Page 98 of The Queen of Roses

“I believe so,” she said, scanning the menu and then handing it back. “Please tell Cook this will be fine. Has the morning post arrived?”

“Yes, I’ve left it in the room. I thought you might like some tea while you opened it,” said the housekeeper.

What Adele really wanted to do was to call for the buggy and drive straight back up to Rosewood House, but she had neglected things at home for far too long. Now that Margot and James were gone, the Gables needed some of her attention.

She would begin with the mountain of condolences she had been sent, and she would not allow herself to move from her writing desk until the pile was at least somewhat diminished.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jarrett. The Darjeeling, I think,” she said.

In the morning room, Adele spotted several brown paper–wrapped packages bearing the many stamps of an international parcel on the circular table in the center of the room.

“Finally,” she murmured.

She tore the brown paper off each, revealing the titles she’d ordered from Hatchards. Her English gardening books were here at last.

Even though all she wanted to do was curl up on a sofa and read, she forced herself to set them aside. They would be a reward for making her way through her correspondence. A few letters for a few pages.

Perhaps she would send Macalister one of her copies when she finished so he might understand better what she was attempting to re-create with her English garden in California. She hoped that would not be seen as too presumptuous.

Sitting down at her writing desk, she turned her attention to the pile the housekeeper had left on her desk. There were several neat stacks of cards and envelopes. With determined resignation, she took up her gold letter opener and began to slice open her correspondence.

Adele sorted the letters into piles. Condolences were still coming in, as word had reached England by telegram and letter. Over the past week, she’d seen an increase in the elaborately stamped and franked letters from her home country, and patiently she’d opened letters from Papa’s old school friends, distant relatives, and members of his club. The ladies whom Mama used to take tea with had written in great number. With her mother still refusing to have anything to do with the condolences, Adele would have to take up her pen and reply to each of them.

In another pile, she sorted the bills Macalister had begun to direct tradesmen to send her. She would have to pay for muck, topsoil, seeds, plants, and trees for Rosewood House. She saw that one bill was just for tools and materials—four shovels, four forks, two saws, shears of several sizes, yards and yards of garden twine, cane, and more—and that there was another letter from Macalister himself giving an accounting of the wages he’d paid the men to help him clear and prepare the garden.

Adele picked up what she suspected was one of her mother’s fashion magazines and frowned. Hidden from view had been a brown paper-wrapped parcel about the size of a book wrapped in twine. It did not bear any postmarks, so it could not be a lingering order from Warwick’s down the coast or Vroman’s. With curiosity, she undid the knot and the paper fell open, revealing a brand-new pair of tan leather gloves with a folded note on top of them.

Her fingers brushed the leather of the gloves. It was stiff and thick, so unlike the gloves she wore every day as part of her wardrobe, but she knew without even looking at the note that these gloves were meant to serve another purpose.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the note.

I saw these when I was in the general store and thought you should have them for when you next need to dig.

—M

Adele dropped the paper and touched her fingers to her lips. Macalister had sent her gardening gloves. She could imagine him locking up the caretaker’s cottage and saddling his horse to ride into town.

Had he lingered over them at a general store, wondering what would best suit her?

Had he thought about the size of her hands and chosen gloves that would fit her perfectly, or had he simply asked for the smallest size and paid for them without a real care?

Would she receive an invoice in the post in three days’ time from the shop that had sold the gloves to him?

No. She knew with near certainty that he never would send her the bill for these. They were a gift.

The brown paper crackled as she lifted the gloves out, smoothing a thumb over the perfectly clean back of one of them. She brought them to her nose, breathing in deeply the scent of tanned leather. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and she could see herself once again digging in the hot sun, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck and down into her bodice and between her breasts to—

She hastily wrapped the gloves up again before shoving them aside.

Really, she was being ridiculous.

She drew a fresh sheet of writing paper in front of her, took up her pen, flipped open the top of her inkwell, and dipped the pen in and began answering that morning’s first letter of condolence. Then she stopped, her eyes straying to Macalister’s note once again.

… for when you next need to dig.

Adele opened her desk drawer, swept the note and the gloves inside, and banged the drawer safely shut.

chapter thirty-seven THERESA