Page 141 of The Queen of Roses

“Would you hitch the buggy for me? There are some things I should do as well,” she said.

An hour and a half later, Adele drove to the spot where the dirt road down to the valley became Lake Avenue, Alex riding on his horse next to her. They split off at East Colorado Street, he heading to the general store and the post office, where they knew to hold his mail, she following the road to South Orange Grove Boulevard.

As she neared the Gables, she grew increasingly aware of her appearance. Still tired from her days of vigilance, she had done nothing more than change into clean clothes and tidy her hair into a knot. When she found her eyes darting back and forth, watching out for familiar faces, she chastised herself. She had just spent days trying to keep her house from danger. Did it really matter if her hair was less elaborately done than normal or if the dress she wore was one of her oldest day dresses?

None of it seemed to anymore.

When she guided the horse up the Gables’s front drive, she looked up at the facade of the grand house. It was a beautiful place, with its wide windows and soaring roof, but there was no denying that it had been the site of an unhappiness she had barely allowed herself to express. It was time for her to be brave and accept that her marriage was over.

She had just climbed down from the buggy when Mrs. Jarrett opened the door. Adele was struck by a strange sort of déjà vu at the sight of the housekeeper, with her severely pulled back hair and neat black dress, composed as always, as though Adele hadn’t just returned to the house after more than a week away.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jarrett,” she said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Whitley,” said Mrs. Jarrett, stepping aside to let Adele enter.

“Is Mr. Whitley at home?”

Mrs. Jarrett hesitated and then gave Adele a nod as she took Adele’s gloves. “He is in the library.”

“The library?” she asked, more than a little surprised. Adele could count on one hand the number of times her husband had used the library, despite his insistence on buying up shelves’ worth of books because a gentleman’s house was not complete without a library.

Mrs. Jarrett nodded.

“And my mother?” Adele asked.

“Mrs. Pearce left for the Hotel Green about a week ago, madam,” said Mrs. Jarrett.

“Then she is not living here any longer?” she asked.

“That is correct.”

She wondered if that had been Mama’s decision or whether Guy had foisted it upon her mother, no longer wishing to be burdened with a mother-in-law who could barely keep her loathing concealed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jarrett,” she said.

“Mrs. Whitley,” called the housekeeper as Adele turned left in the direction of the library. “I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I feel it is my duty to warn you that you may find Mr. Whitley somewhat changed.”

“In what way?” When Mrs. Jarrett hesitated, she added, “Please speak freely. I doubt there is much you may say to me that will offend.”

The housekeeper straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Whitley has not been himself in your absence. He has not gone to work as is his habit.”

“No?” she asked, surprised.

Mrs. Jarrett nodded. “Mr. Aubrey has also expressed his distress that Mr. Whitley has seemed uninterested in dressing as he normally does.”

“Really?” Her brows drew in at that. Her husband had always taken pride in his appearance, indulging in the best tailoring he could procure. “When did this begin?”

“When the fire broke out. A man came. He introduced himself as Mr. Whitley’s architect for the hotel in the mountains. Mr. Whitley has not come out of the library since,” said Mrs. Jarrett.

“I see.” A thought struck her. “Mrs. Jarrett, have you and the staff received your wages in my absence?”

The way the housekeeper’s lips thinned told Adele everything she needed to know.

“I will do what I can to see that you are paid,” she reassured the housekeeper.

She strode through the house with a renewed sense of purpose. The idea that the staff, hardworking people all of them, had not been paid offended her at a fundamental level.

She reached the library door and pushed it open without even bothering to knock. She found herself standing in a darkened room, the navy curtains all drawn against the morning sun, but it was not the dimness that disturbed her. It was the smell. The entire place stank sourly of alcohol and sweat, and it did not take her long to understand that the source was her husband, lying splayed out over one of the leather chesterfields she’d had sent from England.