He had a point. If she had been presented with this situation in Chicago, she and Professor Cathcart would have discarded it as the fantasies of a lunatic.
She could leave, now, this moment. He had said as much. She did not need to stay here a moment longer.
But if she chose that escape, it meant to be set down, with two dollars to her name, in a strange city. That was not the best option open to her at the moment. Here—if Jason Cameron was more lunatic than this note suggested—she was subject to the will of one man, two at the most. Thus far there was no evidence that either Cameron or his man had any interest in any part of her but her mind. There was no reason to believe that she wasn't perfectly safe here. There were bolts on the doors, she could lock herself in—and although secret passageways and hidden doors in the walls were a hallmark of dreadful cheap novels, she knew enough about architecture to be aware that it was extremely difficult to construct such things, and even more difficult to conceal them.
I will be waiting to hear your decision in person, the letter concluded. Merely say what you will into the speaking-tube, and I will abide by your decision. But please take into your considerations that if you accept this employment, you will be granting a crippled and disfigured man an entry into a world of scholarship he had thought was lost to him, and a way for him to forget, for a few hours, his pain.
It was signed, simply, Jason.
Oh, that was manipulative! That last was clearly an attempt to win her sympathy; quite calculated to appeal to every noble instinct she might possess. And as such, it succeeded, even as she recognized it for what it was. She actually found herself admiring a man who had the strength and audacity to use his infirmity as a weapon. Most men would never have admitted to needing anyone or anything—Jason Cameron was clearly a craftsman who did not scruple at using whatever came to his hand, including his own weakness.
But she was also very much aware of the fact that of her two options—to go or to stay—this was by far the most attractive. There was no reason to suppose that this time, Jason Cameron was telling anything other than the truth. His tale was so fantastic that, strangely enough, it rang truer than the tale of the two precocious children.
He had treated her well up to now; why should that cease? He clearly had wealth; what would he want with her other than her services as a scholar? Money would gain the cooperative company of a professional courtesan for even the most hideous man in the world. He would not get that from her by any means other than coercion. All the arguments she had used back in Chicago to persuade herself to take this position still held true.
She put down the note; considered the room she sat in, the clothing she wore, the books on the table beside her. Her self-confidence returned, and she began to think that she might well be the equal of Jason Cameron, even in manipulation.
If this was a gilded cage, why not abide in it for a while? Where else did she have to go—and what else had she longed to do, but use her mind and her skills in pursuit of learning? He could not keep her if she was determined to leave. She was certain that she was clever enough to outwit any attempt to trap her here.
She picked up the end of the speaking-tube, coughed to clear her throat, and sent her first words into it.
"Mister Cameron?"
A moment later, the reply; hoarse, rather deep. And to substantiate the story, it did sound like the voice of someone who had suffered an accident of some devastation. "Miss Hawkins? Have you come to a decision, then?"
"I believe I have, sir." She took a deep breath, then committed herself. I have what he wants and needs, she reminded herself. This is still a seller's market. "I see no reason why I should not continue as your employee under the new requirements that you have outlined to me."
Another question occurred to her—then why insist on a woman? Why not a male? But the answer was obvious. He could not, dared not, trust a man. A male would be all too likely to take advantage of the situation, perhaps overpower the secretary and thus control Jason Cameron's life and fortune. Though Paul du Mond was not precisely robust, no woman would be able to physically overwhelm him. Thus, only a woman would be safe to trust.
Once again, then, I hold the cards.
A deep sigh, as if Jason Cameron had been holding his breath, waiting for her answer. "I should add something to this, in all honesty, Miss Hawkins. My path of research is very—outre. Very odd. You may find yourself reading books that are unpleasant to you. Perhaps even shocking."
Her self-confidence was soaring, to the point where she actually felt giddy. She surprised herself—and possibly him—by bursting into laughter. "Mister Cameron—I have read the unexpurgated Ovid, the love-poems of Sappho, the Decameron in the original, and a great many texts in Greek and Latin histories that were not thought fit for proper gentlemen to read, much less proper ladies. I know in precise detail what Caligula did to, and with, his sisters, and I can quote it to you in Latin or in my own translation if you wish. I am interested in historical truth, and truth in history is often unpleasant and distasteful to those of fine sensibility. I frankly doubt that you will produce anything to shock me."
There was silence for a moment, then a chuckle. It sounded like an appreciative chuckle. "Miss Hawkins, I am rightfully rebuked. You are a scholar, and there is nothing that shocks the mind of a scholar except censorship and falsehood. I confess that I was not aware that you were so widely read, and I commend you for your self-possession. You will find my research odd, then, but not shocking."
"Thank you," she said simply, glowing a little with pleasure at his words.
"I have, in the light of this, a new contract for you. You are evidently a lady of much stamina, and one who understands the need that drives the seeker of knowledge when the trail is hot. I had intended to ask you to read for a fixed number of hours in a day. I would like to change that—and ask you to read for as long in a day as I need you to. If you can put up with the whims of my research, and if you can bear with the fact that I shall need you for long and difficult hours, I shall see to it that you have all the resources you require to pursue your own goals of research, in addition to all else I promised you. In fact, I shall have all my recent book catalogs of rare and antique volumes sent to you for you to look through and make selections, and I shall have them purchased for you. Is that a bargain, scholar to scholar, equal to equal?"
If he had been Mephistopheles, he could not have offered her a bargain to tempt her more. If he had been able to read her mind, he would not have phrased it any differently. It was an offer she could not possibly reject. "It is a bargain, sir," she said, immediately. "And as I see you have had some books left here for me, I am prepared to begin reading immediately, to seal our agreement."
Was it her imagination, or did she sense elation on the other end of that long tube?
"Thank you," came the answer, "And—if you will forgive an impertinence, before you begin, I have a final question for you."
"You may ask," she replied, "but I will not guarantee to answer, if it is that impertinent." A bit bold, perhaps, but had he not just addressed her as equal to equal? Let him take what he had offered.
"Miss Hawkins—are you sentimentally attached to those garments you brought with you?" There was a plaintive, pained quality to his words that brought another laugh bubbling up out of her throat, which she suppressed only just in time. His poor, bruised sensibilities! It was the question of an aesthete confronted with an object of terrible banality stuck squarely in the middle of an otherwise matchless vista.