Page 54 of The Queen of Roses

Now freed from her duties as hostess, Adele made her way down to the little sitting room at the back of the house that she had claimed as her study. The morning room had more than sufficed to write her correspondence in the early months of her marriage until she had added renovations at Rosewood House to the redecoration of the Gables. Now that both of those projects were finished, the room had become battle camp for the Colorado Grand Hotel’s ball.

She opened the door to the study and breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of the bouquet of stock she had cut from the garden the previous day. Now that Margot and James were resting, the house was quiet and she could set her mind to her work.

The ball’s guest list sat on the burgundy blotter atop her rosewood desk where she had left it, along with a pile of correspondence she’d neglected that morning in her rush to the station. She sat, sweeping her skirts under the desk, picked up her gold letter opener, and began to slice open the waiting envelopes.

As she read her letters, she made notes. Mr. Sepulveda, an elegant gentleman from an old Spanish family who had owned a ranch near Pasadena long before the city had even been a twinkle in the eyes of ambitious men, sent his apologies that he had not returned his RSVP sooner, as he had been visiting family in Mexico. He and his wife would be delighted to attend.

The Canadian ambassador sent his regrets that his duties in Washington, DC, made it impossible for him to attend.

Mrs. Shaw was delighted to accept on behalf of her husband, son, and daughter.

Guy would be particularly pleased to hear about the Shaws’ acceptance, as the family had made plans to stay at the Andalusian until the Colorado Grand’s opening, when they would transfer to the new hotel and stay until April.

Then came the bills. The hotel would pay for everything related to the ball, but it had fallen to Adele to receive and account for the invoices to be paid before sending them off to Guy’s secretary, Mr. Reece. The expense of the thing still staggered her, but every time she had brought Guy her plans to show him, he’d said, “I will not have anyone say that we are scrimping.”

He would then demand to know where she was cutting corners and insist she put back into her plans every expensive detail she desired, from ice sculptures to tins of Russian caviar to cases and cases of Veuve Clicquot ordered directly from the champagne house. Four months ago, on Guy’s orders, she had doubled the size of the orchestra that would travel down from San Francisco, and the crystal for the eight-course supper that would be served at one o’clock had suddenly acquired gold rims to match the gold-trimmed china the ball’s late-night supper would be served on.

Then there was the guest list. That had seemed to swell each time Guy looked at it.

“If the ball were the only extravagance, it would be one thing,” Adele had ventured after supper at home one evening. She’d chosen the moment when he’d finished his usual bottle of claret and started on the whiskey he favored after dinner. “I worry, however, that if you still wish to break ground on a mountain lodge next year—”

Guy had sat straight up at that, his liquor sloshing loudly in his glass. “Do not weigh down the opening of the Colorado Grand with worries, Adele. You do not understand how hard I have worked.”

She’d learned since that day to merely smile and nod when he spoke of the grand opening. She had even defended her husband to her mother who, having caught a glimpse of the guest list one day, had questioned whether there was anyone in Pasadena, Los Angeles, and San Francisco who would not be invited to the ball.

“This is important to Guy,” Adele had reminded her mother.

“It is important to his business,” Mama had sniffed.

Adele had thought that rather rich given that it was Guy who paid the rent on Mama and Papa’s house just like he paid for their carriage and four, their membership to the Valley Hunt Club, and a handsome allowance for their living.

“Given his family, I can hardly expect him to know, but surely it is your duty to help him understand that who does not receive an invitation is just as important as who does,” Mama had said.

“Guy is more than aware of the delicate politics of a guest list, Mama.” Adele had picked up her teacup and taken a calming sip before adding, “I noticed that you and Papa were all too happy to reply that you are coming.”

Her mother had sniffed at that and turned the conversation to other matters.

Adele didn’t know how long she’d been bent over her work before there was a soft knock on the door, but when she looked up she realized long shadows had moved across her desk.

“Yes?” she called.

The brass doorknob twisted, and Margot poked her head into the room. “I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, but Mrs. Jarrett told me I would find you here.”

Adele started to rise. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Oh, do sit down. I was resting, but then I woke up and was too excited to see you to think or rest any longer.”

“And James?”

“Still in his room. I’m afraid he slept fitfully on the train.”

“Why don’t I call for tea, and you can tell me all about your trip?” Adele suggested.

She gestured to Margot to take one of a pair of dainty chairs positioned around a small table against one wall she had had papered in Morris & Co.’s Pink & Rose.

“This is a pretty room,” said Margot, peering out the window to the garden. “You can see your hydrangeas from here.”

“I remember them fondly from Aunt Hyacinth’s house.”