Secrets of Sloane House
Page 3
Currently, the Armstrong name meant very little to most of Chicago’s upper crust. If it was noticed at all, it was probably only coupled with luck, which meant little to the pillars of their society.
Many of Chicago’s great men, such as Field and Pullman, cemented their reputations through ingenuity, hard work, and esteemed bloodlines. A fortune gained from a windfall at the silver mine was not impressive.
But Reid knew the truth. His father was a great man too. He was burly and strong and full of good humor. However, math and education had never been his strong points, which was why he’d sent Reid to fancy boarding schools and to Harvard for his education.
Now that his father’s health was failing, it was Reid’s responsibility to make sure the fortune his father had uncovered stayed solvent and to do everything he possibly could to make the Armstrong name one to respect.
However, at the moment it was his mother whose interests he focused on. “I miss Beth too, but I’m very glad she is having such a good time in London and Paris. Did you have many callers today, Mama?”
Her slim shoulders slumped. “Only a few, and those were my lady friends from church.” Gesturing to her most recent acquisition, the black walnut Louis XV desk, she added, “No matter how hard I try, I’m afraid our neighbors will never see me as someone with whom they should associate. Only the Sloanes have welcomed me among the best circles, and that is, I think, merely because of your association with Douglass and Veronica.”
In many ways, Reid deemed it no great loss. So far, the society ladies his mother had tried to impress seemed a particularly rigid and unforgiving lot. They spoke of their temperance and high moral standards with pride, yet preferred to ignore the mass of citizens who toiled at the slaughterhouses and other factories for barely enough to feed their families.
He’d watched them practically shun women for wearing outmoded dresses or socializing at the wrong homes. And the men weren’t much better. However, it was from this very group his father ached for acceptance for their family. And since his mother constantly ached for her husband’s praise and approval, she continually strived to win the society matrons’ regard.
He gently squeezed her shoulders, thinking that though elegantly encased in copper taffeta, they looked a little frail. “Who did stop by?”
“Eloisa Carstairs, briefly. It’s lovely that she visits, though her mother seems reluctant to do so.”
“Eloisa has told me that her mother is determined she make a good match. We might not be quite high enough in the instep for Mrs. Carstairs.”
His mother smiled softly. “You may be right about that.” Smoothing a wrinkle from her sleeve, she added, “However, Millicent Arnold and her daughter, Louise, came calling. Millicent is a member of the women’s temperance society, you know.”
“I do know.” She’d also been one of the few who’d made an effort to befriend his mother.
“Louise mentioned that she is very glad that you joined the choir.”
Reid felt his cheeks heat. “I see.” He liked to sing. Unfortunately, his baritone had been discovered during one especially rousing church service. Soon after, he’d been pressed into the choir.
Though it definitely was not the most masculine of pursuits, it did have its benefits. The bulk of the choir members were available young ladies—some of them in the upper classes, like Louise Arnold—each one eager and amiable to his regard. His parents had made no secret that they hoped he would form an alliance with a woman who was both of his social stature and a Christian.
Smiling sweetly, his mother leaned forward. “Have you made Louise’s acquaintance?”
He had. He also had not been impressed with the young lady’s mousy demeanor or gossipy nature. “I’ve noticed a great many women there.”
She leaned forward. “Yes?”
“But no one in particular yet.”
“Oh.”
Reid hid a smile as Penny, his mother’s parlor maid, brought in a heavily laden silver tray with fresh tea and buttered scones. Before his mother could offer, he helped himself to the bounty.
Oh, he did love to tease his mother about the many available ladies she pushed his way, especially from their church. But the fact was, so far no one had interested him—not even the lovely Eloisa Carstairs—even though he’d been doing his best to keep an open mind.
His mother casually pulled out a bit of embroidery while he ate two scones. When he’d set aside his napkin, she picked up her needle and spoke again. “So you visited the Sloane home today?”
“Yes. I saw both Veronica and Douglass.”
“And did you have an enjoyable time?”
“Enjoyable enough, I suppose.” His relationship with Douglass Sloane was complicated. Reid knew he owed him a great deal. Douglass had stuck his neck out for him when Reid had been blamed for vandalism during his first term at Lawrenceville.
Reid had been innocent, of course. But he’d been new and a relative nobody. The headmaster and the other boys had been more than happy to let him take the blame and get expelled. Seeing that he was an easy mark, they began to pull pranks on him. Some rather harmless. Others? They’d been far more painful and difficult to ignore.
Each day had become a trial and a difficult journey to get through. He’d become miserable and withdrawn and had considered dropping out of the school. It would have been a serious blow to his father, but Reid had begun to think that it was either quit or descend into an even greater hell.
When a few of the boys had made up the story about him destroying property, Reid had had enough. He’d been formulating a letter to his father to explain his reasons for departure when Douglass had stepped in and given him an alibi.
Douglass had told a heap of lies, of course. In actuality, Reid had not been with Douglass during the time the vandals had broken into the groundskeeper’s cottage. But no one ever would dare cross a Sloane, and one would definitely never call Douglass a liar. Not when the library and the dining hall were named after his revered ancestors.
