CHAPTER THREE
Rose woke in darkness, but this time with no sense of disorientation, no fear when she did not recognize her surroundings. She remembered precisely where she was; even if she hadn’t, the faint perfume of some unfamiliar flower wafting from her hair would have reminded her.
She was at her destination, the home of Jason Cameron. She was in darkness because she had drawn the heavy velvet bed curtains tightly around the bed, and not even the most persistent sunbeam was going to penetrate both velvet curtain and satin lining.
She stretched luxuriously in the warmth of the bed, taking an animal pleasure in the soft caress of the silk of her borrowed nightdress upon her skin. Tonight, of course, it would be plain cotton weave again, but for now, she could pretend to luxury.
Pretend? It would hardly be pretense, given the luxury of her quarters. While she might be shabby, her surroundings were palatial.
I wonder what time it is? Surely, it couldn’t be too late in the morning; she’d be expected to take charge of the children immediately, and her employer would probably insist on interviewing her first. Although she wished devoutly that she could wallow in this wonderful bed with a book, her hours were no longer her own. With a reluctant sense of duty, she pushed back the curtains to find that oil lamps had again been lit to augment the thin gray daylight coming in through the windows. Without her glasses, that was just about all that she could ascertain.
She reached for her glasses and the room sprang into sharper focus. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and found that a pale-pink silk wrapper trimmed in soft lace that matched the lace-trimmed gown had been laid out on a chair beside the bed, ready for her to put on, even though she had not heard anyone come in. She frowned a little as she put on the wrapper and moved into the sitting room, with the carpet soft as moss under her bare feet. Why hadn’t she heard the servant come in? She didn’t usually sleep that heavily.
Then again, those unseen servants had penetrated her room while she bathed last night, without her hearing them. They must simply be preternaturally silent.
Her trunk and bags had arrived while she slept—but to her dismay, when she opened them, she found that her clothing was missing! Searching frantically, she saw that not a single personal possession was missing—only the clothing.
She forced herself to calm down and think of a decent explanation. After all, there was still clothing here. Cameron obviously didn’t intend to keep her a prisoner by taking away her clothes. Wait. I’m being unreasonable. They’ve probably taken it all away to be cleaned. Of course; that was the obvious explanation. She’d heard that this was the way such things were done in the homes of the wealthy.
Even for someone who is one short step above a servant?
She ignored the nagging thought, and turned to the small table beneath the window. The curtains had been drawn, showing her a view of a lush scrap of lawn, a wilderness of trees, and just beyond them, a hint of the sea. She couldn’t see the shore itself; had this house been built on a seaside cliff?
On the table was one of those silver platters with a domed lid covering it, though this one was nearly the size of the tabletop. When she lifted the dome, she found a complete breakfast, hot and ready, as if it had just come from the kitchen. There was a pot of coffee wafting up a savor worthy of heaven; two perfectly poached eggs, golden-brown toast dripping with butter, fried shredded potatoes, and a slice of ham with the fat crisped and the lean moist and tender. Beside this lay another plate containing a piece of hot apple pie redolent with cinnamon and nutmeg, with a tiny pitcher of cream to pour on it. This was so unlike the pitiful bread and oatmeal of the boarding house that she could have wept. There was also a note, in an envelope identical to Jason Cameron’s first missive, resting against the coffee cup.
She opened it first, before touching the tempting breakfast, even though her stomach murmured its displeasure. The script was the same, in the same odd, sepia-toned ink.
Dear Miss Hawkins, it read. Welcome. I have taken the liberty of ordering my servants to make away with your clothing so that it can be cleaned and pressed for you.
There—the very explanation she had arrived at.
I hope that you will make free of the garments that I have had ordered for you, and continue to do so if they please you.
Remembering the envy she had felt on seeing the wealth of silken night-things, comparing the gown and wrapper she now wore with her own, and imagining what must lie in the wardrobes and chest, she was not inclined to miss her skirts and waists from Sears, Roebuck & Co.
