Page 97 of The Queen of Roses

He nodded and pushed off the column before untying the leads from the banister. While he hitched her horse to the buggy, she pulled on her gloves, wincing as the material grazed her broken blister.

When all was ready, he silently offered her a hand to help her up. She tried not to think of the pressure of her hand in his, pulling away as soon as it was safe to.

When she was settled in her seat, Macalister stepped back. Adele took up the reins. “I will find your letters and answer them, but you have my permission to order whatever it is that you need for the garden. Simply have the bills sent to me and I will see to it that they are paid.”

He nodded, a formality settling between them once again. Employee and employer. Lady and gardener.

“Thank you, Macalister,” she finally said after struggling for a proper reply. “This afternoon… helped.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “The garden’s always here for you, Mrs. Whitley. If you need it.”

She opened her lips to say… what? Instead, she set her chin and said, “Good day,” before snapping the reins to begin the long drive home.

December 30, 1906

Oleander House, Pasadena

Dear Mrs. Whitley,

I know what it is to be plunged into the depths of mourning, and I also know what it is to struggle with the isolation of one’s seclusion. It hardly seems fair that we women should be expected to withdraw during the most difficult of times, unable to reach out for the support of those around us. It is a test for even the strongest woman’s countenance.

I thought long and hard before writing this letter, asking myself whether you would welcome such an intrusion during a somber time. However, I recall how much I would have welcomed news from the outside world while mourning my husband’s death. I am determined, therefore, to write you a letter of the most frivolous order. Set it aside if it feels unsuitable at this time.

Elizabeth continues her campaign to be the most popular debutante in all of Pasadena, going everywhere. Naturally, her ambitions can only be realized while dressed in the most expansive wardrobe. As you can imagine, the dressmaker has already been to the house twice to discuss Elizabeth’s gown for the New Year’s Eve ball. My daughter is terrified that there will not be enough time to perfect it, but I have reassured her there is nothing to fret over.

The rest of Pasadena society, not being afflicted with a daughter so preoccupied with her first season out, seems to continue as before. Your father is much missed, and several people have remarked upon his absence to me. Mrs. Gill told me just the other day that it feels as though gatherings are a little less kind and gentle without his presence.

Know that you are missed and that as soon as you are out of your seclusion, you may expect an invitation to a quiet tea with just us two.

Yours respectfully,

Ellen Barnes

January 3, 1907

The Gables, Pasadena

Dear Mrs. Barnes,

You cannot know what a balm your letter has been. Yesterday, my cousin Margot and her husband returned to England. James’s parliamentary career could not wait any longer, and I felt guilty at the thought that I should deny them their return when I know they must long for their life back. Still, I selfishly miss them and their company.

My mornings are spent answering condolence letters for both Mama and myself, and taking turns around the garden here at the Gables. I must confess, however, that I have done something rather wicked I believe you will approve of. I have taken to driving myself most afternoons to Rosewood House. Right now, the garden isn’t much to look at, as Macalister and his team of men are doing what they must to prepare for planting, but there are seedlings already sprouting in pots, and larger plants are due to be delivered in two days’ time. Things are beginning to happen, and that must be cause for some celebration.

I must thank you again for the recommendation that I hire Macalister. He is proving to be worth his weight in gold for his patience with me as I alter my plans and learn what will and will not survive in our Californian clime. He has already had me rethink the side garden and the main borders, and I suspect there will be more to come.

Yours respectfully,

Mrs. Guy Whitley

chapter thirty-six ADELE

Good morning, Mrs. Whitley,” said Mrs. Jarrett.

Adele had just finished dressing carefully as always, but the monotony of black, black, and more black was beginning to seep into her mood. If only she could go for a ride or call on her friends or anything, but it was too early in her seclusion for any of that, so she resigned herself to yet another day of being at home with only Mama for company.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jarrett. Has Cook sent the menu for this evening yet?” she asked.

“Yes. She wonders if Mr. Whitley will be joining you for supper,” said Mrs. Jarrett, handing her a slip of paper.