CHAPTER TWO
Rose ignored the rocking of the railway car and the steady, vibrating rhythm of the wheels as she ignored the stares of the rude man across from her and kept her eyes firmly fixed on her book. This fellow had gotten on the train at a stop outside Los Angeles; with his “snappy” checked suit and well-oiled hair, pomaded with brilliantine, he evidently thought he cut quite a fine figure and that she should be well aware of the fact.
She wasn’t certain why he had fixed his attention on her, but she wished that he would go away. He had been trying to attract her attention for miles, and she could not imagine what attracted him to her. She was grimy with days of nonstop travel; she hadn’t had a bath since Mrs. Abernathy’s boardinghouse. Her hair felt so greasy that she thought she must resemble one of those outlandish aboriginal people who coated their locks with oil. Perhaps it was that she was the only unaccompanied female in the car below the age of sixty. By the huge leather case under his seat, she suspected that he was a drummer—a traveling salesman.
Whatever he’s selling, I want none of it.
She was weary to the bone with days of hard traveling. Mrs. Abernathy had awakened her before dawn on the day she had left, with the welcome news that the man who carted away boxes and other “clean” rubbish was willing to take her and her trunk to the station for half the cost of a cab. She had also given Rose some sound advice in the matter of traveling attire.
“Whatever you put on,” she had warned, “make certain that it won’t show stains, and that it is something you will be willing to throw away at the end of your trip. Believe me, child, you won’t want it after that.”
Rose had followed her advice, wearing the dreadful black Manchester-cloth street skirt and sateen waist she had bought for her father’s funeral. The clothing was cheap, but serviceable enough to last the journey and look respectable. She had thought that Mrs. Abernathy had meant that after wearing the same clothing continuously, riding and sleeping in it for days, she would simply never want to see it again.
That might also have been true, but what Mrs. Abernathy had been too well-bred to explain was that the floor of the common railway carriage—particularly in the West—was filthy. The uncouth men who shared the carriage with her chewed tobacco, and often did not bother to travel to the end of the carriage to use the spittoon. They brought mud and worse in on their boots, and the dust of the plains blew in at the window. The floor was sticky with the residue of tobacco juice, and coated with the ashes that often floated in through the windows. The outsides of the carriages gave no hint as to the state of the floors; the carriages were kept as clean as possible given the circumstances. Try as she might to keep her hem free of the floor, it dragged whenever she sat, or when the carriage lurched as she walked, and she was forced to drop her skirt and clutch at the backs of the seats for balance. She did not think that she was ever going to get the skirt clean again, and she only hoped she could prevail on some hardy soul in Mr. Cameron’s employ to clean her boots, for she was nauseated by the notion of having to touch them, sticky and odorous as they were.
She had observed the travelers in the parlor cars and the occasional private carriage with raw envy. The hard wooden bench seats of the common carriage were too short to lie down upon, and if one could sleep, one woke with a stiff neck and a headache from being wedged into an unnatural, upright position. The most comfortable naps she had taken had been in stations, on the benches reserved for waiting passengers, as she also waited for the next train, guarded by the watchful eyes of the curiously paternal stationmasters.
At least she had not starved, although she had expected to spend at least part of the time hungry. Her meals were, indeed, taken care of and she ate as well as anyone else taking the common carriages. Those same stationmasters saw to it that when there was no dining car attached to a train she was provided with a packet of thick ham or cured-tongue sandwiches and a bottle or two of lemonade. This, evidently, was on the orders of Mr. Cameron since she saw no one else being so provided for, and occasionally her preferential treatment aroused glances of envy akin to those she bestowed on the wealthier travelers.
There had been sights she would never forget: the fury of a prairie thunderstorm, as lightning formed a thousand spidery legs of fire beneath the heavy, black clouds; the brilliant skies at night, with more stars than she had ever seen in her life; the mountains—every day held its share of natural wonders, more astounding than any of the seven wonders of the ancient world. If she had not been so exhausted, she probably would have been able to appreciate them more.
She had been looking forward to her first sight of the Pacific Ocean, but with this boor trying to catch her attention, she was unlikely to be able to appreciate this particular vista.
