Page 74 of The Queen of Roses

James gave a tight smile. “She might look delicate, but she has more resilience to her than you might think.”

Adele blinked, never having entertained the thought that he might have taken her comment as a criticism of his wife.

“Of course she does,” she said.

James’s expression seemed to relax. “Margot loves you very much, Adele. She would hate to think that you worried about her unduly.”

“Well, then I suppose I shall have to do my best not to,” she said.

Her cousin’s husband pulled his pocket watch out of his vest pocket and pressed the mechanism to open its cover. “I should ready myself. Mr. Blakeney invited me to come make use of his library. Apparently he has a collection of early texts written about Los Angeles, and he is eager to lend me some volumes to read.”

Adele and James said their goodbyes, and she hurried out to the carriage.

South Orange Grove Boulevard was crowded that day with carriages and even the odd motorcar mixed in with horses and delivery carts. It was, she hoped, a good sign for Guy’s hotels that it felt as though the winter had well and truly started. The number of cards Mrs. Jarrett had presented her yesterday announcing that the heads of various prominent families had arrived was staggering, and she knew that in the following few days each card would require a return visit from Adele. Hopefully Margot would be able to help her make some of those calls, injecting a bit of fun into the drudgery of certain social obligations.

She might not have minded so much, but with a house full of guests and a full social calendar every free hour was precious, for, much as the Colorado Grand’s ball had, the garden at Rosewood House consumed her thoughts. Every day, she wondered whether her books would begin to arrive from Hatchards. In her impatience, she had gone to A. C. Vroman’s establishment on East Colorado Street to inquire about their stock of gardening books. She’d walked away with a brown paper–wrapped parcel of four and a promise that Mr. Vroman himself would place an order for several others.

She had never been a great reader, but she wished to absorb as much as possible about gardening, staving off some of her fear that she would never know enough to complete this project to her satisfaction. However, as Margot had pointed out, she hadn’t been born with an inherent knowledge of how to pair fabrics or dress a room. That had come from observation, experience, and a healthy dose of trial and error.

Who said she could not master the principles of gardening in much the same manner?

When she reached Oleander House, she followed Mrs. Barnes’s housekeeper out to the garden. She smiled as she remembered how surprised she’d been that first time she had called upon Mrs. Barnes alone, tail firmly between her legs, to apologize after the lady’s card party. How fixed in her ways she’d been, seeing the world only in the starkest black and white of her London upbringing. Although she might have retained some of her preferences and prejudices, Adele could now appreciate that there was a certain charm to the way things were done here in Pasadena. The city had its own etiquette and unspoken rules and, now in her position as Mrs. Guy Whitley, she set those precedents.

Adele spotted her friend in a russet skirt and white shirtwaist standing in the middle of the wide, grassy path between two flower beds just off the patio. Next to Mrs. Barnes stood one of the ubiquitous gardeners who were always moving about the property, although she did not recognize this man on sight. He was closer to Guy’s age than to hers, with tanned skin and sun-streaked hair, like her husband. His build, however, was leaner and wirier. His dark blue trousers and light blue shirt bore streaks of dust, and hanging out of the waistband of his trousers was a pair of much-dirtied leather gardening gloves.

It was this man who spotted Adele first, nodding in her direction. Mrs. Barnes twisted and called out, “Oh good, Mrs. Whitley, you are here.”

“I apologize for my lateness. Unfortunately, my cousin is indisposed,” Adele said.

“I trust that it is nothing too troubling?”

She shook her head. “I suspect she is merely overly tired.”

“It does take time for some visitors to adjust to the heat,” said Mrs. Barnes.

“As I well remember,” Adele said.

“Well, no matter, your timing is, as always, impeccable. This is Mr. Macalister,” said Mrs. Barnes, gesturing to the gardener. “I believe he may be just the man you are looking for.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Macalister,” she said.

He lifted the brim of his flat, dun-colored canvas cap, squinting at her a little bit as though looking into the sun, and then stuck out his hand. “Afternoon, Mrs. Whitley. Mrs. Barnes says you’re looking for a head gardener and a caretaker.”

She was a little taken aback both by his directness and his offer of his hand—hardly a common practice between servants and employers. Knowing that Mrs. Barnes would have carefully considered recommending Macalister, however, she accepted the man’s hand, finding his grip firm but respectful. She imagined that, had she not been wearing her gloves, she might have been able to feel the calluses she had no doubt dotted his palms.

“Shall we sit out on the patio? I believe Mrs. Guthrie will be bringing tea,” said Mrs. Barnes.

Mrs. Barnes led them to a wrought-iron table and chairs. While Adele and Mrs. Barnes took their seats, Adele noticed Macalister perched on the edge of his as though he did not entirely trust that he was truly welcome at the tea table.

“Perhaps you would like to explain to Mr. Macalister yourself what it is that you require,” said Mrs. Barnes.

“I have a home in the Altadena foothills called Rosewood House,” she began. “What little garden is there is not particularly imaginative. It was neglected for a great number of years and only recently cleared and restored to what it was as best my old head gardener could manage. I am now designing a new garden to replace what is there and am looking to employ a man to help me execute my plans. This man would also act as a caretaker at the property.”

“What sort of garden are you after?” he asked.

“An English garden.”

He raised a brow. “Can’t say I’ve ever been to England, but I hear it’s much hotter here than it is there,” said Macalister, crossing his arms and studiously ignoring the cup of coffee Mrs. Barnes put in front of him.