Fire Rose
Chapter 2
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 only 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 eye 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 spumed 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
affrontery 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 wrinlded his brow in puzzlement. Evidently his
sole exposure to literature had consisted of what lay
between the covers of the McGuffy’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,
fiances 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
rightside 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
flyleaf 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.
Now 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 drummers
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 land-slips 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 will 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 hand-cart
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 sylph-like 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 vely 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 wallcoverings 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 night-time. 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, and she let her feet take her to it as in a dream. 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 grey, 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 bedcurtains around to shut
out the morning light — and pulling the covers up over
her head.
—Reprinted from Fire Rose by Mercedes Lackey, by permission of BAEN Books, Copyright © 1995 by Mercedes Lackey. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.