Enjoy your breakfast at your leisure. I shall communicate with you when you have settled yourself for the day.
The note was signed, Jason Cameron. The signature was the same as the one she remembered.
Part of her was immediately suspicious. Part of her found this completely reasonable. Why shouldn’t she be treated with respect and care? After all, she did have a set of completely unique qualifications. And Jason Cameron was obviously a man of extreme wealth, to whom all this expense on her behalf represented little more than pocket change.
She seated herself at the table and picked up knife and fork, and found the ham was so tender she hardly needed the former. Think of that lift alone! she told her suspicious side, as she slowly savored her breakfast. Not even a great hotel could afford a lift like that one! The man owns his own private railspur and train, and sends it to fetch someone the way I would call a cab! He is simply being a gentleman; he knows what the journey must have been like and he is giving me a chance to get my bearings.
As for the gowns and the accommodations—well, if she were in Jason Cameron’s place, she would not want anyone in her employ to walk about looking as—as shabby as she was. You purchase paintings to suit your decor—why not clothe your employees to match? Certainly, there is no uniform for a governess the way there is for a maid or some other servant. Certainly, Paul du Mond had been clothed as elegantly as any gentleman of her acquaintance. Perhaps his garb was also the result of his employer’s generosity.
Her suspicious side settled, though not without a grumble. She finished her breakfast, and returned to the bedroom to see what delights the wardrobes held.
She soon discovered that someone female had assuredly had a hand in the selection of what lay within the drawers of the dresser and doors of the wardrobe. There was literally nothing lacking from the most delicate underthings to fashionable corsetry to gowns, skirts, and shirtwaists of a style and fabric that shouted “Imported! French!” Any susceptible woman would have flung her good sense temporarily to the wind at the mere sight of such treasures, and Rose was no exception.
With much difficulty, she chose a selection that included underthings trimmed with real Brussels lace and real silk stockings. To meet her employer, she picked a skirt of the softest wool she had ever touched in her life, wool as soft and as plush as velvet, in a deep sapphire blue, and a silk waist with a flowing jabot in pale blue with more lace, dyed to match, at the collar and cuffs. There were even shoes and boots in her exact size, and she had no hesitation in carrying off a pair of kid half-boots that matched the skirt.
She bore her prizes off to the bathroom, and spent a rapturous hour “putting herself together.” When she was done, she surveyed the result in the mirror, and was more than pleased with the result.
Just as importantly, she was no longer self-conscious about meeting with her employer. Clothing was a kind of armor, really, and her armor had been patched, weak, and dangerously thin before. Beautiful clothing was, in a way, invisible—but people noticed when one was poorly or shabbily dressed, and acted accordingly. Now she could face any man or woman on the globe and feel confident that she would be judged on her merit, not the state of her clothing. Her self-confidence increased with every passing second. Now she was herself; now she was Rosalind Hawkins, scholar and Doctoral candidate, and the equal of anyone in America, even Jason Cameron! After all, she had something he wanted and that made her the seller in a seller’s market.
She left the bathroom and entered the bedroom—the silent, invisible servants had struck again. The bed was made, the havoc she had wrought among the clothing had been tidied away, her wrapper and nightdress whisked off to who-knew-where.
How are they doing this? she wondered, with mingled admiration and irritation. I haven’t been deafened by all the noise of the locomotives, have I?
She moved on to the sitting room—and the breakfast things had vanished also. But there was a new addition: a pile of books lay on the table beside the couch, a reading lamp had been lit, and the end of a speaking tube was laid beside the books. On top of the books was another note.
Something about this sent a chill of apprehension running down the length of her spine, though she could not imagine why it should be so. She stepped carefully over to the table and picked up the note. Her hands shook as she opened it.
Dear Miss Hawkins, it said. Now I must make a confession to you. You have been brought here under false pretenses.
She almost dropped the note there and then, but something made her continue reading.
