Clara wrote back immediately:
Dear Gabriel,
Of course your friend doesn't believe I exist. I'm far too extraordinary to be real. Tell him I'm actually three feet tall with green hair and six fingers on each hand.That should be a lesson well taught.
Our rose is thriving WITHOUT YOU. I've been reading to it from that book about pirates you left behind and it seems to enjoy the violence. I am under the impression that we are raising a bloodthirsty plant.
The garden misses you. The apple tree looks droopy. Even the fountain seems to leak more sadly.
But I'm managing PERFECTLY WELL. Yesterday I fixed the bench you broke last month. It only wobbled a little bit afterward.
Your extraordinarily real friend,Clara
P.S. Mrs. Weatherby was seen purchasing an unusual amount of rennet. Cheese conspiracy confirmed.
The letters flew back and forth those first months, abounding in jest, narrative, and small complaints. Gabriel wrote about the boring cricket, his tyrannical teachers and Edmund's continuing education about rural life he'd finally seen a cow and been appropriately terrified. Clara wrote about the village scandals, her ongoing war with her governess, and detailed reports on their rose's progress.
But then, gradually, things changed.
The letters grew and less frequent. Gabriel's handwriting changed, as it became more formal and proper. He stopped mentioning Edmund or cricket or anything specific, really.
Dear Clara,School continues well. Studies are progressing. Weather is fine.Trust you are well.G. Hale
No jests. No stories. No mention of their garden or rose or anything that mattered.
Clara kept writing her long, newsy letters for a while, but when the responses stayed short and distant, she began to match his tone.
Dear Gabriel,All is well here. Garden remains satisfactory.C. Whitfield
By Christmas, she was dizzy with anticipation. Surely when he came home, things would return to normal. Surely it was just the distance, the pressure of school, the difficulty of writing letters.
She waited in the garden on the day he was due to return. Waited until her fingers turned blue with cold. Waited until dark.
He never came.
She learned later, from kitchen gossip, that the young master had returned home but was "much changed." Taller, yes, but also different in manner. Proper. Distant. He attended formal dinners with his parents, visited appropriate neighboring families and acted every inch the future duke.
He did not visit the garden.
Clara went every day for a week, sure he would come. Their rose bloomed despite the winter cold, as if trying to summon him. But Gabriel never appeared.
Finally, pride and hurt taking over, she stopped going.
She saw him once, at church on Christmas Eve. He was indeed taller, his face already losing its boyish roundness, his clothes immaculate and clearly expensive. He sat with his family in their box pew, back straight, eyes forward.
When their eyes met briefly during the processional, Clara smiled, tentative, hopeful.
Gabriel nodded. The kind of nod you'd give a distant acquaintance. Polite. Proper. Empty.
Then he looked away.
Clara felt something crack in her chest, sharp and definite as breaking glass.
She didn't try again.
The letters stopped entirely. The garden grew wild without them. Their rose, surprisingly, thrived on neglect, growing in enthusiastic tangles as if making up for their absence.
At Easter, Gabriel returned again but attended a house party at Lord Pemberton's estate the entire time. At summer, he went to London with his father.
