Even though it's only early afternoon, Rose feels tired and groggy throughout the long car ride. The seats are sumptuous black leather, and she wants to stretch out and sleep, sleep, sleep, so that she can wake up in a new world where her father is alive and the sun shines brightly again.
The hours stretch on—four, then five. Where is Mr. Sickmiss taking her, anyway?
Finally, Rose can take the dry, dead scenery no longer. She leans her head back and dozes off.
A rough, firm hand shakes her shoulder until she wakes up. "Come on, come on!" it urges.
It's not Mr. Sickmiss, that's for sure. She can already see him and another man carrying her luggage into the large manor the car is parked in front of. No, a youngish woman, with olive toned skin and shimmering black hair is shaking her awake. "Come on or you'll barely have time to get ready for him." She practically pulls Rose from the car.
"What? Who? Who are you?" Rose forgets propriety and questions the woman bluntly, tripping up the pathway and struggling to orient herself.
"Camille. I manage the staff and look over the house. Come on, you can't be slow around here."
Rose looks around, trying to pierce through the darkness and get a better sense of what appears to be a looming manor in the distance. There are no moon or stars to help her.
"Welcome to Gardenhead," Camille tells her. "Clean yourself up, and then you'll be fed."
After the stark living conditions after her father's death, her rooms at Gardenhead are a luxurious delight. The four poster bed is large and soft, piled with blankets and pillows she wants to bury herself in. There's a huge walk in closet that makes her wish she hadn't been so flippant about giving her things away, although she sees that gauzy dresses are warm coats are already hanging, with all manners of pants and skirts and boots and heels neatly folded or stacked in the shelves along the back wall. The bathroom is her biggest delight. Even when she was in her previous private dormitory, Rose had to share the bathroom with the entire floor, peeing and showering in stalls beside the other girls for practically her whole life. And even at home, she never had anything this glamorous—not these golden tinted lights, or the sparkling chandelier, or the huge walk in tub and glasswalled shower that overlooked the gardens.
Camille barely gives her any time to enjoy any of it, however. When she walks in and finds Rose admiring the lights and mirrors in the bathroom, Camille rolls her eyes, grabs her by the arm, and starts unbuttoning the blouse, "Come on, there's no time for this. Get in the bath now."
Rose pulls away. "I'm not a child. I can undress myself."
"Then do it," Camille commands, moving to the tub and turning the gold handles so it begins to fill with steaming water. "He likes the smell of jasmine best, but anything floral should be okay. Here," she reads the bottle on a glass jar of bath salts, "lily and vanilla. Perfect," she announces, dumping half the container in Rose's bath water. "I wouldn't do rose. Too . . . literal." Camille keeps talking, and Rose isn't sure if she's expected to completely undress in front of her. Seeing her hesitation, Camille tells her, "Hurry up. I've seen it all before. What are you, twelve? You don't have much to see anyway."
"I'm nearly seventeen."
"Just keep repeating that. Add a year for good measure, maybe, depending on whose company you're in. Anyway, get clean. Make sure your hair is completely dry. Do your makeup. Put on perfume -remember: florals. Put on something nice." Camille walks over to the closet. "I went shopping for you but wasn't sure of your size. They just told me you're slight, so, I don't know, try this," she holds up a lacy black dress, "or this," this time she displays red silk. "Whatever suits your style. Come down to the dining room when you're ready, and," Camille pauses for a few extra seconds before leaving Rose to prepare herself, "hurry up."
Despite Camille's advice, Rose can't help but linger in the bath. The water's just too warm. It feels too good to finally be clean and warm and comfortable. She gives herself the luxury of merely lying in the foaming bath and breathing slowly, finally releasing some of the pain and discomfort burning up inside.
Eventually she hastily hurries out, blow dries her hair, puts on mascara, eye liner, lipstick, and a bit of glimmering powder on the high planes of her cheeks, the inner corner of her eyes, and then dusts it along her neck and cleavage. She smiles into the mirror for the first time in what feels like years, following Camille's advice and spritzing herself with a light lily perfume, a bitter peach and soft vanilla lingering in the background.
She lingers again, this time searching her face in the mirror. She looks thinner, and older than she remembers. Her hair is shinier and longer than the last time she paid any attention to it. Her eyes look greener, her skin paler. Is that even her? Her father always told her that she looks just like her mother—the same silky red hair, high cheekbones, big eyes, and just a little glint of something more . . . some unnamable, teasing, laughing sparkle. Tonight, on her own, cleaned up and primped, she feels more a woman than ever. She drops the towel and flicks through the dresses in the closet. Camille said to put on whatever suits hes her style. "Perfect," Rose murmurs to herself, picking her selection for the evening.
