Secrets of Sloane House (8 page)

“Oh yes, sir,” Nanci said. Almost imperceptibly, her shoulders straightened and her expression turned a bit more wooden.

Rosalind found she wasn’t able to revert to her supposed place so easily. Instead blood began to pound in her temples as embarrassment flowed over her. It seemed that while Douglass might be inclined to let some of the walls between their stations crumble, Reid Armstrong had no intention of forgetting everyone’s place in society.

“Whatever are you speaking of, Armstrong?” Douglass retorted. “I don’t recall a single place I’d rather be than right here.”

Pointedly, Reid pulled out a silver timepiece from a vest pocket. “Did you forget the meeting we have scheduled? We told those
ladies
we’d meet them at one of the restaurants facing the Court of Honor ten minutes ago.”

Rosalind inwardly flinched. Even the way he said
ladies
this time left no doubt about the perceived differences. This time there was no awkward pause.

Douglass blinked, then a new warmth entered his eyes. “Oh. Oh yes. Quite so.” With a slight bow, he said, “Beg pardon, girls. Perhaps we’ll tour the fair together one day in the future.”

Reid nodded as well before abruptly turning his back on them. But Rosalind had noticed that his gaze had turned harder. Less languid.

In the barest of seconds, their elegant forms had blended into the crowds, mixing with the confetti of people. Effectively disappearing from their view.

Rosalind and Nanci stood motionless, staring after them in confusion.

“What just happened?” Nanci whispered.

“I’m not sure,” Rosalind said. “I think we were almost escorted around the fair by two of the richest gentlemen of the city.”

The corners of Nanci’s lips curved up. “Is it a good thing or bad that they walked away?”

“I couldn’t tell you that.”

The truth was, for a moment, she’d been as affected as her sister must have been at first. For a split second, all that mattered was money and looks and power and elegance. For a brief time, she’d been able to imagine what it would be like to have her hand resting on an elegant man’s arm.

She could feel other women’s envious glances as they wondered what made her so special. And she’d been drawn to that feeling like a moth to a flame. In the span of just minutes, she’d pushed aside everything she’d vowed to remember just so she could feel good about herself. It was shocking.

In a burst of clarity, she wondered if, perhaps, that was what had happened to Miranda. Perhaps she had let herself yearn for something that was as fake and as treacherous as a relationship with the wrong kind of man.

Had she let herself believe that a man like Douglass Sloane or Reid Armstrong would ever actually care about a lowly maid who worked in his house?

“We should start walking,” Nanci said with a nervous laugh. “Folks are going to think we’re one of those Roman statues if we stand here like this much longer.”

“Indeed,” Rosalind murmured.

And so finally they, too, joined the throng of tourists and Chicagoans. The throng of everyone. Blending into anonymity.

So much so, they might as well have never been there. They might as well have been completely gone. And she realized that if they did disappear, few would care, and certainly even fewer would have any idea how to locate them.

Rosalind felt the stark, tremulous feeling of worry. And, ironically, relief.

For the moment, at least, they had nothing to fear.

CHAPTER 7

T
he following day proved to be a test of Rosalind’s will and patience. By ten that morning, she realized she’d failed on both counts. By the half-pitying, half-annoyed looks cast her way by the rest of the staff, she knew everyone else noticed her mishaps as well.

Nanci had woken up with a light fever and an upset stomach. After Mrs. Abrams visited her, she confined Nanci to bed for the day and transferred most of Nanci’s duties onto Rosalind’s shoulders.

That would have been hard enough, but there was the added stress of having to rush through more than a few unfamiliar chores. First, she’d been called to help iron Veronica’s gowns before dawn. The process of heating irons and carefully pressing each voluminous layer was a stressful, painstaking one. A girl with an indelicate hand could scorch a gown within seconds. That, of course, would cause the fabric irreparable damage, as well as the loss of a job with no reference.

It also meant a thorough scolding from Mrs. Abrams.

With all that in mind, it took double the time for Rosalind to press a gown than it did for anyone else. Which, of course, caused her to fall behind on her other chores.

When she finished the ironing at last, she tripped on the rug while helping to set the table for a luncheon. Only the quick hand of Jerome prevented her from dropping the stack of plates she was carrying.

