Roses on the edge of a nervous breakdown

Have just been trying to resurrect some of the garden from the wreckage wrought by builders.  The latest is that they had to heave up Emma (Lady Emma Hamilton), the rose by the front door, to do something to the drains.  They replanted her, but all her leaves have died and she's looking distinctly precarious. 

I have just spent an hour or so cutting her back and muttering "tha's wick, darling, tha's wick" in an optimistic sort of way.  I have piled compost round her roots and watered her, and am crossing my fingers.  I do believe that for all her trailing, fragrant ways, she is tougher than she looks.