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It feels as though every day some new and fascinating person arrives. I was fortunate enough to meet several of them at another dinner given by Mrs. Barnes, Mama and Papa’s friend whom I am hopeful I might one day count as a friend of my own. They were the most interesting collection of people, including several politicians and artists who livened things up considerably.

Last week, I found myself the guest of Mrs. Lydgate and her daughter, Miss Lydgate, at a card party at the Valley Hunt Club, a sort of social club for people here. Apparently it was originally started as a gathering modeled after our fox hunts in Britain, but now it primarily acts as a place for members to congregate. Miss Lydgate, whom I suppose you might call a new friend, was telling me about something called a magazine party in which ladies gather to clip images from magazines and paste them into books. I remain skeptical about just how much fun such an event could be, but she reassures me that it is very diverting.

Here is something that will no doubt make you laugh. Yesterday, Mama and I were invited to tea by a Mrs. Sylmore. Apparently her husband is in banking, and they winter every year in their great Moorish-inspired home on South Orange Grove. When Mama and I arrived, we realized that we were one of four sets of women, all mothers and their daughters. That in and of itself might not have been remarkable, except that half an hour into tea who should stumble through the drawing room door but Mr. Jack Sylmore, the gangly twenty-two-year-old eldest son of the family. Mrs. Sylmore made a great fuss of Mr. Sylmore interrupting our ladies’ tea, but then she forced the poor thing to take a seat on the sofa. We all watched him awkwardly balance a teacup on his knee while his mother expounded upon his virtues to all of us conveniently unmarried young ladies. The dear looked as though he wished to be anywhere but in that drawing room!

I know you well enough to be certain that, if we were sitting together in your room on the chaise, you would ask whether there are any eligible men in Pasadena. The truth is, yes, there are, although I cannot pretend that they are entirely like your Mr. Benson, with his gentle, unassuming manner. There is something vital about the American man that seems to radiate from him. A certain spark that reminds one of the possibility in this country. It is quite invigorating.

I have been fortunate enough to have come to know some of those gentlemen a little. Mr. Henry has called on me twice in the last fortnight, first for a drive and a second time for a stroll through the hotel grounds.

Mr. Blythe showed a rather extravagant side, sending me a bouquet of pink roses so large that two maids had to carry it in. The only place for it was the table in Mama and Papa’s sitting room, and it has scented the entire place so heavily that Papa confessed yesterday it has given him a headache. Mr. Blythe has since made himself rather ridiculous by sending the most saccharine sonnet. Unfortunately, this would have failed to impress me regardless of its quality, because I found out that he sent Miss Lydgate a sonnet of her own the next day, leading me to believe that I am not suited to being an artist’s muse no matter how much I admired the pearls his mother wore to tea.

I have also received calls from a widower named Mr. Lochery, whom I met on my first night in Pasadena, at another of Mrs. Barnes’s dinner parties. Sadly, his company has not improved upon first meeting.

After my previous letters, you might ask whether Mr. Whitley has called. He has not. I have seen the man three times now while on my morning ride, and he was in attendance at Mrs. Barnes’s latest dinner party as well as one given by Mr. and Mrs. Hall but he has paid me no special attention.

The Gills are holding a ball for an American holiday called Thanksgiving at the end of the month, which I am informed is treated as a sort of marker of the beginning of Pasadena’s own season of balls. I know that will sound quite quaint to you, but everyone is very excited for it.

Yours faithfully,

Adele

P.S. Here are more roses for you, these ones picked from a ride I took along the Arroyo Seco. I was very pleased when I removed the books and blotting paper and saw that they had come out far better than I could have hoped. My skill at pressing flowers cannot yet match yours, but I will continue to send you species as I find them.

November 15, 1903

Andalusian Hotel, Pasadena

Dear Mrs. Pearce,

I am putting together a little party for supper in my private dining room at the Andalusian before the Gills’ Thanksgiving ball on the 20th. I would be delighted to include you, your husband, and your daughter in our number. We would dine at seven o’clock before the dancing begins.

Yours respectfully,

Guy Whitley

chapter thirteen ADELE

On the night of the Gills’ Thanksgiving ball, one of the Hotel Green maids was threading Adele’s signature white roses through her hair when Mama came through her door holding a sheet of writing paper.

Mama glanced at the maid. “Would you please excuse us for a moment?”

The girl bobbed a curtsey and hurried out of the room.

As soon as they were gone, Mama handed her the note. “Mr. Whitley has written to say he is sending his carriage to take us to supper.”

Adele raised a brow as she read the bold, slashing script. “Haven’t we already hired a carriage for the evening?”

“That can be sent away.” Mama placed her hands on Adele’s shoulders. “Tonight is important, my dear.”

Adele met her mother’s gaze in the mirror. “I know.”

“Don’t you think you could like Mr. Whitley?”

“I like Mr. Whitley as much as any other man,” Adele said.

“Adele.” Her mother’s tone was warning.

“He hasn’t called on me,” she reminded Mama. “I hardly know him outside of a few short conversations we have had at dinners or while riding.”