There are no children; I never had a wife. I do require the abilities of a remarkable scholar; the exact abilities and skills that I outlined in my missive to your mentor, Professor Cathcart. I am an invalid and an accident has left me unable to read the books that I require for my own research. In addition, I am imperfectly acquainted with medieval German and Gaelic. I desire your services, both as a reader and a translator.
She blinked at the letter, jaw dropping in a most unladylike expression of amazement. Of all of the possibilities, this was the one she would never, ever have guessed.
The salary will remain the same; the hours will perhaps be longer, and extend deep into the night, for it is at night that I require the distractions of work to free my mind from pain. I fear that you will not be able to make as many excursions into San Francisco as you would like, but that is only because the journey is of three hours in duration and you would probably wish to stay overnight. At the moment, my need of your services does not allow for this; in a month or two, I shall take pains to arrange such an excursion. In recompense for this curtailment of your freedom, I offer my apartment in the city for the eventuality of such a trip, and the use of my box at the Opera or Tivoli Gardens, whichever shall present the choicer entertainment for that evening in your mind.
She felt breathless, and hardly knew what to think now.
I personally pledge that you shall hear Caruso, even though my own needs must then take second place.
How had he known how much she wanted to hear Caruso sing?
You have the freedom of the house and grounds, although I am afraid that you will probably find it rather dull. I entertain no one, and my servants are as reclusive as their master. You will, however, encounter my secretary, Paul du Mond, from time to time. He will see to obtaining whatever you need, if it has not already been provided. If you are shy of communicating some personal need to a strange male, simply write it down and leave the note with your meal tray; my housekeeper will then attend to it.
She sat down on the couch, feeling suddenly dizzy. If this was a form of imprisonment, then it was the oddest sort of imprisonment anyone had ever imagined. And for what purpose? That she should read books?
My accident has left me disfigured in a way that I would not inflict upon one who did not know me before. You will, therefore, be reading to me through the speaking tube and I will make my requests by the same manner.
Not even the fevered and disordered brain of a Mary Shelley could have created a plot like this one! Surely, even the publishers of dime novels would balk at such an unlikely situation!
You can, of course, refuse your services, and I will have you transported to San Francisco with all your belongings immediately. It was unfair of me to bring you here under false pretenses, and I apologize most humbly—but ask yourself this: if I had communicated the truth, would you have believed it? I think not. I believe that even Conan Doyle and Rudyard Kipling would have blushed to pen such a wild tale.
He had a point. If she had been presented with this situation in Chicago, she and Professor Cathcart would have discarded it as the fantasies of a lunatic.
She could leave now, this moment. He had said as much. She did not need to stay here a moment longer. But if she chose that escape, it meant to be set down, with two dollars to her name, in a strange city. That was not the best option open to her at the moment. Here—if Jason Cameron was more lunatic than this note suggested—she was subject to the will of one man, two at the most. Thus far, there was no evidence that either Cameron or his man had any interest in any part of her but her mind. There was no reason to believe that she wasn’t perfectly safe here. There were bolts on the doors, she could lock herself in—and although secret passageways and hidden doors in the walls were a hallmark of dreadful cheap novels, she knew enough about architecture to be aware that it was extremely difficult to construct such things, and even more difficult to conceal them.
I will be waiting to hear your decision in person, the letter concluded. Merely say what you will into the speaking tube, and I will abide by your decision. But please take into your considerations that if you accept this employment, you will be granting a crippled and disfigured man an entry into a world of scholarship he had thought was lost to him, and a way for him to forget, for a few hours, his pain.
It was signed, simply Jason.
Oh, that was manipulative! That last was clearly an attempt to win her sympathy; quite calculated to appeal to every noble instinct she might possess. And as such, it succeeded, even as she recognized it for what it was. She actually found herself admiring a man who had the strength and audacity to use his infirmity as a weapon. Most men would never have admitted to needing anyone or anything—Jason Cameron was clearly a craftsman who did not scruple at using whatever came to his hand, including his own weakness.
