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Quote by Kayte Nunn

“She'd headed out early, walking the short distance to Kew Gardens and arriving as it opened, taking an hour to explore the grounds before her meeting. The huge expanses of green immediately soothed her as she wandered. She barely scratched the surface of what the great gardens had to offer, but gazed in awe at the spectacular Alpine House, the elegant Nash Conservatory, and sweltered in the giant Victorian glasshouse. She stopped to admire the succulent garden and the giant lilies in the Waterlily House, some of the pads of the Victoria amazonica more than a meter across, before wandering into the Rose Pergola, through a tunnel of blooms, rambling roses--- including the 'Danse Des Sylphes' and the pink-blossomed 'Mary Wallace', she read--- trained to climb in an arch over her head.”

Quote by Kayte Nunn

Book:The Botanist's Daughter
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The Botanist's Daughter

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Kayte Nunn

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“Early settlers loved the precious cuttings that they nurtured on long voyages. Able to carry only a few belongings in their boats and wagons, thousands of families packed a living reminder of loveliness alongside the bare necessities. One finds such roses still blooming beside wayside taverns where they stopped. They color long-abandoned wells and broken wagon wheels in pink and white. They flower like yellow sunrise around the doorways of the frontier homes those families built. And along old cart tracks through the woods, they still offer comfort to those who didn't make it. A titled tiny gravestone -- Abigail, aged 2 years, 4 months, 1 day -- and beside it the red rose of never-ending love that blooms again each June.”

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Book:Otherwise Normal People: Inside the Thorny World of Competitive Rose Gardening
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“The garden itself was enjoying the painted-on brightness of the day. The flowers were in full bloom--- the dramatic pink of the Duchess of Sutherland roses and the flesh-colored Madame Audots met Harriet's eye as she stepped out of the house. Flanking those stood the La Reines with their silvery undertones and the cabbage roses to the right. The cabbage roses, though they did not have a grand name, were Harriet's favorite. More layers inside one flower than she could even count. She inhaled the sweet smell of the Duchesses and watched as every last bloom turned to face her as she padded barefoot from the door onto the stone walkway, bordered by lush green moss. Satisfied that Harriet was content, the flowers resumed their nourishing tilt toward the sky. The stones were cool beneath her feet.”

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Book:The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt
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“She carried with her a tender caress for the stems and petals she meant to harvest, thanking them for their beauty and letting them give themselves over to her rather than taking them en masse with reckless haste. She knelt beside the patch of Christmas roses that grew beneath the parlor window. Harriet wondered, as she had a thousand times, how this flower could withstand the colder months with petals so delicate. Small white faces with pale yellow middles turned to look up at Harriet, almost adoringly, and she let their gaze infuse her with warmth. This is how they do it, she thought. They are filled with the magic of love. It was impossible for her to be out in her garden and not feel the love all around, almost consuming her, even on this cold, dreary day.”

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Book:The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt
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“Do you remember those roses that Caitriona used to have in her garden? The great, puffy ones that have layers of petals that open when they bloom?" Elspeth nodded. Freya turned her glass thoughtfully. "Imagine that the outer petals of the rose are all of society--- everyone you don't know. And that the center where the pistil lies is you." "I can never remember which part the pistil is," Elspeth confessed. Freya gave her a look. "How many times did Caitriona explain this to you? The pistil is the part in the center that becomes the rose hip when it's pollinated." Her sister set aside her drink and cupped her hands together. "These are the outside of the rose, the petals that guard against the world that doesn't know you at all." She slowly opened her fingers. "Inside are more petals---they represent your acquaintances. The people whom you greet on the street or whom you might talk to at a ball. They know you, but they probably couldn't tell you that strawberry tart is your favorite pudding." "Ohhh," Elspeth said, "I'm beginning to see." Though she still wasn't sure how the rose pertained to love. "I hope so," Freya said. "But remember that there are even more petals beneath those." She let her hands drop as she smiled at Elspeth ruefully. "I can't demonstrate with my hands, so imagine that rose with all the petals curled each within each other. The third layer are your closest friends and family. The people you live with. The people you grew up with. They know you better than the outer two groups of petals, don't they?" Elspeth nodded. Rings within rings, each smaller than the last, each closer to oneself. "These people know you very well," Freya said. "They know what you like and dislike, they know the type of person you are. But there's a last ring." She wrinkled her nose. "No, not a ring. Perhaps the stamen sitting next to your pistil at the very center of the rose." For some reason, her cheeks pinked as she smiled privately. "That is the person who knows your mind and your soul and your heart.”

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“Roses?" "It's corny, I know," Hart said. "But I thought maybe you'd like to see the Rose Garden." There was a neat symmetry to this garden, with beds of roses squared off in every corner of the lawn, grouped according to color. Pastel pinks and yellows to one side and the more vibrant, deeper reds and fuchsias to another. Between each segment, taller roses draped over rounded pergolas, creating leafy tunnels. Everywhere she looked, shrubs spilled over messily, brazenly, with more roses than she'd ever seen before. Rose caressed the blooms, which seemed to reach for her touch as much as she reached for theirs. Some of the roses were delicate, with a single row of petals that came in a gradient of color, going from dusty pink at the center to neon magenta at the frilly tips. Others were so jammed with petals, the number of them seemed infinite.”

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Book:Of Earthly Delights
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“Roses are beautiful. Classic. Refined. But then they've got this whole other side of them that sort of counteracts all that. Like, they can grow pretty wild. They're tough and thorny. You have to be careful with them because of how fragile they can be, but you'd be surprised how much they can withstand, too." Rose stepped out of the tunnel, no barrier between her and Hart anymore. She liked hearing him describe a rose. And as his eyes gleamed with a warm playfulness, it was easy to believe that he wasn't just talking about a flower anymore. "Sorry," he said. "Rambling about rambling roses." Rose bit her lip to keep from smiling. Corny--- his own word. But she liked it. She cupped a pale pink bloom in her hands, her thumbs brushing its countless velvety folds, like pushing back the fur on a sheepdog's face. She tipped her nose to its center and breathed in deep. Musky. Earthy. Like a soothing dark tea.”

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Book:Of Earthly Delights
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