Mercedes Lackey - The Fire Rose

She was too tired to be alarmed at the way people kept stealing in and out of the rooms without her noticing. In fact, she was too tired to think of anything other than falling into that wonderful bed-putting her glasses carefully on the bedside table and blowing out the lamp-pulling the bed curtains around to shut out the morning light-and pulling the covers up over her head.

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 grey 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 be in the wardrobes and chest, she was not inclined to miss her skirts and waists from Sears, Roebuck and 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 rail-spur 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.