But she was also very much aware of the fact that of her two options—to go or to stay—this was by far the most attractive. There was no reason to suppose that this time, Jason Cameron was telling anything other than the truth. His tale was so fantastic that, strangely enough, it rang truer than the tale of the two precocious children.
He had treated her well up to now; why should that cease? He clearly had wealth; what would he want with her other than her services as a scholar? Money would gain the cooperative company of a professional courtesan for even the most hideous man in the world. He would not get that from her by any means other than coercion. All the arguments she had used back in Chicago to persuade herself to take this position still held true.
She put down the note; considered the room she sat in, the clothing she wore, the books on the table beside her. Her self-confidence returned, and she began to think that she might well be the equal of Jason Cameron, even in manipulation.
If this was a gilded cage, why not abide in it for a while? Where else did she have to go—and what else had she longed to do, but use her mind and her skills in pursuit of learning? He could not keep her if she was determined to leave. She was certain that she was clever enough to outwit any attempt to trap her here.
She picked up the end of the speaking tube, coughed to clear her throat, and sent her first words into it.
“Mister Cameron?”
A moment later, the reply; hoarse, rather deep. And to substantiate the story, it did sound like the voice of someone who had suffered an accident of some devastation. “Miss Hawkins? Have you come to a decision, then?”
“I believe I have, sir.” She took a deep breath, then committed herself. I have what he wants and needs, she reminded herself. This is still a seller’s market. “I see no reason why I should not continue as your employee under the new requirements that you have outlined to me.”
Another question occurred to her—then why insist on a woman? Why not a male? But the answer was obvious. He could not, dared not, trust a man. A male would be all too likely to take advantage of the situation, perhaps overpower the secretary and thus control Jason Cameron’s life and fortune. Though Paul du Mond was not precisely robust, no woman would be able to physically overwhelm him. Thus, only a woman would be safe to trust.
Once again, then, I hold the cards.
A deep sigh, as if Jason Cameron had been holding his breath, waiting for her answer. “I should add something to this, in all honesty, Miss Hawkins. My path of research is very—outré. Very odd. You may find yourself reading books that are unpleasant to you. Perhaps even shocking.”
Her self-confidence was soaring, to the point where she actually felt giddy. She surprised herself—and possibly him—by bursting into laughter. “Mister Cameron—I have read the unexpurgated Ovid, the love poems of Sappho, the Decameron in the original, and a great many texts in Greek and Latin histories that were not thought fit for proper gentlemen to read, much less proper ladies. I know in precise detail what Caligula did to, and with his sisters, and I can quote it to you in Latin or in my own translation if you wish. I am interested in historical truth, and truth in history is often unpleasant and distasteful to those of fine sensibility. I frankly doubt that you will produce anything to shock me.”
There was silence for a moment, then a chuckle. It sounded like an appreciative chuckle. “Miss Hawkins, I am rightfully rebuked. You are a scholar, and there is nothing that shocks the mind of a scholar except censorship and falsehood. I confess that I was not aware that you were so widely read, and I commend you for your self-possession. You will find my research odd, then, but not shocking.”
“Thank you,” she said simply, glowing a little with pleasure at his words.
“I have, in the light of this, a new contract for you. You are evidently a lady of much stamina, and one who understands the need that drives the seeker of knowledge when the trail is hot. I had intended to ask you to read for a fixed number of hours in a day. I would like to change that—and ask you to read for as long in a day as I need you to. If you can put up with the whims of my research, and if you can bear with the fact that I shall need you for long and difficult hours, I shall see to it that you have all the resources you require to pursue your own goals of research, in addition to all else I promised you. In fact, I shall have all my recent book catalogs of rare and antique volumes sent to you for you to look through and make selections, and I shall have them purchased for you. Is that a bargain, scholar to scholar, equal to equal?”