At least she never tired of this book, The Odyssey in the original Greek. The advantage of having the original before her was that she need not be confined to one particular translator’s view of things; she was able to discover nuances and new interpretations every time she read it. It never mattered that she was tired, that the long stretches across the empty plains had seemed interminable. Even with the eyes of another upon her, she was able to reach beyond this journey, to a strange and wondrous journey of a different sort, infinitely more perilous than her own, fraught with the machinations of gods and terrible magics, with—
“Well, excuse me, missy!”
The boor, seeing himself spurned in favor of a mere book, had elected to take things a step further and try to gain her attention directly.
She pointedly ignored him, turning away a trifle, although that cast the pages of the book in shadow. Surely, he won’t persist if I make it clear I want nothing of him.
Undeterred, he persisted. When he got no response from his verbal attempts, actually poking her foot with his toe so that she looked up at him in shock and effrontery before she could stop herself.
“Well, there, missy,” the rude fellow said, in a falsely hearty voice. “You sure have been buryin’ your nose in that book! What’s it you’re readin’ that’s so interestin’?”
She stared at him, appalled by his impoliteness, then replied before she could stop herself, “Homer’s Odyssey.”
He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. Evidently, his sole exposure to literature had consisted of what lay between the covers of the McGuffey’s Readers. “Homer who? Say, missy, that’s all Greek to me.”
“Precisely,” she replied, lowering the temperature of her words as her temper heated, and she turned her attention back to the book. He’s been snubbed, surely he won’t persist any further.
Only to have the book snatched out of her hands.
Her temper snapped. Outraged, she jumped to her feet while the lout was still puzzling over the Greek letters.
How dare he!
“Conductor!” she shouted at the top of her lungs and in her most piercing voice.
The lout looked up at her, startled in his turn by her anger and her willingness to stand up to his rudeness. The conductor, who fortunately happened to be at the other end of her car collecting tickets, hurried up the aisle, walking as easily in the swaying car as a sailor would on a swaying deck. Before he could even voice an inquiry, she pointed at the miscreant with an accusatory finger, her face flushed with anger.
“That man is a thief and a masher!” she said indignantly. “He has been bothering me, he would not leave me alone, and now he has stolen my book! Do something about him!”
But the cad was not without a quick wit—probably a necessity when confronted with angry husbands, fiancés and fathers. “I don’t know what that woman’s talking about,” he protested, lying so outrageously that her mouth fell open in sheer amazement at his audacity. “I was just sittin’ here readin’ my book, when she jumps up and screeches for you.”
That wolf in sheep’s clothing! Her hand closed into a fist as she restrained herself from hitting him. Any other woman might have shrunk from confronting him further, given that it was her word against his, but her blood was up—and besides, the book had been a birthday gift from her first Greek teacher. She was not going to surrender the book, the truth, or the field without a fight. “Well, then,” she said with venom-dripping sweetness, “If it’s your book, I presume you can read it. Aloud.”
As it happened, he had the book upside down—not that it would have mattered to him. If he did not recognize the name of the great poet Homer, he could hardly recognize one Greek letter from another. He gaped at her in shock of his own, and she neatly plucked her prize from his nerveless fingers, turned it right-side up, and declaimed the first four lines on the page in flawless tones. By now, everyone in the car was staring at the drama unfolding at her end.
“Translated roughly,” she continued, “It says, ‘The one-eyed giant howled his anguish as his bleeding eye burned and tormented him. His fellow giants rushed to learn what had befallen him. No man has blinded me! he cried to them. If no man has blinded you, they replied, Then it must be the punishment of the gods.’ Anyone who has the faintest knowledge of the classics will recognize that scene.”
The boor was not to be so easily defeated. “Why, she could make any gabble, say it meant anything!” he cried. “She’s a crazy woman!”
She put the book into the conductor’s hands. “Look inside the front cover,” she ordered imperiously. “On the fly-leaf. It reads ‘To little Rose, one of the greatest flowers of literature, from a humble gardener. With affection, Lydia Reuben’ If this is his book, then how could I know that? And while I may or may not be a scholar of Greek, I have never yet met a man named Rose.”
