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You may laugh when I tell you, but I, too, feel transformed by my lessons in the garden. I have surprised myself how much I have taken to the hard work of it. We are taught that ladies should not exert themselves, and perhaps that is because otherwise we would find what a thrill it is to plunge a spade into soft earth to plant something that will grow and flourish. The work is good and honest, something I am not certain I can say about my husband’s recent activities.
The mountain air up here in Altadena is making me introspective. If you were here, you might laugh at me and wonder that a woman who has spent her life in ball gowns might find such satisfaction in a garden, and yet I do. I cannot explain it.
Yours faithfully,
Adele
chapter forty-six ADELE
October 1907
The first morning after leaving the Gables, Adele dressed in the old clothes she kept in the wardrobe for gardening. It felt strange pulling on the long, faded navy skirt and white shirtwaist after starting every day in mourning, and she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty that, when fully dressed, she felt lighter than she had in many months.
Adele went downstairs only to find Hildy humming in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mrs. Whitley,” Hildy called out.
“I don’t recall driving you up yesterday evening. Were you stowed away in my trunk?” Adele asked.
Hildy tittered a laugh. “Mrs. Jarrett said it would not do for a lady such as yourself to have no one looking after her.”
Adele felt a little uneasy about accepting the help of one of the maids from the house that she shared with Guy, but when Hildy put a far more appealing breakfast on the table than Adele had anticipated making for herself, she relented.
It was not long before Adele’s old life truly invaded the sanctuary of Rosewood House. On her fourth day in Altadena, Mama arrived dressed all in black in Adele’s old carriage like a harbinger of doom.
Adele was not aware of her mother’s approach until Hildy hurried up to her, breathless. “Mrs. Whitley!”
Adele, who had been working next to Macalister to plant spring bulbs, straightened. “What is it, Hildy?”
“Mrs. Pearce is here to see you,” said Hildy.
Adele’s heart leapt in her throat, but as years of training and forced composure took over, she simply said, “Please ask her to wait in the front room, Hildy. I won’t be a moment.”
As Hildy ran off, Adele turned to hand Macalister the wooden dibbler she’d been using to make holes for bulbs.
“Would you mind?” she asked.
He took the tool from her without a word, but when she didn’t immediately start for the house, he asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Mrs. Pearce is my mother,” she said.
He nodded. “I imagine she’s worried about you.”
“I doubt very much that worry is the emotion compelling Mama to make a trip to Altadena,” she said before she could think that perhaps sharing such intimate details of her personal life with an employee was not a good idea. There was simply something about this quiet, straightforward man that drew her to him.
“Will she be wanting you to go back to Pasadena?” asked Macalister.
“I am certain that is why she is here.” She peeled her gloves off and tucked them in the large pocket of her canvas apron. “Do try not to plant all of the bulbs without me while I’m gone.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Macalister’s little smile as she set off toward the house.
At the back door, she untied her apron and set it aside along with the broad-brimmed hat she wore as protection from the sun. She had ordered a mirror hung in the little corridor leading to the patio when she had first decorated Rosewood House, and it was there she checked her appearance. With no Maggie to tend to her and Hildy working away in the kitchen each morning to produce breakfast, Adele had begun to wear her hair in a simple low knot at the base of her neck, held in place by metal pins. A few tendrils of fine hair had escaped from their place and were now curling around her face.
She lifted her chin in the light of the passageway and twisted this way and that, checking to see if there was any dirt or dust on her cheeks. Despite finding none, she took a handkerchief from the pocket and gently swiped it over her face. Then, deciding that would have to do, she went to greet her mother.
She found Mama in the sitting room, the formality of all her stiff black crepe distinctly out of place at Rosewood House.
“Mama, how good of you to visit,” Adele said.