If he had been Mephistopheles, he could not have offered her a bargain to tempt her more. If he had been able to read her mind, he would not have phrased it any differently. It was an offer she could not possibly reject. “It is a bargain, sir,” she said, immediately. “And as I see you have had some books left here for me, I am prepared to begin reading immediately, to seal our agreement.”
Was it her imagination, or did she sense elation on the other end of that long tube?
“Thank you,” came the answer. “And—if you will forgive an impertinence, before you begin, I have a final question for you.”
“You may ask,” she replied, “but I will not guarantee to answer, if it is that impertinent.” A bit bold, perhaps, but had he not just addressed her as equal to equal? Let him take what he had offered.
“Miss Hawkins—are you sentimentally attached to those garments you brought with you?” There was a plaintive, pained quality to his words that brought another laugh bubbling up out of her throat, which she suppressed only just in time. His poor, bruised sensibilities! It was the question of an aesthete confronted with an object of terrible banality stuck squarely in the middle of an otherwise matchless vista.
In other words—he really doesn’t want to know that there is anything shabby trailing about in his beautiful home. Poor man! He’s probably afraid that I’ll disgrace him if anyone should see me! She giggled again. He’s probably dreading the censure of that terribly superior secretary of his if he permits a dowd to stalk his exquisite halls.
“Mister Cameron, I am not,” she said firmly. “Provided that I may keep these replacements that you have graciously provided for me, you may do with them what you will. Burn them, bury them, use them for cleaning rags; I will not be sorry to see them gone. They are inferior specimens of their type, have nothing of grace or charm to recommend them, and deserve an ignoble end. Frankly, I bought them because I had to, not because I wanted to. My taste, sir, is better than that.”
Another sigh of relief. “Miss Cameron, once again you please and surprise me. If you would take up the first volume in the stack and begin at the place marked?”
The leather-bound book was without a title or any other identifying marks; the ribbon bookmark within fell at a new chapter. Somewhat to her surprise, it was hand-printed, in medieval French. Within a few words, she knew what it was, although such books had never been of interest to her. It was a treatise on alchemy, full of maunderings about “Red Lions” and “White Eagles,” “male and female principles,” and allusions to “Hermetic Mysteries.” Despite obvious flaws in grammar and syntax, she read it precisely as it had been written, for these tomes were often encoded, and to correct what was there might render it indecipherable.
Alchemy! I wonder what his “researches” are? Not a search for the Philosopher’s Stone, surely; any man as acquainted with science and rational thinking as a man in his position must surely know what nonsense does not need a Philosopher’s Stone to render him wealthy; he already has wealth in abundance.
Then again—perhaps he was interested in the occult aspect of such things. He had suffered a terrible accident—would someone in his place not crave some supernatural remedy to his injury, since science could not supply one?
She came to the end of the section and was about to continue when Cameron spoke.
“No more,” he said, sounding resigned. “I remembered that passage imperfectly; there is nothing there I can use. Pray, go on with the next volume. You will have to translate for me, if you would be so kind.”
The second book confirmed her guess, as it was another treatise on an occult subject, this time printed in Gothic black-letter German, and of a more recent date. She read as she was accustomed to, given an unfamiliar text; when she encountered a phrase she did not immediately understand, she read it aloud in the original, then puzzled it through aurally. Cameron did not correct this habit; evidently, he approved of it, for once or twice he suggested an alternative translation that made a great deal more sense in the context of the book—though not a great deal of sense in terms of the real world.
“The next section,” she said, when she had finished the portion marked, “is entitled ‘An den Seele’—if that is of any interest to you?”
She was beginning to enjoy her new duty, odd though the subject of her reading was. “Not particularly,” was the response. “Pray continue with the next volume. May I say you have a particularly pleasant voice? This is proving to be as pleasurable as it is instructive.”
“Thank you,” she replied, surprising herself with a blush. By this time, the light outside had faded into dusk, although she had not thought it that late when she broke her fast. She must have slept far longer than she thought. On the other hand, if these were Jason Cameron’s preferred hours, she might as well get used to them now.
