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 nightthings 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.
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 bedcurtains 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.