Those sitting nearest her giggled at that, as the rogue flushed. The conductor read the dedication, his lips moving silently, and looked up with a nod. “That’s what she says, all right,” he rumbled, and turned a stern gaze on the masher.
The man coughed and turned pale and looked around hastily, as if searching for a way to escape.
Rose felt a bit faint, but she was not going to show it in front of him. “Conductor,” she replied, in more normal tones, “Do you normally permit thieves who compound their crime with an attempt to molest honest women to continue traveling on this train?”
The man turned paler still as the conductor seized his collar. “That we don’t, miss,” the conductor said, handing her book back to her and pulling the man to his feet. “Sometimes, though, we let the train stop before we throws ’em off.”
He blew a whistle, which brought two burly train guards from the next carriage up and, together they removed lout and baggage, hauling both off towards the rear of the train, as he protested every step of the way at the top of his lungs. Curious stares followed this procession down the aisle and more curious stares were directed at her after they left the car, but she no longer cared about what anyone thought. Now she let her shaking knees give way, and lowered herself back into her seat, holding onto the back with her free hand, precious book clutched in the other.
She let the reaction set in. How had she dared to face that man down? She’d never done such a thing before in her life! Oh, she had argued with men, and told them what she thought; she had made free with her opinions on paper, but she had never actually stood up to anyone who was not a gentleman. She had never confronted someone who was obviously prepared to do whatever he wanted, and determined to get his way. No lady would ever have faced down someone like that.
The conductor returned to make certain that she was all right. She murmured something appropriate at him, and he went back to his duties, evidently satisfied. She did not ask him what he had done with the boor. She really didn’t want to know.
Probably he’d been escorted to a dank, nasty corner of a baggage car and put under lock and key. But she was a bit appalled to find that she hoped he and his case really had been pitched out of the back of the train.
Despite the bent heads and murmurs of delicious shock up and down the car, she must have convinced the conductor that she was properly helpless, for he kept a solicitous eye on her after that. And her first glimpse of the ocean was not marred by any unwelcome and uninvited presence, for no one else would sit with her. Or even near her.
She looked out across the endless expanse of water for as long as it was visible. She had seen Lake Michigan, of course, but this was so much bigger! She forgot her weariness, forgot everything. Huge—and fierce—even over the cacophony of the train, she heard the roar of the waves against the cliff below.
The train rounded a curve and scrolled away from the ocean, which vanished behind the hills. With the vista blocked, the tossing of the train threw her back to the sordid reality of the carriage. She turned back to her book, still feeling rather shaky inside.
And still angry and puzzled by the drummer’s behavior. She simply could not divine what had driven him to persist, and that kept her worrying at the subject. Did he really believe that I was only feigning indifference? Did he think I was trying in some perverse way to flirt with him by ignoring him? He was obviously expecting no resistance to his advances. What had been in his mind? Was he so used to having his way with women that he saw everything she did in terms of what he wanted and expected?
What did he think I was reading, anyway? Walter Scott? A dreadful dime novel? A romantic love story? Wuthering Heights, perhaps?
Probably the latter, and the memory of his expression when he tried to read the book sent her into a fit of giggles she tried to stifle with her gloved hand. When he saw the Greek—oh my! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so surprised since—since I proved to Professor Smythe that I was just as conversant with Chretian des Troyes in the original as any of his other students.
It did occur to her, however, that the works of the Bronte sisters would not have been inappropriate reading given her current situation. Or perhaps Jane Austen. There is not much difference between going off to become a governess and going off to become a housekeeper. Perhaps reading the Brontes could prepare me for Jason Cameron.
From a masher to her future employer—both male, both unfathomable. Neither responded to her attempt to analyze them. She simply did not know enough about either of them to grasp them and pin them beneath the white light of intellect.
