Page 16 of The Queen of Roses

“Mrs. Barnes does seem to collect people,” conceded Mr. Whitley, “but that is not why we met. I tried to convince her to become an investor.”

“An investor?”

“In my hotel, the Andalusian,” he said, taking another sip of wine as the staff began to serve bowls of soup.

“You own a hotel?” she asked.

He chuckled. “You sound surprised.”

“No.” She frowned. “Or rather, I suppose I am. I would have thought you would be too young to own a hotel.” He couldn’t be much more than thirty.

“I’m flattered you think so. Hotels are a young man’s business, Miss Pearce. Building and running an establishment requires energy, although I’ll admit that I leave most of the day-to-day to my manager. It allows me to look after my investments and make plans.”

She gave a little nod, even as her quick assessment of Mr. Whitley recalibrated itself. He was a businessman. She hardly knew any businessmen in London, only the sons who had been sent off to Eton and Harrow to try to give them a bit of the polish that their fathers would always lack. Still, Mama had always taught her that a lady could conduct a conversation with anyone, from a barrister to a duke, so why not a hotelier?

“Did you manage to convince Mrs. Barnes to invest in your hotel?” she asked, taking a sip of her own wine for the first time. She was pleased to find it very smooth, far more drinkable than she had expected.

He laughed. “No, despite my best efforts. She claims hotels are far too risky for her liking.”

“Risky?”

“Pasadena has already seen its fair share of boom and bust. Just look at the railways fifteen years ago.”

“What happened to the railways?” she asked.

“Well, this town used to be a citrus-growing community. It was all agriculture until someone got the bright idea that they could sell beautiful blue skies and three hundred and fifty days of sunshine to everyone back East. There was a property boom in the 1880s and a lot of men thought they were being clever by buying up land to build a railway. Only the bottom fell out of the market and they lost everything.”

“Do you not worry that could happen with your hotel?” she asked.

He shot her an indulgent smile. “Mrs. Barnes worries about that. I know that times have changed. Now everyone who’s anyone stays for the winter. Tourism is the name of the game in Pasadena, and with tourism comes the need for hotels. The Andalusian opened two Aprils ago, and already we are at capacity for the winter season. Everyone wants to come to Pasadena.”

Everyone, Adele thought, except for me.

October 21, 1903

Hotel Green, Pasadena

My dear Margot,

I have officially been launched on Pasadena society. You will laugh, I know, and tell me that that makes me sound as though I am a ship, but in truth the comparison would not be incorrect. Mama seems determined that I should be introduced to every person of significance in the city, and I can hardly say no.

I find myself, therefore, spending my afternoons laden with weak cups of tea or far-too-strong cups of coffee, with a plate of cake near at hand.

This is not, I am afraid, the sort of polite society you might expect at home. The ladies are kind enough, although if I am asked one more time how different I find Pasadena from London I believe I shall scream. The men, however, seem to be perpetually occupied by business, and there is nothing they are more interested in than securing their wealth.

Take the instance of Mr. Whitley, who was seated to my right at my first dinner party. Although I found him to be good-humored and enjoyable enough company, he was rather too forward with his interest in making money. I have since learned, however, that he is the catch of Pasadena’s bachelors. I confess I cannot see it. Although at first glance his dress is adequate and he is handsome enough, it is clear within five minutes of conversation that his ambition is such that he could never be considered gentlemanly. I will admit that he has charm, but he does not hold any appeal to me.

Oh, Margot. I wish dearly you were here so that I might have your company, but I cannot be so selfish as to take you away from your Mr. Benson. I hope he appreciates that he has secured the affection of the sweetest, kindest young lady in London and that he treasures you as he should. If not, tell me and I will climb down one of the Hotel Green’s drainpipes, hop on the first train out East, and storm his door to demand satisfaction for his slights.

You will no doubt write to me and tell me that I am being silly. There will be no daring acts of rescue because there is no need for them. I know you are right. Mr. Benson is entirely besotted with you, and you will make the most beautiful blushing bride. I hope that your life as Mrs. James Benson will be a very happy one indeed.

Yours faithfully,

Adele

P.S. I decided this morning to join Papa on his morning constitutional before the sun became too hot, and I spotted roses in the hotel’s gardens. Can you imagine my amazement, roses blooming in late October! I would think it unnatural if I were not so grateful for their beauty.

I have included a few sketches of the prettiest variety in the margins of this letter. While I cannot claim to be as expert at flower pressing as you, I will also do my very best to try to preserve a few of the blooms for you. If I succeed, I will send them in my next letter.