Mercedes Lackey: The Fire Rose

Petticoats were the same mixture of luxury and thrift, depending entirely on whether or not she had been able to mend them. Her shoes were still good, although they would need resoling soon; her walking-skirt and shirtwaist ready-made, from a store that was far from fashionable, and of fabric that could be laundered at home. All of her expensive gowns had been sold long ago to dealers in second-hand clothing. Much of her own wardrobe had come from the stores of those same worthies.

I told Papa I didn't care about dresses, that I would rather have books ... I wonder if he believed me. Did he ever guess how much I missed the silks and velvets?

She wondered, too, what her new employer would think. Or would he even notice the sad state of her wardrobe?

She arranged her hair-her one real beauty-into a neat Frenchbraid, and set a pathetic little excuse for a hat squarely on the result, securing it with a dagger-like hatpin. Putting Jason Cameron's letter into her reticule, she stepped out into the hallway.

She would need to contact Mr. Cameron to let him know that she was accepting the post, so that he didn't hire someone else while she was making the arduous journey across the country, Her ticket was really a series of tickets, a rainbow of colored pasteboard, each of them for a different pair of cities. Evidently one did not simply "get on" a train in Chicago and arrive at San Francisco to "get off" the same train. From Chicago, one went to Kansas City; there one boarded a train from a second rail company bound for Los Angeles. Once there, a third and final change of rail companies took one to the final destination. But within the three stages, there were other options, other changes of trains, depending upon what day one traveled. It was all very bewildering.

No doubt-she must get in touch with Mr. Cameron, and the only one who knew how to do that was Professor Cathcart. So she must venture back into the beloved and hallowed halls of learning and endure a veritable barrage of memories in order to find the Professor himself.

She bundled herself in her old wool coat and slipped down the stairs and out the front door without meeting anyone. She walked to the University, since she could not afford street-car fare, much less a cab. It was not much more than a mile, and she was used to walking. It was going to be another grim, grey day, but at least it wasn't raining anymore. What would the weather be like in San Francisco?

Wasn't California supposed to be hot, even tropical? She occupied her thoughts with such speculations until she reached the University campus, ignoring the shouts of a group of young men playing football in the Quadrangle.

Every step brought out another memory that hurt, and she felt like the little mermaid in the Hans Anderson tale, who felt as if she walked upon knives with every step she took on her conjured legs. Somehow she found Professor Cathcart, who took one look at her and insisted that she sit down while he sent for some coffee. She had always ignored his secretary before this; now, acutely sensitive to women in subservient positions, she watched the drab woman carefully. I must learn to move and talk like that, she thought, paying careful attention to the little things that made Cathcart's secretary so inconspicuous. I will have no choice but to learn ...

"Are you certain that you wish to pursue this offer?" the Professor was saying anxiously, as he pressed a cup of coffee into her cold hands. "Are you positive?"

Beneath his questioning, she detected something else, and after a moment, she identified it with some surprise.

Relief. He was already regretting his hasty impulse in setting himself up as her protector and rescuer, and he wanted her off his hands as quickly as possible!

Resentment built, and was quickly vanquished by weariness. This should have been expected. The Professor, a confirmed bachelor, had suddenly found himself burdened with an unwanted female who was not even related to him. Yes, he was her mentor and teacher, but he had never expected to find himself caring for her mundane needs, only the intellectual ones. Now that he had the time for second thoughts, he was probably cursing himself for last night's visit. If he had waited a few days, she would have been gone, and he would not have felt the need to find out what had happened to her.

If she should take Cameron's offer, she would not only be off his hands, but halfway across the continent. He would never have to bother about her again. He could soothe his conscience with the content of Cameron's letter, which promised a secure and fulfilling position. He had urged thought and caution, she had taken both, and he was under no obligation to interfere further-or to assist her in any way.

"Yes," she said, with weary resignation. "I am sure. I would like to notify Mr. Cameron that I will accept his position, but there was no address on the envelope."

"I can take care of that," Professor Cathcart replied a bit too eagerly. "I'll have him wired that you're coming, in fact, so that he doesn't hire anyone else." There was no doubt; he was unhappy about his current obligation to her and wanted it done with.

"I don't want to put you to any trouble," she began, hiding her bitterness at his reaction.

"It won't be any trouble," he said heartily. "I'll just send a message to the rail office, and they'll see to it all. While I'm at it, I'll have them check the timetables for the correct schedule-you do want to leave tomorrow, don't you?"

She shrugged. It was obvious that her welcome here was at an end. "Why not?" she replied, which sent another look of relief across his face. "It's not as if I have anything to stop for. My research-well, what's the use in pretending? I'll never finish the degree, so I'll hardly need my notes. Perhaps one of your other students could use them."

Professor Cathcart made a token protest, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it. Not when both of them knew that she was only speaking the truth. The sour taste of anger and despair rose in her throat, and she stood up, hastily.

"I'll go back to the boarding-house and set things in order," she said, suddenly feeling as if she could not breathe properly in the dusty office. "If you could have that railway schedule sent over-I know you are busy, Professor, you can't be spending all your time with me when you have students who will be completing their degrees to help-"

He flushed, but did not contradict her; he merely fumbled in his pocket and pressed some money into her hand. "This is for a cab in the morning, and one now," he stammered hastily. "I'm sorry it isn't more. Your ticket entitles you to meals on the train, so you should be fine ..."

He babbled on for a little longer, and she finally fled his office to avoid his embarrassment. And she did not take a cab back to the boardinghouse; every penny in her purse was one more than she had expected to have, and she was not going to waste those pennies with frivolities like cabs. She had no choice, though, in the morning; there was no way that she was going to get herself and her heavy trunk to the train station without a cab-unless she was lucky enough to find a cart and driver for hire at that hour.

When she reached the boardinghouse, not only was the schedule waiting, but a telegraph from Jason Cameron himself. In the terse words required by telegraphy, he expressed pleasure that she had chosen to take up the position, promised her needs would be met on the way, and assured her that she would be greeted by his people at the Pacifica switch.

What, she wondered, is a "Pacifica switch?"

It must mean something to a rail baron, she reasoned. That would have to do for now.

After missing breakfast, she did not intend to skip any other meals although her appetite had vanished again; she managed a luncheon of tea, wafer-thin ham and thick toast, and joined the other girls for a dinner of potato-laden stew with astonishingly little meat in it, more thick slices of bread, and a bread-pudding. On the whole, if this was the daily fare here, she was just as glad not to be staying. A diet so starch-heavy would quickly bloat even the slimmest person.