Page 30 of The Queen of Roses

Several days after her visit to Mrs. Barnes, Adele pulled up on the reins of her borrowed horse and looked down the trail along the nearly dry Arroyo Seco riverbed.

It had only just passed eight o’clock when she’d put on her burgundy riding habit and gone to the Hotel Green’s stable, but already the sun was high and the air had that hot, dry smell she’d already come to associate with California.

Riding in Pasadena was nothing like riding in London. At home, she had gone to Hyde Park to exercise most days, yes, but it had also been a place to be seen. Here, there were so many trails and bridal paths to try, she often went an entire ride without encountering another soul except for the hotel’s groom, who accompanied her. She had found herself surprised by how much she enjoyed the solitude, the wildness of the rocky dirt paths appealing to her.

The groom who rode out with her that morning, a middle-aged Englishman named Frank, drew his horse a little closer and handed her a flask.

“Water, miss,” Frank said. “The heat can creep up on you when you’re out.”

She untwisted the metal top of the vessel and tipped her head back, relishing how the still-cool water washed away the dust in her throat.

“Thank you,” she said.

After she replaced the cap and handed the flask back to Frank, she rested her hands on the pommel of the saddle and looked about her. It had been Frank’s suggestion that they take a trail along the river’s bank. She had been surprised to find it was merely a trickle of water bubbling along the gray granite rocks that made up the riverbed.

“This is a river?” she had said.

Frank had tipped back his hat as though seeing the measly excuse for a river for the first time. “It doesn’t look like much now, but when the rains come in the winter it will swell.”

Despite being from England, Frank appeared to be remarkably fluent in all matters Pasadena (“on account of me coming here nearly twenty years ago to work on one of the old Spanish ranches,” he had said). As they rode, he answered her questions about the plants that grew wild in the brush, from the scrub oaks and coast live oak—so different than the huge English oaks she was used to—to the gracefully swaying sycamores that looked almost like London plane trees.

When they passed a wild rose, Adele stopped long enough to twist a few blooms off, secreting them away in the pocket of her riding habit along with the California goldenrod she’d picked earlier to send to Margot.

“Will you be wanting to turn back, miss?” asked Frank after some time.

She tipped her head to look up at the climbing sun through the dappled shade of the sycamores. “Yes, I should think so.”

“This way then, miss.” Frank pulled his horse around.

Adele mimicked his motion, but as they approached a bend in the nearly dry river’s path, she heard the sound of hooves thundering on the hard-packed earth. A moment later, Mr. Whitley burst into view. Tall and straight in the saddle, he wore a dark green riding jacket that stretched perfectly across his broad shoulders. He skillfully brought his chestnut horse to a stop before tipping his hat, the sun catching the golden ends of his hair.

“Miss Pearce, what a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

She nodded in greeting. “Mr. Whitley. I didn’t realize you rode.”

“I started in earnest when I moved, because everyone rides in Pasadena. Or nearly everyone. Normally I would be out earlier, but I had urgent business to attend to at the hotel, so I have only just been able to escape. Is that one of your hotel’s horses?” He nodded to her mare.

“Yes.”

“I thought so. The Hotel Green’s stables aren’t bad, although they have nothing on the Andalusian’s.” His grin was teasing.

She leaned to stroke a hand down the horse’s neck. “I won’t hear you say a bad word about Willow. She’s been a darling.”

“My apologies to Willow. I never meant to sully her good name. Are you turning back?” he asked.

“Yes. I must change. Mama and I have been invited to lunch at the Valley Hunt Club.”

“I would be honored if you would permit me to accompany you back to your hotel.”

“Won’t that be a bit like entering enemy territory?” she asked.

“I won’t tell the owner if you won’t.”

“In that case, I accept.”

Mr. Whitley drew up beside her as Frank dropped back to a respectful distance, his role now transformed from guide to chaperone.

“How have you occupied yourself since Mrs. Barnes’s dinner?” he asked as their mounts began a slow walk down the rocky path.