‘Do you like roses, Mary?’ Lady Rothborne had asked her, as they strolled side by side through the formal, rectangular beds. ‘Oh yes, I love them,’ Mary had answered. ‘Especially white ones.’ Lady Rothborne had humoured her. ‘Yes, but do you really like them? Roses are a species like no other. The sheer number of varieties is truly staggering; each unique…almost with their own personalities.’ They had continued on, taking stock of the passing roses. Mary had watched and mimicked the way that Lady Rothborne seemed to absorb and devour each of the different species. ‘I come here when I need to be reminded of the past. Nothing awakens prior associations more than odour in my opinion. There have been rose gardens on this very spot since Tudor times. Imagine, four hundred years of such beautiful specimens. My great grandfather planted many of these,’ she said, indicating a bed just beginning to awaken from its winter slumber. ‘The old-time perfume of the Centifolia, the dusky sweetness of the Damask that inspired the wallpaper and furnishing of the grand saloon, the refreshing sweetness of the China roses—all planted by him. All absolutely exquisite. And if Mr Phillips and his team do their job properly, those roses shall outlive most of us.’ ‘But I thought Blackfriars belonged to your husband’s family,’ Mary had said.