While the family had their luncheon, she was sent to help Emma prepare a guest room in the west wing.

While she was rushing to help Emma, she managed to spill ash on the carpet. Which necessitated Emma preparing the room by herself while Rosalind cleaned the stain.

“I really am sorry,” she said to Emma. “I don’t know what happened. I am usually not so clumsy.”

Emma sniffed. “Are you certain about that?”

After the briefest of breaks, Rosalind responded with a good dose of apprehension when she was summoned to help tidy the conservatory.

“Will you be able to handle this on your own, Rosalind?” Mrs. Abrams asked, a healthy bit of impatience and doubt lacing her tone. “Miss Veronica is expecting a dozen women to attend, some of whom are very important.”

The conservatory was only named so because of a lumbering, somewhat garishly painted harp in the corner. Otherwise, its purpose seemed to be to display Mrs. Sloane’s collection of gilt clocks and porcelain figurines. Every tabletop and shelf held either a ticking clock or a pair of shepherdesses. All seemed to attract dust like honey attracted bees. “Yes, ma’am.”

If the formidable woman heard the doubt in Rosalind’s voice, she gave no sign of it. “Good,” she said. However, on her way out the door, the housekeeper threw one more warning over her shoulder.
“And do try to be quick about this. The party will begin at the top of the hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rosalind repeated, hastily brushing the harp with her feather duster just before Mrs. Abrams turned back.

“By the way, I’m still confused by Nanci’s illness. When did she fall ill? Was she sick last night? This morning?”

Rosalind shrugged. “I’m not sure, ma’am. She seemed fine last night. At least, she did when I went to sleep.”

Mrs. Abrams narrowed her eyes. “You two didn’t eat anything strange at the fair, did you?”

“I don’t believe so, ma’am. Though we didn’t eat exactly the same things . . .”

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter who ate what when, does it?” Mrs. Abrams muttered. “Not when we’re all working as best we can to keep this house running efficiently.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, tut, tut. Finish the dusting as quickly as you can. I’ll return shortly with the tea service.”

Frustrated with herself, Rosalind glanced at one of the clocks decorating the gold-and-ivory-wallpapered room. She had twenty minutes.

She pulled out a clean rag and prayed that her fingers wouldn’t suddenly slip each time she painstakingly picked up a delicately carved clock, china vase, or scantily clad porcelain woman.

Ten minutes later, Lolly, the tweeny, ran in with an armful of linen napkins. “Sorry it took me so long to bring these to you,” she said. “Things are a bit backed up in the laundry.”

“That’s all right,” Rosalind said as she rested them in the center of the coffee table, where she assumed the tea service would sit.

“I’m supposed to stay and help you,” Lolly said nervously. “What do you want me to do?”

Rosalind bit her lip. Unfortunately, Lolly had even more to do than she did. “Just make sure everything’s in perfect order as quickly as possible. Oh! And don’t forget to start the fire in the grate.”

Lolly groaned. “Ooh, but I hate starting the fires. I can never get the flame to catch.”

“I’ll do it then,” Rosalind soothed. She’d built many a fire at home. At least here she didn’t have to worry about fuel to feed it. At Sloane House, there was as much wood and coal as anyone could ever dream about.

While she removed the grate and began filling the coal bucket, Lolly scurried around the room like she was on fire herself.

While Rosalind continued to prepare the fireplace, Lolly picked up one of the three ornate clocks that were grouped on an occasional table. “Have you ever seen the like?” she asked as she fingered the dove carved at the top.

“You’d best put that down. And I already dusted that clock.”

Lolly set it down with a hasty thump, rattling the china, almost toppling the stack to the floor.

“Please be careful,” Rosalind warned.

“Oh, I am. It’s just . . . are you almost done? We need to finish, and quickly.”

Rosalind turned and stared at the tiny young housemaid. She didn’t look like her usual self at all. She looked pale and agitated. “Lolly, you are shaking like a leaf! What is wrong?”

“Since Nanci’s sick, I’m supposed to go up to help Mrs. Sloane dress. And she likes her hair real particular, you know. If Emma doesn’t get to her room on time, Mrs. Abrams said I’m supposed to try to help her!” A line formed between her brows. “Oh, I could wring that Nanci’s neck, I could! Why in heaven’s name did she have to pick today to be sick?”

