The Fire Rose em-1 Read online

  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 toothpowder 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 wised 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 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 a
s 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.