As Douglass had assured him would happen, the alibi had been accepted without question. The dean of students had apologized profusely.
And from that point on, his life had become better. All the hazing stopped. Boys sought him out at mealtime. Invited him to parties and their older sisters’ coming outs.
The difference in his social standing had been remarkable, and it was all due to Douglass Sloane. His family’s reputation was that influential.
To his credit, his friend never once brought up that incident. But Reid knew it was always between them, as bright as a blazing red cloth, binding Reid to Douglass.
But today, even for all that, Reid had been eager to leave Douglass’s presence that morning. Perhaps it had something to do with the pretty maid they’d practically run into. Unaccountably, his pulse had beat a little faster when she’d looked his way. Her eyes had been wide and innocent. Her manner as scared as a hare near a den of wolves.
He’d felt the need to make her day a little easier, since she was so obviously hard at work.
And since both Douglass and Veronica had seemed to enjoy their power over her.
The interaction had left Reid feeling vaguely disturbed. He was from proud, working stock. His grandparents had been little more than skilled laborers. In many ways, it was those people with whom he felt an affinity. He understood the working man’s mind. There was something to be said for caring about God, country, and an honest day’s wage.
Now that his status had risen and his parents were hoping he’d help to guide their way into high society, he was doing his best to concentrate only on the other people in his social circle. But it was a difficult undertaking. Much of the time he found himself following his parents’ steps and treating the servants in their home as friends.
As he sipped his tea, he said, “Douglass invited me to accompany him to the fair next week.”
“And?”
“And . . . I imagine I’ll go,” he said with a smile.
“He’s right, Mother. Ladies of good reputation don’t frequent the fair unaccompanied.”
“I know. But with your father doing poorly at the moment . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “And I do believe he’s exaggerating things. Not that I would know. He’s refused to let me read the majority of the newspaper too.”
Reid knew why. The papers were filled with stories of debauchery and ribald accounts of the many tourists who had descended on the city. More than once, he’d read stories detailing the rise in crime. Pickpockets were having a fine business at the fair, as were rapists and robbers in the dark alleyways of the city. “I’ve heard more than a few . . . rumors circulating about women going missing. One can never be too careful, Mama.”
Instead of looking shocked, she merely nodded. “I realize single women are at risk in our city. But those are women of the lower class, don’t you think?”
Reid wasn’t so sure. Just the other day he’d heard a story about a well-to-do father combing the streets, asking questions of anyone and everyone about his missing daughter. But he certainly didn’t want to alarm his mother with that bit of information. He sufficed with merely saying, “No good will come of you worrying about things you can’t control. That’s what the police are for.”
“I suppose.” She sighed as she sipped from her teacup. “Before we know it, the Exposition will be a thing of the past. It’s hard to believe.”
Yes, it was. Though danger surrounded the amusement, the world’s most entertaining destination was already in its fourth month and becoming more popular each week. But like a tulip blooming in spring, the fair would only last a short time, closing at the end of October. All that would remain of the beautiful White City would be the stories told and the memories made.
Reid hoped there would be as many good ones as bad.
Now that they’d discussed his mother’s callers and the fair, Reid knew he couldn’t delay his most important reason for wanting to talk with her. “So . . . how is Papa doing today?”
His mother’s hand shook a little as she hastily set her cup back on its saucer. “Not so well, I’m afraid. The tuberculosis doesn’t care for this city’s harsh climate. The doctor came today, but he doesn’t hold out much hope for improvement.”
As always, the knowledge that his father’s health was declining rapidly hit him hard. “Perhaps we should think about taking Papa to Arkansas? I heard the spring there does wonders.”
“You know your father would never leave Chicago. He’d see leaving as a sign of weakness. This great city is our home now. For better or worse.”
For better or worse indeed. One day in the near future, his father would meet his Maker. Reid hoped he’d be man enough to cope with the loss the way he was expected to. “I . . . I think I’ll go visit Papa for a few moments. We’ve been reading the book of Luke together, you know.”
“Don’t tire him out, son.”
“Of course not.”
He knew everything she was not saying. He’d better not tell his father any news that might prove distressing.
She didn’t have to worry. Years ago, Reid had promised himself he would be everything his father wanted him to be . . . even if, sometimes, it was never what he had wanted at all.
CHAPTER 4
Two days had passed since that terrible conversation in the kitchen. For Rosalind, however, it felt as if it had taken place only hours before. Trying not to think about Miranda’s last days at Sloane House was that difficult.
Her only recourse was to keep busy. Whenever she had a moment’s peace, Jim’s words and Cook’s warnings reverberated in her head, making every person seem suspicious and every corner filled with danger.
In spite of her worries and fears, she was becoming accustomed to the rhythm of working at Sloane House. She had learned to get up with the dawn, quickly eat breakfast, then help with the breakfast service. Each day, she laid out the breakfast silver in neat, orderly rows, making sure each fork, spoon, and knife gleamed in the early morning light.