She was halfway through the stack of books when Cameron himself called a halt. She reckoned that she must have read at least a hundred pages in that time, perhaps more. Her throat was certainly getting dry, and she was conscious of increasing hunger.
“Your voice is a trifle hoarse; I detect that you are in need of a rest. Have you any notion what time it is?”
“Candidly, no,” she admitted. “I am afraid I do not possess a watch, and there doesn’t seem to be a clock in these rooms.” It had not occurred to her before, but that was a rather odd omission.
But apparently, it was an accidental one, for he made a sound of chagrin. “I do apologize; I shall remedy both conditions immediately.” There was a sound of scraping, as if something heavy had been dragged across the floor. It did not come from overhead, but rather through the speaking tube only, which told her that wherever Cameron’s rooms were, they were not above her own. “It appears to be approximately nine o’clock,” he said after a lengthy pause. “Would you prefer to dine in your rooms or in the dining room? There are no other guests, nor, since my accident, are there likely to be, but you may care for a change of scene.”
The thought of sitting at a long, empty table was a bit daunting. She shivered just a little; she would feel precisely like a heroine in a haunted romance. “In my rooms, if you please,” she told him. “In fact, if it is convenient, I should like to take all my meals here, except for the odd alfresco picnic lunch if the weather is fine. I am in the habit of taking long walks,” she added, warningly. “Exercise is valuable for sharpening the mind.”
If he was going to try to keep her penned up in here, he would surely object at this point. But he didn’t. “Healthy mind, healthy body, hmm?” he said with amusement. “The Greeks would approve, and so do I. It is quite convenient, actually, and I am sure my servants would prefer the arrangement. Simply let my housekeeper know with a note if you intend such excursions, and there will be a luncheon made up and waiting at the front door. I shall also see that you have a rough map of the area. You don’t by any chance ride, do you?”
“Actually, no,” she admitted. “I was raised in Chicago and never had occasion to learn.”
“What, so you are not perfect, after all?” he replied with a hint of mockery. “A pity; my horse could use another to exercise him besides Paul and the stableman. Well, you shall have to content yourself with enjoying my little wilderness afoot. I am afraid I cannot recommend my steed for the inexperienced; he requires a rider who knows what she is about. And for now—I suggest that you might stretch your limbs in exploring the house a bit while I have Paul organize a dinner for both of us, and remedy the shocking lack of timepieces in your rooms.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, getting to her feet a bit stiffly. “I believe I shall do precisely that.”
Just at the moment, she felt a decided aversion to encountering the so-superior secretary; on the whole, if she met him, she would rather it was on neutral ground rather than in her own rooms. Besides, this was an open invitation to be as inquisitive as she cared to, and devil if she wasn’t going to take advantage of it!
For one thing, she rather thought she would like to try and puzzle out just where her employer was speaking from. It wasn’t from overhead, and yet the voice coming from the speaking tube was strong and clear, so his own rooms could not be located too far away.
Directly beneath her, perhaps? That would be logical. It would also be reassuring. She really would rather that he were not above or to either side. Secret passages were one thing; peepholes, however, were ridiculously easy to contrive. He might be able to spy on her from any direction but below; even an occultist would have difficulty seeing through a thick Oriental rug laid down over carpet as the ones in her rooms were.
She left her door standing open so that Paul du Mond would know that she was not in her rooms and considered her direction.
Down the hall, I suppose. I might as well discover what is on this floor before I go on.
The hallway proved to be singularly devoid of entertainment. The doors leading from it all opened on suites as lushly appointed as her own, and all were unlocked. Each had a unique flavor or color-scheme; one was Chinese and a pale celadon in color; one East Indian and done up in gold and brown; one appeared to have a Russian theme, complete with icons and massive samovar and the scheme there was red and black. The remaining two suites were very nearly the twins to her own, save that one was decorated in stark green and silver, which she found rather cold and repellent, and one was decorated in Cameron’s trademark red and gold, which she found uncomfortably lush. Living in the former would have felt like living underwater, living in the latter like living in a jewel box. On the whole, she was quite happy with the choice that had been made for her.
