What did he think I was reading, anyway? Walter Scott? A dreadful dime novel? A romantic love story? Wuthering Heights, perhaps?
Probably the latter, and the memory of his expression when he tried to read the book sent her into a fit of giggles she tried to stifle with her gloved hand. When he saw the Greek—oh my! I don't think I've ever seen anyone so surprised since—since I proved to Professor Smythe that I was just as conversant with Chretian des Troyes in the original as any of his other students.
It did occur to her, however, that the works of the Bronte sisters would not have been inappropriate reading given her current situation. Or perhaps Jane Austen. There is not much difference between going off to become a governess and going off to become a housekeeper. Perhaps reading the Brontes could prepare me for Jason Cameron.
From a masher to her future employer—both male, both unfathomable. Neither responded to her attempt to analyze them. She simply did not know enough about either of them to grasp them and pin them beneath the white light of intellect.
She gave up trying, and read until darkness fell and it became impossible to read any further. There were oil-lamps suspended in each carriage, but they were too far away to cast enough light for comfortable reading—shadows moved as the lamps swayed, obscuring the letters and revealing them in a way that made her eyes ache. So she didn't bother to try; she just propped herself in the corner of the seat and half-dozed. This last leg of the journey, from Los Angeles to San Francisco, had begun before dawn and would continue until well after midnight. Perhaps her stamina had finally been exhausted; perhaps it was just the knowledge that the trip was nearly over and she was about to confront her employer and learn the truth or falsehood about him. Perhaps it was both, but she was conscious of leaden depression that weighed down her spirits.
She both dreaded the moment for the journey to end and longed for it. As the miles and the hours crept by and her fellow-passengers in their turn dozed off, she stared at her own reflection in the window, seeing only two dark holes for eyes in a ghostlike face which, because of her black clothing, seemed to hang suspended in the air, bodiless.
I am a spirit, wandering, without a home, and I shall wander bodiless forever... I shall become a ghost in Jason Cameron's manor, long before I am truly dead.
What would Jason Cameron really be like? What could she expect as his employee? The comfortable and stimulating experience his letter promised? Or something out of a Bronte noveclass="underline" poverty of spirit, repression and despair?
Would she find herself bundled up into a tiny attic room, waiting like a drudge on a pair of monstrous, spoiled children? Would the promised wage remain only promises, so that she remained trapped here, where she knew no one and had no way to escape, a virtual slave? Would she find herself confined to the grounds of the house unless she was escorting the children on some outing?
Or would Jason Cameron keep his word? Of late, her experiences had not done much to convince her of anything but the perfidy of her fellow man.
She stared at her reflection, and asked it a silent question. Why had she agreed to this?
Her reflection stared back in equal silence, for it had no answer for her.
A squeal of brakes broke into her melancholy thoughts. The train was slowing down, but why?
It had slowed before, of course, to pass around curves and over bridges. It had even stopped on sidings to let other trains pass, going the opposite direction.
But she hadn't felt the slight change in direction that meant a siding, and if there had been a curve ahead, she surely should have felt it by now. Yet the train was still slowing, and there were no lights beside the track, no buildings, nor any sign of habitation, as there would be if they had reached San Francisco.
The train came to a complete stop. In the strange silence, the engine panted, and some canine creature howled in the far distance. A wolf? Or only a farm-dog? She sat up and peered out of the window on her side of the train, and still saw nothing. Where were they and why had they stopped?
Perhaps there is a blockage on the track? That would certainly be tiresome, adding more hours to the journey while they waited for the track to be cleared, even forcing them to get off and walk around it while their baggage was brought to a second train. During the course of the journey this had happened twice, both times in the mountains when land-slips had sent mud and gravel cascading down on the track. Those accidents had each added days to her trip, for it was no easy thing to get word ahead about the blockage and the need for a second train.
When she saw the conductor entering the car, she was sure he was going to tell them all that this was the case. But he did not disturb any of her drowsy fellow-passengers with a general announcement. He came straight to her, as she watched him in surprise.
"This is a special stop for you, Miss Rosalind," he said, when he saw that she was awake and aware of him. "We've already taken your trunk and bag off, if you'll just gather up your valise, we'll have you on your way in no time."
"On my way?" she asked, dazedly, as he picked up her valise from the seat beside her and offered her his hand to rise.
"Of course," he replied, as if this was a matter-of-fact occurrence to him. "Didn't Mr. Cameron tell you he was sending people to meet you at the Pacifica switch?"
"I—I believe so," she said, as he guided her to the end of the car and the stairs there. There's no station here—who is Jason Cameron that he can have trains stopped in the middle of nowhere to let off a single person?
The conductor handed her down as she gathered her skirts up in one hand for the jump to the ground. It was then that she saw what awaited her on the rails beyond a switch that joined a spur-line to the main track.
Lights cut through the darkness, from lanterns suspended on the rear of the vehicle ahead and from the headlights of both engines. The air was cold and damp, and she shivered as it penetrated her clothing. Overhead, the stars were not as huge and bright as they had seemed in the desert and on the open plains, but they were much more impressive than any stars seen from a city street. There were not many sounds besides the panting of the engines; a night-bird or two, some frogs or insects. Two men with lanterns and a hand-cart approached her from the odd vehicle on the tracks of the spur, and the wheels of the cart grated in the gravel of the right-of-way. Men from the baggage car met them, carrying her trunk and carpetbag. One of the two new men removed his soft cap deferentially and approached her.
"Are you Miss Rosalind Hawkins?" he asked.
"Yes, I am," she said, faintly, with one hand at her throat.
He looked relieved. "Good. Mister Cameron sent us to meet you, ma'am. We'll be taking you right to his door, practically." In the light from the carriage windows above her, and the lantern in his hand, the man smiled reassuringly. "Won't be long now, and you'll be all settled in."
He put his cap back on and offered her his arm. The other man loaded up his cart with all of her baggage, including the valise the conductor handed to him, and headed back to the odd vehicle without uttering a single word. Rose looked doubtfully at the conductor, who nodded and smiled, and made little shooing motions with his hands.