She gave up trying, and read until darkness fell and it became impossible to read any further. There were oil lamps suspended in each carriage, but they were too far away to cast enough light for comfortable reading—shadows moved as the lamps swayed, obscuring the letters and revealing them in a way that made her eyes ache. So she didn’t bother to try; she just propped herself in the corner of the seat and half-dozed. This last leg of the journey, from Los Angeles to San Francisco, had begun before dawn and would continue until well after midnight. Perhaps her stamina had finally been exhausted; perhaps it was just the knowledge that the trip was nearly over and she was about to confront her employer and learn the truth or falsehood about him. Perhaps it was both, but she was conscious of leaden depression that weighed down her spirits.
She both dreaded the moment for the journey to end and longed for it. As the miles and the hours crept by and her fellow passengers in their turn dozed off, she stared at her own reflection in the window, seeing only two dark holes for eyes in a ghostlike face which, because of her black clothing, seemed to hang suspended in the air, bodiless.
I am a spirit, wandering, without a home, and I shall wander bodiless forever...I shall become a ghost in Jason Cameron’s manor, long before I am truly dead.
What would Jason Cameron really be like? What could she expect as his employee? The comfortable and stimulating experience his letter promised? Or something out of a Bronte novel: poverty of spirit, repression and despair?
Would she find herself bundled up into a tiny attic room, waiting like a drudge on a pair of monstrous, spoiled children? Would the promised wage remain only promises, so that she remained trapped here, where she knew no one and had no way to escape, a virtual slave? Would she find herself confined to the grounds of the house unless she was escorting the children on some outing?
Or, would Jason Cameron keep his word? Of late, her experiences had not done much to convince her of anything but the perfidy of her fellow man.
She stared at her reflection, and asked it a silent question. Why had she agreed to this? Her reflection stared back in equal silence, for it had no answer for her.
A squeal of brakes broke into her melancholy thoughts. The train was slowing down, but why?
It had slowed before, of course, to pass around curves and over bridges. It had even stopped on sidings to let other trains pass, going the opposite direction.
But she hadn’t felt the slight change in direction that meant a siding, and if there had been a curve ahead, she surely should have felt it by now. Yet the train was still slowing, and there were no lights beside the track, no buildings, nor any sign of habitation, as there would be if they had reached San Francisco.
The train came to a complete stop. In the strange silence, the engine panted, and some canine creature howled in the far distance. A wolf? Or only a farm dog? She sat up and peered out of the window on her side of the train, and still saw nothing. Where were they—and why had they stopped?
Perhaps there is a blockage on the track? That would certainly be tiresome, adding more hours to the journey while they waited for the track to be cleared, even forcing them to get off and walk around it while their baggage was brought to a second train. During the course of the journey, this had happened twice, both times in the mountains when landslips had sent mud and gravel cascading down on the track. Those accidents had each added days to her trip, for it was no easy thing to get word ahead about the blockage and the need for a second train.
When she saw the conductor entering the car, she was sure he was going to tell them all that this was the case. But he did not disturb any of her drowsy fellow passengers with a general announcement. He came straight to her, as she watched him in surprise.
“This is a special stop for you, Miss Rosalind,” he said, when he saw that she was awake and aware of him. “We’ve already taken your trunk and bag off; if you’ll just gather up your valise, we’ll have you on your way in no time.”
“On my way?” she asked, dazedly, as he picked up her valise from the seat beside her and offered her his hand to rise.
“Of course,” he replied, as if this was a matter-of-fact occurrence to him. “Didn’t Mr. Cameron tell you he was sending people to meet you at the Pacifica switch?”
“I—I believe so,” she said, as he guided her to the end of the car and the stairs there. There’s no station here—who is Jason Cameron that he can have trains stopped in the middle of nowhere to let off a single person?
The conductor handed her down as she gathered her skirts up in one hand for the jump to the ground. It was then that she saw what awaited her on the rails beyond a switch that joined a spur-line to the main track.
Lights cut through the darkness, from lanterns suspended on the rear of the vehicle ahead and from the headlights of both engines. The air was cold and damp, and she shivered as it penetrated her clothing. Overhead, the stars were not as huge and bright as they had seemed in the desert and on the open plains, but they were much more impressive than any stars seen from a city street. There were not many sounds besides the panting of the engines; a night-bird or two, some frogs or insects. Two men with lanterns and a handcart approached her from the odd vehicle on the tracks of the spur, and the wheels of the cart grated in the gravel of the right-of-way. Men from the baggage car met them, carrying her trunk and carpetbag. One of the two new men removed his soft cap deferentially and approached her.