That disposed of this floor. Where Paul du Mond resided, she did not yet know, but at least there was no possibility of peepholes from either side.
Nor, it seemed, from above; the stairs upward terminated in a series of dark attics which she did not care to penetrate. So, that left below—and there were two floors to explore yet that she knew of.
The second floor was something of a disappointment, and yet it did tell her that this was, indeed, where Jason Cameron laired. Beyond the door on the landing was a kind of anteroom, decorated with black marble statuary in niches. Again, the color scheme was red and gold, with three doors leading from it, one in each wall; all three were locked.
At least now I know where you are, Jason Cameron, she thought with satisfaction as she turned and descended the stairs to the first floor.
By the time she finished exploring that floor, she had the feeling she ought to be returning to her post, or she was likely to find a cold collation instead of a warm dinner. She was more than impressed by what she found on the first floor, which was much more extensive than the third floor would have indicated, as there were three single-storied wings off the main building. She guessed that there might be as much as twelve thousand square feet of floorspace here; she had been in museums that were smaller. Anything that a man of wealth and leisure could possibly have wished was in this house—from a grand ballroom and music room to a smoking room and billiard parlor. The library was enough to make her gasp and grow faint with envy and anticipation. She was doubly glad now that she had indicated a preference for taking her meals in her room; the dining room was echoingly huge, and decorated with the heads of trophy game animals. She was quite sure that she would have quickly developed indigestion with all those glassy eyes staring down at her while she ate.
There was also a conservatory and greenhouse, full of strange plants. That would be a pleasant place to sit or walk when the weather was uncooperative.
There was at least one lamp lit in every room except the ballroom and greenhouse; it must be the whole duty of one servant to see to them. It was a pity that this place was too far from the city to receive either gas or the electric main; she pitied the poor soul who went about cleaning, filling, lighting and extinguishing all those lamps.
On the whole, living here would be rather like living in a palace. She had heard that these western rail barons had built themselves manors to rival the Medicis, and now she was certain this was nothing less than the truth. Why, the expense in lamp oil alone must rival the total of all of the household bills of any normal household put together!
She hurried her steps as she turned back towards her own suite; the place was so empty it seemed haunted, and just at the moment she wanted the cozy walls of her own domain around her. Obviously, Cameron did not ask the servants to keep his hours; they must all have retired for the night. Perhaps there was a separate building as servants’ quarters. That might be where Paul du Mond resided.
When she entered her own rooms again, she heaved a sigh of relief, both because she had not encountered du Mond on the way, and because after the huge and lifeless rooms below, this suite seemed a very haven of warmth and welcome.
There were two additions immediately visible: a striking clock on the mantelpiece between two silver candlesticks, and one of the domed serving trays. She seated herself at her little table with alacrity as her stomach had the bad manners to growl, hoping that she had not tarried too long.
Either she had somehow missed du Mond and the servants by mere minutes, or Cameron’s delving into alchemical processes had uncovered some arcane way of keeping food perfect and piping hot for hours. And, perhaps, he had divined that with a “masculine” mind, her culinary preferences were “masculine” as well. This was no dainty lady’s dinner of toast and lobster salad; a savory and hearty platter of rare roast beef, new potatoes, and mixed grilled vegetables awaited her appetite, with caramel flan and a good red wine as accompaniments. There were also a pot of tea, sugar bowl and a cream pitcher waiting at the fire, presumably for the ease of her throat, later.
It occurred to her, as she finished her meal, that it was just as well that she was in the habit of taking hearty exercise. If she continued to eat like this without those long walks, she would soon resemble the plump upholstered sofa!
