lovely afternoon that I quite forgot the time. I brought you these, such glorious colours that I was tempted to pick armfuls, I said disarmingly.

Three

The house was bustling with activity getting ready for my parents guests who had been invited to dinner on Saturday evening then afterwards there would be dancing in the ballroom. All I could think about was how I could slip away without being noticed during the afternoon to meet Wilbur.

Extra maids had been hired to spring clean the house from top to bottom, preparing bedrooms for those staying overnight. No expense was being spared; everything had to be just so to keep up the family’s good name, that being uppermost in my parent’s eyes.

The week dragged by where I was in a state of apprehension and could hardly concentrate on my lessons. On Friday evening I went to watch the florists decorating the ballroom with an array of flowers, the theme being white and pink. How beautifully arranged were the lilies standing on small tables, and the carnations had a sweet smell all of their own. It all looked rather splendid, but I had the feeling of being an outsider staring in.

Saturday arrived at last with nanny telling me that I would have to amuse myself as she was required to help downstairs. That suited me fine, what would she have thought if she had known what amusement I had in mind?

At two o’clock I crept down the back stairs which was deserted and let myself out of the back door. Thankfully there