“Yes, miss.” By now Rosalind’s arms were shaking from the weight of the tray. She used her last bit of strength to gently rest it on the center of the desk. “Coffee?”
“Of course.”
Rosalind carefully set the cup and saucer to rights, then poured in a small amount of cream and a spoonful of sugar. Finally, she poured in the coffee, stirred it once, and carried it to Veronica.
By now, thankfully, Veronica had sat up in bed. Her nightgown was a frothy mixture of gray satin and ecru lace. Her auburn-colored hair was still neatly bound in a thick braid and rested over one slim shoulder.
It was almost the same exact shade of Miranda’s hair. Unbidden, a memory spilled forth, one of her sister laughing as Rosalind tried to tame her hair into perfect curls, just like they’d seen in a magazine at the mercantile. Miranda’s hair had been shiny and full of body, but much like the woman herself, the curls had a mind of their own. They no sooner would have agreed to be tamed than Miranda would have taken Rosalind’s advice.
For a brief second, Rosalind stared at it, remembering her sister, feeling her loss as acutely as if she had only recently vanished.
Realizing what she’d been doing, Rosalind felt her embarrassment rise. “Your coffee, miss.”
Veronica took the coffee without a word and sipped.
Anxious to leave, Rosalind stepped backward. “Will you be needing anything else, Miss Veronica?”
Veronica lifted her head as her mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “Do you ever think how odd it is for you to call me ‘miss’? After all, we’re almost the same age. I might even be older. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty, ma’am.”
Veronica laughed. “Now I’m a ma’am, am I? Though you haven’t asked, I’ll reveal that I’m all of twenty-three. Practically ancient. Almost a spinster. And almost a disappointment to my mother.” She paused, then murmured, almost to herself, “Almost. But not yet.”
If they’d known each other better, or if Veronica had been a nicer person, Rosalind’s heart might have gone out to her. At this moment in time, however, all that counted was their position in society, and especially their position in the house.
“You don’t have anything to say to me about that, Rosalind?” she murmured, sarcasm lacing each word. “No quaint comment, no maudlin, sanctimonious saying about how I’m worth more than my name? That I’m more than a myriad of social graces learned from a mother’s knee?”
“W–would there be anything else, Miss Veronica?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
Rosalind turned and quickly left the room. Only when she had closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall did she exhale. She’d been holding her breath and hadn’t even realized it. Veronica’s bitter diatribe had unnerved her—and had made her feel as if her quest was forever unobtainable. How was she ever going to discover what happened to Miranda when she could hardly even serve coffee to Veronica?
“Rosalind, why are you loitering in the hall?”
She sprang to attention. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Abrams. I’m on my way downstairs now.”
The formidable housekeeper’s gray gaze narrowed. “See that you leave the floor immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hastily, she turned to her right and rushed down the hallway, anxious to make it to the servants’ stairs and the dimly lit emptiness of the stairwell.
She’d almost made it when yet another door opened and Douglass appeared.
“Ah, Rosalind,” he murmured, forcing her to stop. “Look at you.” As he scanned her form, his lips curved slightly upward. “You’re up early. And so bright-eyed too.”
“Y–yes, sir. I mean, Mr. Sloane.”
“Only my father is Mr. Sloane. I’m Douglass. I think the very least you could do is call me by my Christian name, don’t you think?” he asked, his voice turning low and silky. “I mean, here we are, living together.”
Well aware of Mrs. Abrams still standing at the other end of the hallway, watching her, she felt her cheeks heat again. She opened her mouth—to say what, she wasn’t sure.
But then she felt his gaze settle on her lips.
Anxiety coursed through her, whether from his heated stare or her nerves or her fear, she didn’t know. Too afraid to guess, she turned and practically ran to the stairs.
Behind her she heard Douglass chuckle.
Finally alone in the servants’ passage, she pressed her shoulder blades against the cool plaster and closed her eyes.
