Page 8 of The Queen of Roses

Pasadena. The strange, foreign land her parents had absconded to for the sake of Papa’s health.

When her parents had announced their plans to leave England to travel to California for the arid climate that was supposed to be such a boon to consumptives like her father, there had been no question Adele would remain in London. She was determined that her fourth Season would bring the successful marriage she and Mama both dreamed of, and removing herself to California would hardly help accomplish that.

From what little she had read about America, she had expected her mother’s first letters to be filled with accounts of cowboys and Indians set against red rock mountains. Instead, Mama had complained about the inescapable heat that hung about Pasadena and the scarcity of the culture and comforts of London. The things Mama wrote about the people of Pasadena had amused her, too.

Much has been made of the winter residents, who come for a few months of the year to escape from the deep snow of their Midwestern and Eastern cities. You would find them at once remarkably prim with manners more akin to when I was a debutante while also surprisingly unsophisticated in their choice of amusements. As soon as your father is well, we shall return to London, Mama had written upon first arriving in Pasadena.

That was why it had been such a shock when over breakfast at her Aunt Hyacinth’s Gloucester Road home one July morning, Adele had opened her mother’s latest missive and read the unthinkable.

It is your father’s wish—and mine—that you join us in California.

She’d stared in stunned silence at the letter for so long that her cousin Margot had asked, “Is everything quite all right?”

No, nothing was all right—not even the littlest bit—yet Adele had simply folded up the letter and resolved to disabuse Mama of the notion that leaving London for America made any sense at all.

But what followed were many letters, each more stern in tone, until finally her mother’s order came: Adele was to travel to Pasadena as soon as possible, arriving no later than the first of November in order to join her parents for the city’s winter season. There would be no further discussion about the matter.

“Mama, is that Mrs. Barnes I see?” asked Miss Gorman, peering out of the compartment window.

Mrs. Gorman went to look over her daughter’s shoulder. “Why, so it is! It is good of her to come meet us at the train. Come along, Miss Pearce. No doubt your mama and papa will be here soon enough.”

Adele hung back a moment as the Gorman women collected their cases and hurried out of their train compartment in a flurry of ruffles and bows. She thought for a moment about simply refusing to disembark. She would lock the compartment door and wait for the huge iron vehicle to take her back to New York, where she would board a ship and sail back to England.

Just as soon as she thought it, however, the fantasy crumbled to dust. Just as she would never defy her mother’s direct order to join her parents in Pasadena, she would never be so reckless as to flee, unaccompanied, across a strange country. Adele was, at her core, a dutiful gentleman’s daughter raised first to obey her parents and then to marry a suitable man.

Pulling back her shoulders, she exited the compartment and made her way to the open train door, where she paused, the full brilliant light and scorching heat of the day hitting her with such force that it seemed intent on pushing her back into the shade of the train.

Goodness, heat like this in October? Who could stand to live like this?

She descended the train’s steps and followed the Gormans onto the crowded platform, weaving through the sea of families hugging one another as porters worked to unload trunks and crates from the baggage cars. Women protected from the blazing sun by wide-brimmed hats and parasols laughed on the arms of men wearing straw boaters. At one end of the platform, a horse neighed as it was led down a ramp, and at the other, a woman stood selling oranges to weary passengers, a huge mountain range rising in the distance behind her.

After passing through the station entrance, Mrs. Gorman stopped in front of a tall, black, open-topped carriage.

“Oh, Mrs. Barnes! How delightful to see you!” exclaimed Mrs. Gorman.

“Welcome to Pasadena, Mrs. Gorman,” said Mrs. Barnes, her voice markedly calmer than Mrs. Gorman’s.

Hanging back, Adele studied Mrs. Barnes. The lady wore her light brown hair piled on top of her head in a loose bun á la a Gibson Girl, and around her shoulders fell a froth of white lace, framing her light blue gown. A triple-stranded choker of creamy white pearls topped off the effect.

“You remember my daughter, Cynthia,” said Mrs. Gorman, practically pushing Miss Gorman in front of her.

“How could I forget? You are most welcome, Miss Gorman,” said Mrs. Barnes.

“Where is your Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Gorman.

“I’m afraid my daughter is still at school in Santa Fe,” said Mrs. Barnes.

“But surely you must be readying yourself to bring her out,” said Mrs. Gorman.

“She is just fifteen,” said Mrs. Barnes.

“Fifteen! Goodness, I had not thought.” Mrs. Gorman turned to her daughter. “Can you imagine Miss Barnes is just fifteen?”

“Mrs. Gorman,” Mrs. Barnes interjected, lifting her chin in Adele’s direction.

“Oh! Mrs. Barnes, may I present Miss Pearce?” Mrs. Gorman turned to Adele and beamed. “Miss Pearce has been quite the balm to our weary souls on our travels.”

Adele pinched her lips but dipped into a shallow curtsey, nonetheless.