“Are you Miss Rosalind Hawkins?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” she said, faintly, with one hand at her throat.
He looked relieved. “Good. Mister Cameron sent us to meet you, ma’am. We’ll be taking you right to his door, practically.” In the light from the carriage windows above her, and the lantern in his hand, the man smiled reassuringly. “Won’t be long now, and you’ll be all settled in.”
He put his cap back on and offered her his arm. The other man loaded up his cart with all of her baggage, including the valise the conductor handed to him, and headed back to the odd vehicle without uttering a single word. Rose looked doubtfully at the conductor, who nodded and smiled, and made little shooing motions with his hands.
So, she took the stranger’s arm, and she was glad to have it. The railroad right-of-way was rough and uneven, and she couldn’t see where she was putting her feet in the darkness. The conductor mounted back up to the platform of the carriage and signaled to the engineer with a lantern as soon as Rose and her escort were out of the way. Down at the end of the train, another lantern waved in the same signal from the caboose.
The engine, which had been “panting” slowly up at the head of the train chuffed out a great puff of steam as if sighing with impatience, and resumed its interrupted journey. The wheels rotated slowly, with a metallic screech, as the locomotive strained against the dead weight of the train, got it in motion, and gradually picked up speed. By the time Rose and her escort reached the spur, the red lantern on the back of the caboose was receding into the black distance, disappearing like a fading, falling star.
The vehicle they approached was like nothing Rose had ever seen before. A combination of two pieces, an engine and a passenger car, it was smaller than the locomotives that had brought her here, but quite large enough to be impressive. She could not see past the windows of the passenger section with their lowered, red shades trimmed in heavy gold fringe, and it was too dark to see the exterior of the car clearly, but the carved molding, glinting softly with a hint of gilding, implied luxury and opulence.
“This is Mister Cameron’s private vehicle,” the man said proudly, patting the side of the carriage with his free hand. “We use her to get in and out of Frisco. Useta be, when he had to travel down to Los Angeles, we’d hook the car in with the regular train. I reckon you’ll be comfortable enough in her, ma’am.” He handed her up into the carriage, doffed his cap again to her. “Mister Cameron says make free of what you find.”
“How long will it take us to reach—where we’re going?” she asked, feeling anxious, as he started towards the cab of the engine.
“Well, we’ll be a-goin’ fairly slow, ma’am, so maybe a couple of hours,” he replied, over his shoulder. “This spur’s a twisty piece, and we wouldn’t want to take any chances. You ought to go inside and make yourself to home.”
Since he was reaching for the handhold to haul himself up into the cabin of the engine, she decided she probably ought to take his advice.
Strange, how this rough-seeming man could be so polite, and the one who had dressed like a pseudo-gentleman had been nothing of the sort.
She turned and opened the door, stepping into a world she had thought was lost to her.
The color scheme was of red and gold, the gold of polished brass fittings and gilded fixtures, the red of scarlet leather, velvet and satin. The car was fitted out to resemble a comfortable parlor, with three small tables covered with red damask cloths, real chairs, a Roman divan couch, and a bed lounge. All the furniture was deeply padded and upholstered in red velvet or leather. The floor was covered with a deep red Turkey carpet, and the furniture was discreetly bolted to the floor through the carpeting. Mahogany bookcases full of leather-bound volumes decorated one wall, and a handsome mahogany sideboard laden with bottles and glassware graced another.
Enough oil lamps burned from fixtures set between each window that the interior of the car was illuminated as cheerfully as anyone could ask. There was even a porcelain stove in an alcove at the back of the car to heat it.
A serving plate covered with a silver dome sat on one of the tables, but as the “train” began to move, Rose’s attention was drawn to a door on the end of the car. A discreet brass plaque announced “Lounge” in square script, and she made her way to that door, wondering if it contained what she hoped.