Never before had she felt so much like one of the ivory balls on the billiard table, rolling to and fro. Always at everyone else’s mercy. She forced herself to breathe in more slowly and gather her thoughts. Perhaps she was at everyone else’s mercy, but if she was, then Miranda had been too. And that meant she needed to do whatever it took to discover what had happened to Miranda.
Only now was she beginning to realize what “anything” might be. And though she was afraid, she was more determined than ever. For Miranda, she had to be.
CHAPTER 5
When Rosalind came down for breakfast the next morning, a far different scene greeted her. Mrs. Abrams’ dress was wrinkled, her hair hastily pinned. Cook’s apron was stained and tied crookedly about her waist. Both women looked weary.
The other servants were wandering around somewhat aimlessly. A strange, strained silence permeated the room.
Jerome was standing against the back door. His usually polished appearance looked a bit on the shabby side. His eyes fastened on hers when she entered the room.
“What is going on?” Rosalind asked. “What happened?”
After glancing in Mrs. Abrams’ direction and seeing her slight nod, Cook spoke. “It’s Tilly.”
“What about her? Is she sick?”
“No. Um. I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid she’s gone missing.”
Rosalind felt as if someone had suddenly taken a hammer to her senses. Remembering that offhand remark Tilly had made in the kitchen about what could have happened to Miranda, and how Cook had pushed it aside with a meaningful look, she began to feel dizzy. Did this have anything to do with secrets about her sister?
Nanci rushed to her side and unceremoniously pushed her to a chair. “Pull yourself together.”
She’d hardly known Tilly. Certainly not as much as the rest of the staff. With sheer force of will, she told herself to pull herself together as Nanci had commanded. “What happened? You don’t think she simply decided to leave?”
Cook shrugged. “I can’t imagine that she would. Tilly is a good girl. She doesn’t run off or leave when she’s not supposed to.”
“Besides, where would she go?” Nanci asked.
“Her day off was yesterday. She was going to go to the fair with two other girls from other houses,” Cook murmured. “But they said she never showed up. And she never came home.”
“Oh my goodness. What do Mr. and Mrs. Sloane say?”
“They don’t know as of yet.” Mrs. Abrams sighed. “When Mr. Hodgeson discovered that some of her things were still here, he called for a police officer to stop by, but that man was no help. Said no scullery maid was ‘missing’ unless she was gone for a full week.”
Rosalind was shocked. “But by then, anything could have happened to her!”
Cook nodded. “That would be true. If something did happen.”
“We’ll all just have to keep a lookout for anything unusual,” Jerome murmured.
“And you, Rosalind, will need to help us out a bit in here until we decide what to do next,” Cook stated. “Don’t bother trying to get out of going to the market for me, neither. You ain’t got no choice.”
Rosalind got a cup of coffee, then sat down to her breakfast. For some reason, things seemed to get harder at Sloane House instead of easier.
Two days later, Tilly was still missing.
Mrs. Sloane had been informed, but as of yet the lady had not given Cook permission to replace her. Mrs. Abrams said she was holding out hope that Tilly would re
turn to the house one day soon.
Did Mrs. Sloane give Miranda the same consideration? Rosalind wondered. Was that why there was an opening when she applied for a job at Sloane House? Cook had said Miranda’s disappearance was still upsetting to Mrs. Sloane all these weeks later. That fit with the stories she’d heard about how kind Mrs. Sloane sometimes was toward her servants.
Would she ever know?
Rosalind had spent much of the previous day in the kitchen, carefully chopping vegetables and dressing chickens. Today, on the other hand, she’d been mostly in the company of Mrs. Abrams, cleaning the east wing guest rooms in preparation for yet another group of guests. The last group, a party of six from Philadelphia, had left only minutes before.
The Sloanes’ next guests, friends from New York City, were expected within three hours. Frantically polishing and cleaning silver and crystal, dusting and ironing sheets and pillowcases, they worked as quickly as they dared to set things to rights.
