Page 65 of The Queen of Roses

Guy held her gaze for a moment, and she wondered what it was he was looking for in her expression. He took a step back, tipped his top hat to her, and, after a word to Flitch, climbed back into the carriage.

“Shall I ask Maggie to attend to you, madam?” asked Mrs. Jarrett, moving to close the front door.

“Yes, thank you.”

Then, with a weary sigh, Adele picked up her skirts and began to climb the long flight of stairs to her bedroom.

A few hours later, Adele sat in front of her vanity, staring at her reflection as Maggie placed the last plain metal pins that would hold her simple chignon in place for the day. She was pleased to find that, despite her very late bedtime, there was little evidence of the evening’s exertions on her face that morning. At twenty-five, she continued to have the perfect skin she had treasured in London and now protected fiercely from the hot California sun whenever she drove her buggy or picnicked or generally ventured outdoors.

“There you are, madam,” said Maggie, stepping back.

“Thank you, Maggie. I can manage my jewelry myself. Would you please ask Aubrey whether Mr. Whitley has risen?”

Maggie bobbed a curtsey and left to find Guy’s valet.

Adele picked up the gold-and-garnet bracelet Maggie had placed on the vanity for her and set about fastening it around her wrist. She had never made a confidante out of a lady’s maid. It had always struck her as foolish, spilling all manner of secrets to someone whose loyalty could only be trusted so long as their wages were paid—and sometimes not even then. No, the closest Adele had to a confidante was Mrs. Barnes, and even then, there were many things she dared not tell her dearest friend.

Her worries about Guy were foremost among those concerns. She had heard whispers of men who could not carry themselves well when under the influence of spirits, but they had always been the red-faced fathers of her fellow debutantes or pale older men who emerged from the games room at parties so infrequently that to spot them was something of a novelty. She’d never imagined that her husband would count among their number.

There was a gentle knock at Adele’s bedroom door. She looked up and saw Maggie reflected in the mirror once again.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whitley, but Mr. Aubrey said that Mr. Whitley is asleep,” said Maggie.

“Did Aubrey tell you when Mr. Whitley returned home?” she asked.

“About an hour and a half ago.”

Adele glanced at the gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece over the fireplace she’d learned was only necessary in the very depths of the winter. It was nearly noon. If she had been feeling more charitable toward her husband, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it. However, he had made his choice to attend a game of cards, knowing full well that they had guests who would need entertaining.

“Thank you, Maggie. That will be all for now,” she said.

Her maid shut the door, leaving Adele alone once again. Moving with deliberate care, she finished fastening her garnet necklace and twisted her head back and forth to check her appearance. Deciding that she could do with a little lift that morning after all, she opened the drawer of her vanity to extract the finely milled powder she would swear to any woman in Pasadena she did not use. After a quick swipe over her nose, forehead, and under eyes, she returned the powder to its hiding place and then rose to find her husband.

Adele opened the door leading to her dressing room. The space, functional and practical, had been fitted out with shelves and drawers where Maggie carefully kept her dresses, shirtwaists, skirts, and shoes all wrapped in tissue. Adele rarely came into the room except to cross to Guy’s own dressing room through the door at the opposite end, which she did now without bothering to knock.

The room was dark, and the slightly sour stink of stale sweat hung in the air. She wrinkled her nose. The prone figure half-hanging off the dark blue chaise she had ordered in a flurry of decorating in their first year of marriage shifted.

“Good morning,” she said.

Her husband groaned and half-hinged himself up on an elbow to squint at her. “Adele? What time is it?”

“Noon or near enough.”

Guy flopped back down onto the chaise with another groan. “Christ, Adele. I’ve barely slept at all.”

She watched her husband clutch his head as though pressing on his temples could alleviate the effects of alcohol, cigars, and too little sleep. It was hard, in that moment, to find the resemblance with the man who had, in the first weeks of living in this house, spent all night kissing her and then tempting her out of bed with the sun so that he could saddle their horses himself and they could ride together while the dewdrops still shone on delicate cobwebs stretched across their bridle paths.

“It was your choice to play cards rather than go to bed,” she said.

“I was never going to sleep after the opening and the ball. I needed distraction,” he argued weakly.

“Margot and James will be wanting luncheon soon. And then there is the matter of what to do with them this afternoon.”

Guy moaned again and pulled the heavily embroidered decorative pillow he’d been resting on over his face. His voice was muffled when he asked, “Can’t you see to them?”

“We could pay Mrs. Busch and her garden a visit, given Margot’s fondness for flowers, or we could go to the Valley Hunt Club. There is usually someone amusing there,” she said, ignoring her husband’s protests.

“I don’t care what you do with them, but it won’t be with me,” he muttered.