that one need not try to find a way to empty it in the moving train. A bar of castile soap lay in a porcelain cradle next to the basin. Above the basin was a matching porcelain ewer with a spigot in the bottom. She touched the spigot and was rewarded by a stream of fresh, warm water.
Without hesitation she took off her sateen waist and washed and rinsed her face, neck and arms-twice, because she was appalled to see that after the first washing, the water was gray with grime. She could not wash her hair, but at least she could damp it down a little and comb it out-and she did, bracing herself against the basin as the train twisted and turned on its journey. She rebraided it and wound it about her head in a kind of crown rather than making the French twist and pompadour she usually wore.
There was one clean waist in her valise; she had been saving it, in the faint hope that she would find a way to change before she met her employer. A remnant of her former fortune, it was of much-mended taffeta silk in a deep rose. In the soft light of lamps and lanterns, the mended places would not be too obvious. She also had fresh stockings, but it would be impossible to change the rest of her underclothing without somehow extracting herself from petticoats and corset.
She put the stockings and the waist on, and immediately felt much better. To finally don clean clothing after so many days in the same outfit was pure bliss. She procured her toothpowder and brush from the valise, and completed the process of cleaning at least the upper portion of her body.
She regarded her reflection in the mirror beside the basin, and decided that it could have been worse. She was exhausted, and looked it, but she also looked respectable now, and not as if she had been sleeping in her clothing, in trains and on benches in railway stations, for endless days.
She left her valise where it was, and re-entered the car, curious now to see what lay on that silver salver. She lifted the silver dome lid, and gasped with pleasure.
Fresh grapes, something she had not seen, let alone tasted, in weeks-and with them, two kinds of cheese, and bread with a chewy crust and, when she tore off an experimental bit, a curiously tangy flavor. She helped herself to a light wine from the cabinet and made an unashamed glutton of herself.
A nap would have done her a world of good, but when she reclined on the lounge, she discovered that her treacherous mind would not be quiet, manufacturing all manner of suspicions, coming up with reasons why the apparently benevolent Mister Cameron was in truth a monster.
This could all be some kind of trap. The food could be drugged. Cameron might be a white slaver He could have brought you here to debauch you.
Nonsense, she replied to the slightly hysterical thought. Why go to all this trouble and expense to obtain one woman from Chicago, when there were hundreds well, dozens, anyway-of 'soiled doves' right at hand in San Francisco, all much more experienced at-at pleasing a man than she. Surely a man as rich as Cameron would not lack in charming companions of the demimonde, all eager to serve his every wish!
Yes, but perhaps he wants someone acquainted with the uncensored Ovid-
But the idea of the apocryphal Jason Cameron importing a scholar from Chicago to indulge him in Roman debaucheries was too absurd even for her suspicious nature.
He doesn't even know what I look like! she told herself, trying not to giggle. He could be getting someone like Lydia Bullfinch, all bones and brains and hair! And the idea of Lydia in a sheer Roman chemise, reclining sylph-like on a couch, did send her into hysterical giggles.
She must have finally relaxed enough to doze, for the next thing she knew, the little train was slowing with an unpleasant metallic squeal of brakes, quite enough to wake even the soundest sleeper. She sat up and smoothed down her shirtwaist and skirt, although she hated even to touch the latter, as it felt gritty and faintly gummy.
Once the train had come to a complete stop, there was a knock at the door of the carriage. She rose to her feet as a man entered, without waiting for her to answer.
He might well have figured as a creature from one of the Bronte books. He was a little taller than she, slender, and dark. His dark hair was long by the standards of Chicago, just at his shoulders, and cut to wave in a quite romantic fashion. His saturnine face held a pair of brooding brown eyes above chiseled cheekbones and a decidedly Romanesque nose. Only in his chin did he lack true romantic grace-it jutted just a bit too firmly outward, as if he was inclined to use it as a ram against those who dared to get in his way. He was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, fine shirt, and tie with a conservative stripe.
'Mister Cameron?' she said, instantly, holding out her hand. 'I am Rosalind Hawkins-'
'I am pleased to meet you, Miss Hawkins, but I fear I am not Jason Cameron,' the man replied, taking her hand and clasping it briefly before letting it go. His voice was a deep tenor, with the intimation of power behind it, but no discernible accent. 'Master Cameron is my employer also, and he sent me to bring you up to the house. My name is Paul du Mond, and I am his personal secretary and valet.' Now he smiled, although it was not an expression that brought any warmth to his face. 'You must call me by my given name.'
'Of course,' she replied, feeling rebuffed, although she could not imagine why she felt that way. 'Please call me-Rosalind.'
Dashed if she would let this cold fellow call her 'Rose'!