It did. A brass and porcelain oil lamp lit the tiny room softly Her valise sat in a clever tray bolted to the top of an oak washstand, to keep anything placed in it from being overset. The washstand—or rather, vanity—boasted a graceful porcelain basin inset in the top; the basin was even equipped with a drain-hole and a stopper to close it so that one need not try to find a way to empty it in the moving train. A bar of castile soap lay in a porcelain cradle next to the basin. Above the basin was a matching porcelain ewer with a spigot in the bottom. She touched the spigot and was rewarded by a stream of fresh, warm water.
Without hesitation, she took off her sateen waist and washed and rinsed her face, neck and arms—twice, because she was appalled to see that after the first washing, the water was gray with grime. She could not wash her hair, but at least she could damp it down a little and comb it out—and she did, bracing herself against the basin as the train twisted and turned on its journey She rebraided it and wound it about her head in a kind of crown rather than making the French twist and pompadour she usually wore.
There was one clean waist in her valise; she had been saving it, in the faint hope that she would find a way to change before she met her employer. A remnant of her former fortune, it was of much-mended taffeta silk in a deep rose. In the soft light of lamps and lanterns, the mended places would not be too obvious. She also had fresh stockings, but it would be impossible to change the rest of her underclothing without somehow extracting herself from petticoats and corset.
She put the stockings and the waist on, and immediately felt much better. To finally don clean clothing after so many days in the same outfit was pure bliss. She procured her tooth powder and brush from the valise, and completed the process of cleaning at least the upper portion of her body.
She regarded her reflection in the mirror beside the basin, and decided that it could have been worse. She was exhausted, and looked it, but she also looked respectable now, and not as if she had been sleeping in her clothing, in trains and on benches in railway stations, for endless days.
She left her valise where it was, and re-entered the car, curious now to see what lay on that silver salver. She lifted the silver dome lid, and gasped with pleasure.
Fresh grapes, something she had not seen, let alone tasted, in weeks—and with them, two kinds of cheese, and bread with a chewy crust and, when she tore off an experimental bit, a curiously tangy flavor. She helped herself to a light wine from the cabinet and made an unashamed glutton of herself.
A nap would have done her a world of good, but when she reclined on the lounge, she discovered that her treacherous mind would not be quiet, manufacturing all manner of suspicions, coming up with reasons why the apparently benevolent Mister Cameron was in truth a monster.
This could all be some kind of trap. The food could be drugged. Cameron might be a white slaver. He could have brought you here to debauch you.
Nonsense, she replied to the slightly hysterical thought. Why go to all this trouble and expense to obtain one woman from Chicago, when there were hundreds—well, dozens, anyway—of “soiled doves” right at hand in San Francisco, all much more experienced at—at pleasing a man than she. Surely, a man as rich as Cameron would not lack in charming companions of the demimonde, all eager to serve his every wish!
Yes, but perhaps he wants someone acquainted with the uncensored Ovid—
But the idea of the apocryphal Jason Cameron importing a scholar from Chicago to indulge him in Roman debaucheries was too absurd even for her suspicious nature.
He doesn’t even know what I look like! she told herself, trying not to giggle. He could be getting someone like Lydia Bullfinch, all bones and brains and hair! And the idea of Lydia in a sheer Roman chemise, reclining sylphlike on a couch, did send her into hysterical giggles.
She must have finally relaxed enough to doze, for the next thing she knew, the little train was slowing with an unpleasant metallic squeal of brakes, quite enough to wake even the soundest sleeper. She sat up and smoothed down her shirtwaist and skirt, although she hated even to touch the latter, as it felt gritty and faintly gummy.
Once the train had come to a complete stop, there was a knock at the door of the carriage. She rose to her feet as a man entered, without waiting for her to answer.
He might well have figured as a creature from one of the Bronte books. He was a little taller than she, slender, and dark. His dark hair was long by the standards of Chicago, just at his shoulders, and cut to wave in a quite romantic fashion. His saturnine face held a pair of brooding brown eyes above chiseled cheekbones and a decidedly Romanesque nose. Only in his chin did he lack true romantic grace—it jutted just a bit too firmly outward, as if he was inclined to use it as a ram against those who dared to get in his way. He was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, fine shirt, and tie with a conservative stripe.