Indeed, the spacious home had become a hotel of sorts for some of the fair’s most esteemed visitors. At least, much of the staff was starting to feel that way. Because of the fair’s popularity, rooms at hotels such as the Fairmont had become not only exorbitantly expensive but scarce. That left even wealthy out-of-town guests relying on the hospitality of Chicago society.
Rosalind had always imagined that no one worked harder than farmers, whose lives were dependent on caring for livestock and growing crops. But she was slowly coming to realize that until her arrival in Chicago, she had led a very sheltered life.
Now her hours were spent cleaning and arranging rooms to perfection, unpacking and then packing a dizzying array of gowns, and doing her best to stay invisible.
That was what was so difficult, she realized. A good job was an unnoticed one. Where no one realized she’d even been in the room.
At the moment, she was by Mrs. Abrams’ side in the blue bedroom. One of the Philadelphia ladies had been especially messy, and it was taking even the housekeeper’s diligent efforts to clean and prepare the room for the next round of visitors.
“I don’t understand how one woman can make such a mess,” Rosalind said as she eyed the crumpled stationery on the floor and the boxes and tissues from the shopping trips. And the faint stains of powder and kohl that stained the dressing table cushion.
Her hand in an old sock, Mrs. Abrams was carefully swiping the stains with a baking soda paste. Little by little, the streaks of kohl were being removed. “Ours is not to wonder why. Only to clean it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She looked up gratefully when Emma brought in the new set of freshly ironed sheets. “Thank you.”
“I’ll stay and help you get the bed made up,” Emma said. “Mrs. Abrams, Cook was lookin’ for ya.”
After giving the cushion one last thoughtful swipe, she nodded. “I imagine she’s in a dither about tonight’s menu. Girls, when this room is done, don’t forget to check in with the laundry. They might need your assistance pressing dresses or even napkins.”
“This work, it’s enough to make one dizzy, it is,” Emma said when they were alone.
“I’ve been so exhausted when I fall into bed, I hardly move.” Remembering her sister’s chatty letters, the first ones so filled with excitement and wonder, Rosalind wondered how Miranda had handled it all.
Or had she not? Had her early letters about how wonderful her new life was really been full of lies? Had she opted to write about a world that never was, choosing to share her wishful dreams of her life instead of the stark, vacant reality?
“How long have you worked here, Emma?”
“Three years, I have.”
Emma couldn’t be more than eighteen. “That long?”
“Started here when I was fifteen, in the laundry,” she said proudly. “Now, here I am, a parlor maid. One day I aim to be what Nanci is.”
“A lady’s maid?”
Emma nodded. “I figure one day Nanci will leave to get married or something. When that happens, I aim to take her place.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“I’m praying it is. I can sew better than Nanci, and I’m almost as good with hair as she is.”
“Who taught you how to do hair?”
“Miranda.” She smiled softly. “She was talented.”
“Did you know her well?” Rosalind let her voice drop softly, hoping that she added just enough of a touch of openness to encourage more sharing.
Emma tilted her head to one side. “As well as anyone did. She was beautiful. Almost too beautiful, you know? I heard Mrs. Abrams caution her to watch herself.”
“Why would she do that?”
“It wouldn’t do to be so pretty around Miss Veronica, you know. Plus, looks like hers would have gotten her into trouble. Men start to notice things they shouldn’t, you know. Or the ladies begin to feel threatened.”
“I wish I could have met Miranda.”
“Oh, you would have liked her, I bet. Almost everyone did.”
“Almost?”
Emma’s cheeks turned red. “I didn’t mean anything. That was just an expression.”
Desperate to learn something, anything of use, Rosalind reached out to Emma. Grabbed her sleeve. “Who didn’t like her?”
Emma’s eyes widened. With a jerk, she pulled her arm out of Rosalind’s grasp. “What’s wrong with you? You almost tore my sleeve.”
“I’m sorry. It’s simply that I’m curious about what you said.”
“Why?”
“Miranda sounds like a really nice girl,” she improvised. “And competent, too. So if she wasn’t well liked, it seems like I wouldn’t have a chance.” Hesitantly, she smiled at her little joke. “So who didn’t like her? Was it someone on staff? Or a member of the family?”
