‘Before I go, I’ve some news that you’ll be amazed by.’

‘Well, I never,’ said Tom, when she’d imparted all the details. ‘And living in, you say? There’s a turn-up … Still, I expect Mrs Stellion knows what she’s doing.’ He didn’t sound as if he meant it, but neither did he openly criticise. ‘Right, Nell, off you go to see to those roses and I’m about the herbaceous. Come and find me if you need help.’

The rose garden was a disaster, the full blooms balled and heavy with rainwater, heads hanging down, petals that had been so perfect and fragrant two days ago now scattered and browning on the paths. In a couple of places the mature bushes, heavy with new growth and flowers, had been pulled away from their supporting trellis by the weight of water. The place looked a wreck.

Tears sprang to Ellen’s eyes. What a mess! What a waste! All that work feeding and spraying, and just when the flowers were getting to their very best, this happened. Mrs Stellion was especially fond of her rose garden and she would be upset by this, too. Such cruel weather for the end of May, causing so many bad things: the flood, poor Mrs Thwaite with her broken arm, and now this …

Still, if Uncle Tom managed to put on a brave face then so would she. But it was with drooping shoulders and a grim face that Ellen went to fetch the wheelbarrow and her secateurs.

By the end of the day, Ellen had removed the ruined flowers that had dropped and pruned back any damaged bushes. She and Tom had tied back strong loose shoots between them and the rose garden looked tidy but depleted, while two days ago it had been lush and gorgeous.

Ellen viewed the wheelbarrow heaped with sodden, discoloured flower heads and suddenly she could contain her emotion no longer. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed openly.

‘Don’t fret, lass,’ said Tom, coming along between the rose beds. ‘It’s not spoiled for good. It’ll come through this – and worse – and still be a credit to all your hard work.’

‘Aye, I know, Mr Arnold,’ said Ellen. ‘But it just seems such a shame. I was that proud of what we’d done, and I wanted Mrs Stellion to enjoy her lovely garden at its best. I think she hardly saw it. I suppose that was pride before a fall, and it serves me right.’