Now he's just like a big dog; I believe he might even let me ride him in the paddock if I only knew how to ride.
She hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed that she did not come to visit him for three days.
She stifled a yawn behind her hand; this was actually morning, and she had gotten no more than four hours of sleep. Jason had been very clear about her instructions, though, and he had explained the reason for them. "There is only a given amount of time when the main track is clear," he had told her. "If we want to have the proper margin of safety between trains, there is only one time today that we can insert my private carriage on the track. You must be at the platform by ten, or you will be waiting until late at night to get into the city. You would be exhausted, and the area down by the station can be a bit rough after dark."
She rubbed her eyes with a gloved finger, and stifled another yawn, then smiled at the hand as she lowered it. Kidskin gloves! She hadn't had a pair of kidskin gloves in ages; she'd had to make do with knit woolen gloves that had been darned and redarned so many times there wasn't much left of the original material on the fingers.
She had a trunk, not a valise, and a brand-new trunk at that. A Salamander had transported it down here for her, and a human porter would presumably be taking care of it once she reached the city. Someone named "Snyder" would be waiting for her at the station. It had all been arranged effortlessly, so far as she could tell.
Wealth can certainly work miracles of efficiency. Well, she would enjoy all of this while she had access to it; there was certainly no reason why she should not. There was no telling when Cameron would find his answer—or decide that it was not to be found—and dismiss her. She only wished that she knew exactly what he was looking for.
A plume of white smoke above the trees and the distinct chuffing of an engine in the distance alerted her to the arrival of that odd abbreviated engine and carriage that Jason used for his own excursions. In a few minutes it appeared through the gap in the trees, and groaned to a stop with a creaking and squealing of metal. They were backing it into place—she knew there was a place where it could turn around farther down the line, but apparently they didn't want to take the time to do that today.
As it pulled into place alongside the platform, one of the men operating it jumped down out of the cabin to help her; the other peered around the side of the cab and waved. To her pleasure, it was the same two men as the last time, and they evidently remembered her.
The one who had been so friendly before aided her into the carriage with a bow and a flourish. "Glad to see you again, ma'am," he told her, grinning as happily as if he had arranged the whole thing. "I reckon you're getting along all right here."
She laughed. "Quite all right," she told him, as he lifted her trunk as if it weighed next to nothing and stowed it in the rear of the carriage. "But I am ready for a little holiday."
"We'll have you in the city in no time, ma'am," he told her as he turned and headed back towards the engine. "Track's clear as a bell, and the weather's grand." He jumped up into his own place beside the engineer before she had a chance to reply, and she took that as a signal that she should get inside the carriage and take a seat.
She had wondered if fatigue and contrast had made her memory paint a much rosier picture of the carriage than reality, but she realized as she surveyed the interior that she should have known better than to doubt its luxury. It was Jason Cameron's, after all, and he never seemed to skimp on anything. The stove in the front part of the carriage was burning well, heating the whole interior until it was just as cozy as her own sitting room. The carpet and furniture were as clean and as free of soot as a proper dowager's parlor, and if anything, the levels of sophistication and luxury were more evident by daylight.
The vehicle began to move with a little lurch. She sat down quickly on the divan, and loosened the collar of her cape. Beyond the windows, as the train picked up speed, an endless wall of tall, green trees flowed by.
I wish the landscape was a little more varied here. She stifled another yawn. I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to lie down. There isn't much to see, and I don't think I can keep my eyes open if I try to read. She changed her position, lying down to rest her head for just a little—
And the next thing she knew, something had awakened her from a deep, sound sleep, and the train was slowing.
It might have been the increase in noise that had awakened her, for when she sat up and peered out a window, she saw that they had reached the station, and it was quite a busy place, fully as busy as the one in Chicago.
No more than half an hour later, she was seated in an open carriage across from the very proper gentleman who had introduced himself as "Snyder." The mysterious Mr. Snyder proved to be the butler and valet at Cameron's townhouse. He had brought with him this small carriage that had been hired for her convenience.
The fresh air managed to wake her up, and the rest in the carriage had certainly helped bring her back to her normal state of alertness. Snyder was no Paul du Mond; he was very proper in his manners, but gave her an impression of intelligence and shrewdness. She noted that he was giving her a very close, if relatively unobtrusive, examination as they rolled along, and she returned the favor.
He was a tall, thin man, balding, with the demeanor she would have associated with a "superior" servant from the East Coast, although his accent had the faint drawl she knew was characteristic of the Southeast. She wondered where Cameron had found him, for here was certainly a superior servant of the old school. And had he always been in charge of the townhouse, or had Snyder once been the ruler of the Cameron mansion as well?
"Master Cameron normally makes use of cabs when he is in the city, ma'am," Snyder said, breaking the silence. "But I thought that would be rather inconvenient for a lady wishing to shop."
She thought of a number of replies, but settled for the simplest. "That was extremely thoughtful of you, Mr. Snyder," she told him, hoping that she sounded appropriately sincere. "Thank you very much."
He eyed her a bit longer, then asked, hesitantly, "Forgive me. This is hardly polite, but—might I ask, Miss Hawkins, just what your position is in Master Cameron's household? It has not been clarified to me."
It's not polite, and he must be in agony over it! Poor man. I don't quite fit into the hierarchy, the way I would if I were the tutor I was originally told I would be. She raised one eyebrow to show him that she was conversant enough with proper manners to know the question was impertinent, then answered him with the same directness he had used. "I am Mr. Cameron's research assistant, Mr. Snyder; I have both a Bachelor and Master's degree and I am very close to achieving my Doctorate. I am actually closer to a colleague than a member of the household, although he is technically my employer as well as yours. I came here from Chicago at his request, interrupting my own studies, because he was in need of my specific skills. He has some various papers and books he needs translated, and I am an expert in ancient languages."
That was close enough to the truth to pass muster without making her feel guilty.