“I was just talking, that was all,” Emma replied in a rush. She turned, picked up two of the delicately embroidered pillows, and set them neatly on the center of the bed. “What do you think?”
Realizing that the conversation was through, Rosalind picked up the two dust cloths Mrs. Abrams left, then scanned the room with a critical eye. Light streamed in from the sheer curtains, sending rays of sunshine across the polished cherry writing desk and freshly cleaned yellow chair cushion.
The bed was made, the pillows were arranged perfectly, the blue-and-ivory-striped coverlet was pressed. The fireplace was cleaned and logs set in. Fingerprints had been removed from silver trinkets. The crystal decanter was filled with fresh water. The carpet was brushed clean.
“I think it looks beautiful in here. Perfect.” Still feeling a bit cautious, she murmured, “Is that what you think?”
“It’s not what I think that matters. We both know that to be true, don’t we?” Before Rosalind could think of anything to say to that, Emma clasped her hands together. “As far as I can tell, we’re done. We’d best go on to the next room. We’ve got a lot to do and no time to do it.”
Reluctantly, Rosalind nodded. She’d heard Emma’s warning loud and clear.
Now all she had to do was wonder if she should heed it.
Rosalind was still stewing about Miranda being liked by “almost” everyone and Emma’s steadfast refusal to explain herself, when she entered the small attic room she shared with Nanci.
Nestled in the attic’s eaves, it boasted a sloping ceiling, a small window, two twin beds, two nightstands, and one very plain and rickety dresser standing tall and regal in between the two beds.
When Rosalind had first come to work at Sloane House, she’d felt like these attic rooms were scary and full of ghosts. The bedroom next to them was empty, and the window was stuck shut so they couldn’t get a breeze on hot July nights. Rosalind had been sure a person could be forgotten up in the eaves, practically never seen or heard from again.
But Nanci, being Nanci, had soon dispelled her of that notion. Together with her matter-of-fact manner and a bounty of discarded fabrics, she’d made their bedroom a happy place. What it lacked in elegance, Nanci had more t
han made up for in comfort and coziness. She’d covered her bed with a marvelous wedding ring quilt her grandmother had long ago stitched. On her bedside table were an ornate filigree frame and a small silver snuff box, a favor from a gentleman friend whom she’d so far refused to name.
In comparison, Rosalind’s side was as bare and functional as Nanci’s was inviting. It made her homesick for the comforts of her cozy bedroom at home.
Just last week, Nanci had even wheedled Jim’s services, asking him to see to the window. She’d asked Jim so sweetly and explained the need for repairs so easily to Mrs. Abrams that they got the window fixed with hardly a word of complaint.
Their room was a popular spot with the other girls in the house, despite the sometimes stifling hot summer temperatures. More often than not, Rosalind would come upstairs to find two or three other maids sitting in the room with Nanci, chatting or looking at magazines or newspapers pilfered from the trash. And, as was always the case with Nanci, the conversation would be lively.
Luckily, this evening Nanci seemed as tired as Rosalind, just as happy to slip out of her starched uniform and retire early.
“What a time we had of it today. And for that matter, all week!” Nanci said as they hastily prepared for bed. “I’m exhausted.”
Watching Nanci carefully unpin her hair and begin brushing it with her nightly hundred strokes, Rosalind said, “You seem to be handling it better than me. I almost fell asleep during the dinner service.”
“You’ve had a time of it, for sure. You’re doing both Tilly’s job and yours now.”
“Do you ever worry about Tilly?”
Nanci’s hand slowed. “From time to time, I do. But it’s best not to think about her too much.”
“That sounds kind of harsh.”
“Maybe so, but there’s nothing we can do. Not really.”
“Do you think she’ll return?”
Nanci shook her head. “If she returned, she’d probably be fired. We all know that. Whatever the reason, she’s most likely gone for good.”
Secrets of Sloane House Page 4