Working with a dozen strangers, some who had never really known a life other than serving the Sloanes, was feeling easier too. Rosalind was slowly but surely getting to know everyone, making them less like strangers every day. She was learning which servants she could talk to and which ones were best to avoid. She’d become close to Nanci and had begun to form friendships with some of the other girls as well, especially Emma and Emily.
Mrs. Abrams and Cook—and even the butler, Mr. Hodgeson—began to trust her more too. Soon, little by little, she was allowed to be around the family more often. This was good for Rosalind and her sleuthing, but so far she’d been too intimidated by them and her job to do anything but concentrate on the duties she was assigned.
None of the previous tasks had brought anything close to the fear she was facing at the moment.
Her mouth went dry as she stared at the large tray holding a silver coffeepot, a delicate china teacup and saucer, a basket of toast, and a plate filled with eggs. “Are you sure you would like me to take this up to Miss Veronica, Cook?”
Cook looked her over in that way she always did, as if she was still attempting to understand how someone so ill equipped had come to work in her kitchen. “There ain’t no one else. Emma is off this morning and Nanci is attending to Mrs. Sloane as she always is.”
“I see.”
Jerome, one of the footmen, crossed his arms over his chest as he glared at her. “Surely even you can handle carrying a tray?”
“Of course I can.” She could handle it. She was just afraid of tripping on the stairs, dropping everything on the way to Veronica’s bedroom, and, of course, saying the wrong thing to the woman. So far, it seemed as if she was often saying the wrong thing.
Cook clucked. “Good. Now, I’ve checked and double checked, and you should have everything Miss Veronica needs. Don’t forget that she likes her coffee to be mixed with a fair bit of cream and sugar in the cup.”
Thinking of pouring Veronica’s coffee in front of her brought forth a whole new host of terrible worries. Already Rosalind had visions of splashing the hot liquid on the young lady.
“All right then, off you go,” Cook said with a reassuring smile. “Remember, knock twice, count to five, then let yourself in, easy like. Miss Veronica will be in a frightful mood, but don’t take it personal. She’s not a morning person.”
Rosalind had never known Veronica to be anything but waspish. “Anything else?”
“Yes, indeed.” Cook pointed to the stairs. “You’ll be needin’ to go up right this minute or I’m going to have to make Miss Veronica a fresh breakfast. She won’t be pleased if the coffee and eggs are cold,” she said sharply. “Go on now, and be quick about it.”
After whispering a quick prayer for strength, Rosalind gripped the silver tray with both hands, took a deep breath, then ascended the stairs.
By the eighth step, the muscles in her arms began to protest. She was a strong girl—anyone brought up on a dairy farm would be—but the effort of carrying a heavy silver tray loaded with china, coffee, toast, and eggs was not to be disputed. By the tenth step, she was already longing for a place to rest for a few seconds.
It was half past ten in the morning. She’d already been up for five hours, and truthfully, the time felt decidedly mid-morning. For most of her life, she’d had to rise at dawn to help feed and tend to the animals. Now, here she was, tending one of the most popular girls in Chicago society.
Not for the first time, she reflected on what it must feel like to simply expect to be looked after. To assume that others would make her breakfast, bring it to her, and pour her coffee.
Rosalind was slowly realizing that she was the only person who seemed to think it odd. But perhaps that was because most of the other servants in the house had always worked for the
rich and powerful. Even Nanci had reminded Rosalind that they each had their role to play in the house. They were to complete tasks as perfectly as possible and strive to be invisible.
Veronica’s role was to marry well; Douglass’s responsibility was to continue the family fortune.
Nanci said she’d heard from Jerome that Douglass and Veronica’s last guests hadn’t left the house until after three in the morning, after all of them had been drinking gin, no less! Rosalind had never drunk spirits, but she had a feeling that she would want to stay abed late in the morning, too, if she’d had that kind of evening.
Slowly and with care, she walked up the narrow servants’ stairs, the tray growing heavier by the second. Each of her steps seemed to fall heavier too, each landing with a dull thud. When she arrived at the second floor, she caught her breath. Thankful that the hallway was empty, she straightened and walked to Veronica’s closed door.
She stood staring at it, yearning for a third hand to knock and turn the door handle. She was just considering putting down the tray in order to knock when she heard footsteps on the main staircase.
Finding an extra amount of strength she hadn’t known she possessed, she gripped the tray with one hand, braced it against her body, and smartly knocked once, then twice.
Then she counted to five and opened the door just as Mrs. Sloane herself approached.
After giving the lady a hasty curtsy, she walked into Veronica’s room and faced the daughter of the manor, who was peering out at her from under an intricately embroidered coverlet.
“Good morning, Miss Veronica. I have your breakfast.”
Veronica said nothing as Rosalind approached the large bed dressed in pale pink silk sheets, cream-colored lace, and a plethora of down pillows. She noticed that the delicate table next to the bed was littered with a long strand of pearls, two rings, and two tortoiseshell combs inlaid with silver.
“Where would you like me to set the tray?”
Veronica glanced at the table, seemed surprised that no one had already cleared it, then sighed. “I suppose you may set it over there,” she said, pointing to the finely crafted desk by the window.