Now would have been a pleasant time to settle in with a good history and read for leisure—but her duty called, and she would be reading in any case, though it was not what she would have chosen. She covered the remains of the meal with the domed lid and returned to her station.
But with the books, she found another new addition, so small she had initially overlooked it. There was a red Morocco leather box on the table and when she opened it, she found a lady’s chatelaine watch within, complete with neckchain. Both were unique, and clearly from a fine jeweler’s stock; the yellow-gold case of the watch was inlaid in white and rose gold, in a lovely pattern of climbing roses; the chain was a triple strand of braided rose gold, yellow gold, and white gold. This was no “gold-filled bargain” from Sears, Roebuck; it was an expensive piece of fine jewelry.
For a moment, she was inclined to tell Cameron that she could not accept the gift—Oh, why not? It wasn’t inscribed with a sentiment; there was no note with it. For all I know, this is the kind of thing he gives his housekeeper for her birthday. Why balk at a trifle like a watch, when he had already given her an entire new wardrobe?
She picked up the next book in the pile—the ones she had already read were gone—and spoke into the silence. “Mr. Cameron?”
“Miss Hawkins?” the answer came, promptly. “I trust you enjoyed your explorations.”
“Very much so. Your home is—is stunning beyond words,” she replied honestly. “I cannot imagine that anyone in this area has anything to rival it.”
A chuckle. “Oh, there are other homes in San Francisco that are larger—but I flatter myself to think that mine is in better taste. You would not believe the incredible pile my partner Crocker has constructed. I hope you will forgive the watch—I know it is a bit ostentatious, but I happened to have it on hand and could not resist the play on your Christian name. If you would rather have something plainer, I shall have to have Paul look further in the safe—but this does suit your new wardrobe, you will have to admit.”
“You have me at a disadvantage, for I must agree with you.” Oh, she was enjoying fencing with words with this man! He was probably unprincipled in many ways, possibly without morals to speak of, but he was witty and intelligent, and he gave her the accolade of treating her as equal in intelligence. “There; now you know another weakness of mine, I am vain, and I fear, greedy as a child for pretty things. Greedy enough to accept your ostentatious gift. Thank you.” There. I have said it, so you cannot assume superiority.
“You are welcome.” Another chuckle. “It is very refreshing to find someone who knows when blunt and plain speaking can be as clever a weapon as dissimulation. Touché. Now, if you are ready to begin?”
“I am,” she said, with a chuckle of her own, and resumed her task, pouring herself a cup of tea and adding cream and sugar in the English style, to ease her voice.
It was past one by both the watch and the clock when she finished, and she was suppressing yawns as she closed the last book. “Miss Hawkins, you give me cause to rejoice that you accepted my offer,” came the harsh voice from the speaking tube. “And now, I shall leave you to your virtuous rest. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Cameron,” she replied, as she drank the last of her tea. “I am looking forward with curiosity to see what you shall have unearthed for me to read to you tomorrow.”
If he chuckled at that sally, she did not hear it; she had already moved to blow out the lamps and leave the fire to burn itself out.
Once again, a silk nightdress had been laid out for her on the invitingly turned-down bed. She wavered between bed and bath, and finally her yawns overcame her. I can bathe in the morning, she told herself, as she stepped out of her clothing and left it lying, neatly folded, on the chair beside her bed. The cool silk of the nightdress against her skin only confirmed the rightness of her decision in her own mind.
This might have been a mistake—but she didn’t think so. If Jason Cameron happened to be slightly crazed, well, then so were thousands of others, who went to Spiritualist meetings and flocked to hear Madame Blavatsky. What harm was there in his seeking some redress for an intolerable situation? And what harm was there in her aiding and abetting that search? Clearly, she amused him, and that in and of itself was healthy for him. Better that he should take amusement in her audacity than that he should sink into apathy and despair.
With that comforting thought, she fell asleep, with the bed curtains drawn securely about her and the watch ticking quietly away beside her glasses on the nightstand.