And since color seemed to play a prominent role in Magick, perhaps they might be as useful as anything else she had bought today.
Then, since she had bought the art supplies, she acquired watercolor paper and Bristol board as well. She felt positively giddy as she led the shop-clerk out to the waiting carriage with the brown-paper-wrapped parcels, and settled herself back into her seat, surrounded by wonderful, heavy packages. I haven't spent this much money all at once in—in my life! It was intoxicating as strong drink. The idea, to be able to walk into a shop and order anything one pleased! Even at the best of times, she had never been able to do that!
"Shall I have these taken to the railway carriage, or do you need any of this now, ma'am?" Snyder asked, interrupting her reverie.
"Oh—" She rummaged about for two of the novels and one of the reference-works. "This is all I need for now; the rest can go. There's certainly no need to clutter up the house with them when I won't need them until I'm back with Mr. Cameron."
"I'll see to it." Snyder settled back into his seat with the air of a man who has done a good day's work; she clasped her hands over the books in her lap, and did the same.
Already the sun was descending into the sea, surrounded by thin, scarlet-tinged clouds, and the air was growing colder—and damper. She was glad of the fur cape; the dampness of the air made the chill more penetrating.
Snyder handed her out, and stayed to instruct the driver. She went up the steps of the townhouse unescorted, but the door opened before she could reach for the big, brass handle.
For a moment she expected to see a Salamander there, but it was only a perfectly human maid, who must have been watching for them. "Please follow me, miss?" the woman said—she was a little more mature than Rose had expected, actually about middle-age. Rose complied, going up the steps to the second floor, and a little ways down the hall, where the maid opened a door almost immediately at the top of the stairs for her. Behind it lay a very luxurious little bedroom, decorated in chaste blues and whites. The furnishings were neither masculine nor feminine, but struck a neat androgynous balance; it was obviously a guest-room, neatly calculated to make someone of either sex comfortable. There was a bright fire going in the fireplace—
But the illumination came from electrical lights on the wall! Rose stared at them as if they were Salamanders. She had not expected that—very few private homes were lit electrically. In fact, neither the bookshop nor the stationer's had been illuminated electrically, although they did have gaslight. Oh, I wish Cameron had these back at the mansion—no flickering, nothing but bright, even light! It would be so much easier to read by these!
But beside each of them, and on the bedside table and the dresser, was a reminder that electricity was not completely reliable; candles in sconces, and several small boxes of safety-matches.
Although the room was small, it was as comfortable as her suite back in Cameron's mansion. It held a divan placed perfectly for reading, a dressing-table and small chair, a bureau, a wardrobe, the bed and a bedside table. All were covered or upholstered in blue slub-satin that she suspected was raw silk; a deeper blue carpet covered the floor, and the walls were papered in blue and white stripes. A door in the far wall led to a bathroom; she peeked inside and saw it was shared with an identical bedroom on the other side. The maid had already put her things away in the dresser and wardrobe, and was hanging up her cape in the latter when she returned from exploring the bathroom.
"Dinner is at eight, miss, but if you'd like something now, I can bring some tea and something light—?" the maid said, her tone rising in inquiry.
"If it's not too much trouble—" Rose replied, torn between hunger and not wanting to be a bother.
"Oh, it's not. I'll bring a tray right up." The maid smiled at her. "There's always a nice pot of tea going. Do you prefer your tea served in the English style?"
"English, definitely, please. And if it would be less trouble, I would really rather have meals in my room." She'd gotten into the habit of taking cream and sugar in her tea because of all the British scholars visiting her father, and had never dropped it. Somehow it always seemed a much more substantial drink that way.
Though I wonder why Cameron's servants always have tea going, when at the mansion he has always sent me coffee at meals?
When the maid brought the promised tray up, she got part of her answer; it was a proper English lady's tea—tea, and tiny watercress and cream-cheese sandwiches, and the tea was "pukkah Khyber," (which, roughly translated, meant "the real, genuine, Khyber tea"), as black as sin without the cream and absolutely impossible to drink without sugar. Only the British ever drank tea like that, fully as powerful as the strongest coffee. Evidently Cameron's cook was from the Empire. Hence, the "Pot of tea."
The sandwiches weren't much, but they were enough to stave off hunger until the promised dinner hour. As she expected, it was less trouble for the servants to make up a tray and bring it to her; that meant they didn't have to set up the dining room for a single person. And when dinner arrived, she knew that the cook was not only British, he—or she—was from India, for the main course was a powerful curried beef dish. And she suspected that it was something of a test, to see how she would react.
It was just as well that she and her father had entertained so many British; she had acquired a taste for curry.
"Curried beef!" she exclaimed with pleasure. "And saffron rice! Oh, this is marvelous, I haven't had a good curry in so long!"
The maid actually beamed. "Oh, well, we're alone here so much lately that my Charlie tends to make what we like, and we've all gotten a taste for his curries. Master Cameron, he likes 'em fine, he even brags on Charlie to his guests. Mr. du Mond, though, he's got a tender stomach. He says."
From the tone of her voice and the expression she wore, Rose gathered that Paul du Mond was not beloved in this house.
"Charlie—that would be the cook?" Since the maid was lingering, Rose took the time for a bite. The curry bit back, precisely as it should, and the beef was so tender it practically melted on the fork. She did not have to feign an enthusiastic reaction. "Oh! Oh, this is perfect! This is pukkah curry! Please tell him I haven't had as good a meal since—since Professor Karamjit made curry for Papa with his own hands."
Now the maid blushed, and Rose knew then that she was definitely married to this "Charlie." She confirmed it with her next words. "Charlie's my husband; he's the cook, and he does the heavy lifting and all," she said, answering Rose's first question. "He's the one that brought in your trunk. He was in the Army in India, he was the orderly and cook for an English officer there, but there wasn't much to go home to when his duty was over, so he decided to try his luck as a cook here. It was come here to the States or Australia, and he didn't like the notion of sheepherding."
"Well, I'm glad he's here," Rose responded warmly. "Please tell him not to go to any great trouble about my meals; I'll have whatever you're having, because it's bound to be marvelous."
"Thank you, miss, I'll tell him. That will make things easier on us." The maid positively twinkled as she gathered up the tea-tray and prepared to leave. Her pleasure in Rose's compliments took ten years from her appearance. "Mr. du Mond, he's always so particular about special meals; it's not a lot of trouble when there's Master Cameron and his guests here, but when it's only one—" She shrugged. "If you like, you can leave your tray outside your door when you're done, and I'll be along to collect it when I close up for the night. Would you be having coffee or tea with breakfast?"