“Mister Cameron?” she said, instantly, holding out her hand. “I am Rosalind Hawkins—”
“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Hawkins, but I fear I am not Jason Cameron,” the man replied, taking her hand and clasping it briefly before letting it go. His voice was a deep tenor, with the intimation of power behind it, but no discernible accent. “Master Cameron is my employer also, and he sent me to bring you up to the house. My name is Paul du Mond, and I am his personal secretary and valet.” Now he smiled, although it was not an expression that brought any warmth to his face. “You must call me by my given name.”
“Of course,” she replied, feeling rebuffed, although she could not imagine why she felt that way. “Please call me—Rosalind.”
Dashed if she would let this cold fellow call her “Rose.”
“Thank you, Rosalind. Ah, no—” he added, as she made an abortive attempt to retrieve her valise. “No, do not trouble yourself over your baggage. It will all be seen to. Would you come with me?”
Seeing no other option, she descended the stairs of the carriage behind him, not entirely certain what to expect. She found herself stepping onto a marble landing, and looking up at a series of white marble stairs inset into the cliff, illuminated by lanterns, that seemed to rise into the stars. She backed up a step and put one hand to her throat, shivering just a little in the cold and damp. Fog wisped across the platform, and she thought that it might be very near dawn.
The staircase, however, daunted her. She was never going to be able to climb all that!
Paul smiled at her dismay, as if he was amused by it. “Do not be concerned, Rosalind. We will not be dealing with that tonight. The Master does not expect weary travelers to exhaust themselves at the end of their journey. The stairs are only for effect—and those who insist on showing how strong and fit they are.”
He led the way to a door, hidden in the shadows, which he opened, revealing the prosaic iron grating of a lift door. He motioned to her to precede him, which she did.
The lift operated smoothly—disconcertingly so, with no noise or sound of machinery. If she had not been aware of the motion of the stone wall beyond the grating, she would have been sure they were not moving at all. Paul du Mond made no attempt at conversation and neither did she, although the silence became very uncomfortable after a while.
Finally, a crack of light showed at the top of the lift door; it widened as the lift rose, and she saw they had reached their destination. This was a hallway; floored with black marble, with wall coverings of wine-red brocade above half-panels of dark wood; polished brass oil lamps with shades of ruby glass lit the hallway clearly.
Paul opened the gate of the lift, but made no motion to follow her out into the hall. “I have some things to attend to, but I am certain that a competent lady like yourself will be able to find her way.” His smile implied that he rather doubted she would be able to do any such thing. “Go to the right, take the staircase up to the third floor. Your rooms are the first door on the left.”
She was taken aback by his brusque behavior. Before she could reply, he closed the lift door behind her, and the lift descended again, leaving her with no choice but to follow his instructions.
Not that they were especially difficult, really. It was only that she found the silence of the house rather unnerving. But that was only to be expected; after all, it was still nighttime. It was not reasonable for her to expect that Jason Cameron or many of his servants would be awake to welcome her. It was enough that Paul du Mond—and whatever other servants were taking care of her baggage—had been here to greet her. At least they had a room waiting for her.
She had anticipated a dark back staircase, a servant’s stair to be precise, but the staircase proved to be both broad and handsome in dark wood and oak paneling, and well-lit with more brass lamps, this time with white porcelain shades. It boasted a red carpet, and climbed in a square spiral, with doors at each floor.
She opened the third of these—this time certain it would let out on a mean little hallway—to find that it did nothing of the sort.
The hallway here was papered in red-on-red fleur-de-lis, and the floor was of dark wood with a red carpet runner down the center of the hallway. Again, the lamps were of brass and ruby glass; red and gold seemed to be Jason Cameron’s preferred colors. The door that Paul du Mond had indicated was a few steps past the door to the staircase; she had just touched the handle, when she noticed that the door itself bore a brass plaque. On it was inscribed a single word.
Rosalind.
Startled, she froze, but the handle seemed to turn beneath her fingers and the door swung open, as if under its own power.
