The Age of Water Lilies by Theresa Kishkan

the same, much as my father kept the trophies won by his horses and his prize water lilies. Proof of performance, I suppose. The shoes I did wear again, and the gloves with the beaded embroidery. No, the dress will be there still, at Watermeadows, beside a ball gown made for Mother for the presentation, cream silk, that one was, with black lace and jet bead, very extravagant, even for her. But not quite right for the next year and so put into the wardrobe with its sachets of cedarwood and lavender to keep away the moths.”
    Then Flora was quiet, remembering the months that followed. The years. There were dances in London, and parties. A series of young men sized her up. She’d had no idea what to expect of courtship, but surely it had to be more than a clammy hand pressed to her back, discreet questions to determine what came with her. Land? Horses? A sizeable sum? She had not anticipated the stubborn voice that told her mother and father that she could not imagine a life with this one or that one. It was like another girl speaking, using courage Flora had no idea she possessed (but was in the process of finding again). Two years after her coming-out season, George was planning to come to Canada and Flora was still without a suitor, dangerously close to being considered too old—at nineteen!—to interest the young men with money, or prospects, or both. And perhaps a reputation for fussiness beyond what was reasonable. She was not quite a beauty, though she had a look that was lovely in profile, and wonderful hair. The men were eyeing the new crop of girls in London. And when she expressed an interest in joining George at Walhachin, there had been a collective sigh of relief. Already it had become known as a place where matches could be made. All those single men from good families, and so few suitable women.

EIGHT
    August 1914
    â€œMust you go?” she murmured against his shoulder. Her skin was flushed with sun and love; small droplets of sweat had collected behind her knees.
    â€œOh, yes, of course, Flora.” He said it emphatically, as though there could be no question.
    â€œâ€˜Of course?’ I didn’t think you were so fuelled by the promise of heroics as the rest of them.” She turned so she wouldn’t have to see his eyes.
    He took her chin gently in his fingers and turned her face back to his. “Sweet Flora, it’s not heroics. I don’t have war fever. Absolutely not. And I’m not even convinced that any of us ought to go out of any kind of patriotism. The idea of this country means something different to me, I expect, than it does to the other men here at least, most of whom weren’t born here. England calls to them as it never could to me. But I must go because it is my duty right now. I have shirked duty enough in the past to know that it is time that I paid attention to its demands.”
    He smiled at the young woman lying in his arms on a saddle blanket spread on warm grass in a little box canyon he had discovered. He brushed damp hair from her forehead, the delicate curls that had eased themselves out of her braided coronet. “You are so lovely. I will always remember you like this, even when we’re old and grey together.”
    â€œWill we be, Gus? Old and grey together?” There were tears in her eyes. He touched them with his finger, and licked the salty taste. He kissed her.
    â€œI will come back as soon as I can. I don’t expect this to be a long war, no one does, and perhaps I’ll even be home by Christmas. We could shock the community by appearing at a dance together, you in the obligatory gloves, I in a jacket and tie. I do own those things though I can’t remember the last time I wore them. I expect the moths have been at the jacket—though being moth-eaten hasn’t made a bit of difference to the nobs at the hall.”
    â€œI’ll write to you every day,” Flora told him, her hands on his forearms,