That seemed to be the question of the day. Since she had no answer, Rosalind merely shooed her on her way. “Go on now. I’ve got things under control.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. As soon as I get the fire started, I’ll double check that everything’s set up perfectly, and then will be right behind you.”

Lolly sent her a grateful smile, then trotted out of the room.

Alone again, Rosalind breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there, she’d been sure Lolly was going to upset the stack of china or knock over a lamp. She’d been very unlike herself—not only clumsy, but extremely nervous too.

After striking the match, Rosalind watched the flame take hold with a feeling of satisfaction. The heat emanating from it felt so comforting that she let herself relax some and watch the flames dance across the coals.

Kind of like how the staff all jumped and darted through the house, she mused.

It was amazing how everyone who raced to do the Sloane family’s bidding was in a constant state of panic. The slightest frown or admonition from a member of the family could set some maids to vapors.

Rosalind supposed the obligation to see to the family’s every whim came from a lifetime of being in service. Working all day at pleasing other people was still new to her since her father had always said there was only one being—the Lord—whom he needed to please.

Now that the fire was blazing, she efficiently replaced the grate and took one last turn around the room. It all looked to be in order. The china was neatly stacked; linen napkins were carefully folded. Trays were laid out for the tea sandwiches and cakes Cook would deliver shortly. Yes, it was all as perfect as it could be. So much so that even Mrs. Abrams would surely find no fault with her efforts.

“You are still here? This room should have been readied ten minutes ago!”

Startled to hear Veronica’s voice, Rosalind whirled and jostled three sets of cups and saucers close to the server’s edge. With a crash, they fell and broke at her feet. Letting out a cry, Rosalind quickly crouched down and scooped up two pieces. However, the clumsy movement only served to create more chaos. She gasped as a shard pierced her skin.

“What have you done?” Veronica yelled.

With a feeling of doom, Rosalind met her gaze. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know . . .”

Veronica’s stormy gray gaze eclipsed her beautiful sky-blue gown with its exquisitely designed leg-of-mutton sleeves—sleeves that Rosalind herself had pressed to perfection just that morning!

Pointing at the broken china littering the floor, Veronica glared. “Girl, don’t just sit there! My guests will be here any moment.”

Dutifully, Rosalind bent and grasped more of the broken shards. Another piece sliced her palm. As a thin trail of blood oozed from the cut, she clumsily curved her hand upward. What would she do if blood stained the expensive Persian carpet?

“Where is everyone? Abrams?” Veronica shouted. “Mother? Mother!”

Mrs. Abrams came running, followed by Mrs. Sloane herself, who had obviously not gotten her hair restyled by either Emma or Lolly. When they surveyed the scene, they stopped abruptly.

“Oh, Rosalind,” Mrs. Abrams murmured.

Mrs. Sloane’s usually lovely expression turned pinched. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on her daughter. “Veronica, what is the meaning of all this commotion?”

“This ‘commotion’ is the product of our newest housemaid.”

Still crouched, Rosalind wished she could dig herself a hole
through the floor. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, her voice quavering. “I turned quickly and must have jostled—”

“You have just managed to break three Haviland teacups and saucers. I promise, you will pay for this,” Veronica said.

“Yes, ma’am.” After all, what else could she say?

However, Veronica continued on, her voice gaining speed and volume with each word. “You obviously have no care for anything of worth. You, with your direct looks and coarse accent. With your clumsy hands and inability to do even the simplest of tasks.”

Each word felt like a slap in the face.

As the harsh words continued, Rosalind carefully got to her feet, the broken pieces of china in her hands. Obviously, she was about to be fired. Then she would be let go without a reference, without pay, and with no way to get home. And even worse? There would be no way to continue the search for her sister.

As Veronica drew breath, apparently preparing to deliver yet another vindictive diatribe, Mrs. Sloane stepped forward. “That is more than enough, Veronica.” Turning to Rosalind, the lady softened her expression. “Oh my dear. Look at you, you’re bleeding.” After handing the broken shards to Mrs. Abrams, she gripped Rosalind’s elbow and walked her toward the doorway. “Come now, let’s let someone help you before you get hurt worse. Abrams—”