She gasped as she saw the room; she could not help herself. In all her wildest dreams of what might be waiting for her, she had never imagined anything like this.
For a moment, she hesitated. Surely, this was a mistake; this room could not possibly be meant for her! But her name was on the door—and Paul du Mond had sent her here. She stepped inside, hesitantly, and the door swung silently shut behind her.
If someone had given her free rein and an infinite budget to design a sitting room that would best please her, this would have been it. There was a small fire in the fireplace to ward off the chill of the air outside, although a modern steam radiator made it clear that the fireplace was mostly ornamental. Between the cozy fire and the two lamps, there was not a single corner that was unlit.
Unlike the red-and-gold opulence of the parlor car and the rest of the house, this room was decorated in tones of deep blues and dark silver, both restful colors to her way of thinking. A Roman couch upholstered in teal-blue velvet stood beneath a huge window, curtained in matching material. Two wingback chairs in the same material flanked a small table with one of the lamps on it, and a combination bookcase and writing desk held the second lamp, with a matching armless chair positioned at the desk. The soft Turkey carpet was of a deeper blue than the chairs; the walls were papered in a lighter blue with a stripe of discreet silver.
A second door stood open at the other end of the room. As she stood in the doorway, she could only stare, for this room was as perfect as the sitting room.
It held not one, but three wardrobes, all matching and standing side by side, flanked by a pair of dressers; all were of dark maple with silver fittings. There were two chairs like the ones in the sitting room, and a huge full-length mirror between them. Another radiator promised that this bedroom would never be cold. The carpet, wall covering, and curtains were the same as in the sitting room. The bed, which dominated the room, was absolutely enormous. Amazingly enough, it was of the medieval style she had always secretly favored, with curtains of blue-on-blue brocade, and a matching spread now turned invitingly down to reveal the snowy linens.
But there was more, and light through a third door drew her onward, until she found herself in a bathroom whose opulence matched the rest.
This room was tiled in pale gray, pale blue, and silver. A bath was drawn and waiting for her, steaming and fragrant with lavender bath salts. The tub, large enough to recline comfortably in, was of the square, Roman style—a huge marble basin enclosed in a tiled box. There were two sinks, an abundance of mirrors, a lounge and two chairs, a vanity with a framed mirror. The vanity held a wealth of green and silver bottles whose contents she longed to explore. Snowy towels hung from a heated towel rack and the “convenience” was of the most modern flush-type. The bathroom was as large as her bedroom had been at home, and had its own small wardrobe at one end, with the door opened to display a tempting selection of nightgowns and dressing robes or kimonos.
Rose didn’t even hesitate. Much faster than she had ever remembered undressing before, she shed her clothing down to the last stitch—shirtwaist, skirt, underskirts, stockings, corset-cover, corset, vest, drawers—all of them dropped from her body with a speed that was positively magical. She slipped into the hot water with a gasp of delight and scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed again until she was pink all over. She ran more hot water into the tub and rinsed again, then undid her hair and washed it as well.
She did not go so far as to appropriate any of the lovely night-things in the wardrobe, however. She was certain that they must belong to someone else, and had been left there by accident. Instead, she rebraided her hair, wet as it was, wrapped herself in a towel, and went to look for her valise.
The valise wasn’t there—but someone had stolen into the bedroom while she was bathing, had drawn the curtains around three sides of the bed and had left a nightgown lying across the pillow, in an obvious invitation.
It was an invitation too tempting to resist—especially given that the mere sight of the bed had started her yawning.
She took the gown into the bathroom to change—just in case the unknown “helper” returned. It was silk, a luxury against her skin after the coarse cottons of her traveling clothing that made her dizzy with pleasure. She blew out the lamps in the bathroom and returned to the bedroom, to find that all the other lamps had been extinguished except for the one next to the bed.
She was too tired to be alarmed at the way people kept stealing in and out of the rooms without her noticing. In fact, she was too tired to think of anything other than falling into that wonderful bed—putting her glasses carefully on the bedside table and blowing out the lamp—pulling the bed curtains around to shut out the morning light—and pulling the covers up over her head.