But a sixth sense told her it was important to keep some money aside for a rainy day. Her situation at Sloane House felt too precarious to not be prepared for any sort of problem. Yesterday’s events only reinforced that.
With some of the portion she kept, she bought another ticket to the fair. She also hid some cash in the lining of her boot. If she suddenly did get dismissed, she didn’t want to be worrying about how she was going to eat or find shelter. At least not immediately.
Rosalind went to the World’s Fair on her next day off. This time, she didn’t mention where she was going to anyone. Things had gone from bad to worse with Nanci, and though no one had actually said anything, Rosalind felt a shift in everyone’s attitudes toward her—as if she hadn’t been completely innocent when Veronica claimed she’d seen her steal her tortoiseshell comb.
After paying the entrance fee, she went directly to the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building. It was not only the largest building, but also had the distinction of being the only structure that held booths from almost every state and country present at the Columbian Exposition. Rosalind figured if Miranda had gotten mixed up with someone at the fair, there was a good chance that someone in that building might have seen her.
She was wrong.
In fact, three hours later, she was regretting her decision. She’d forgotten that thousands of people visited the fairgrounds every day, and during that time, exhibitors were busy talking to visitors. No one had time to scan the crowds and look at women.
Still, she tried. Over and over, she interrupted conversations, asked for help, and explained that her sister was missing. But no matter how many people she showed Miranda’s photograph to, no one recognized her sister. In fact, the only response she’d gotten had been lewd offers.
After a pair of workers from the Ireland cubicle followed her for several minutes, Rosalind left the building. Outside, the air was warm and humid. Almost stagnant.
She left the fairgrounds in a haze of disappointment. She was running out of ideas for whom to contact about Miranda, but she was not eager to rush back to Sloane House. But she stepped on a trolley and took it back toward Michigan Avenue.
By now she was familiar with grip cars and was even more used to the ebb and flow of big-city life. Now she had a better sense of whom to avoid completely. In addition, she’d begun to be invigorated by the noises and sights of Chicago. She was intrigued by the many people from different backgrounds, amused by the way everyone—no matter what economic level they were on—was able to mingle and meander together. An energy was present that didn’t exist in the countryside of Wisconsin.
After helping a very scared tourist on the trolley with directions, Rosalind realized she’d come full circle. Now, instead of avoiding crowds, she sought them. Instead of only looking to associate with people just like her, she was finding joy in meeting folks who were far different. She was worlds apart from the shy, timid girl who’d arrived at Sloane House with only a hope and a prayer of discovering what had happened to her sister. Somehow, some way, she’d come into her own.
And she was grateful for that, she realized. Even if she still failed in her efforts to discover what had happened to Miranda, she was thankful for the opportunity to grow as a person. So few people had been given opportunities like the one she’d received.
She traveled a quarter of an hour, then hopped off the trolley and stepped into a candy store. Giving in to temptation, she bought a small bag of peppermints. After popping one in her mouth, she decided to avoid the street car for a bit and walk to Sloane House.
The peppermints kept her happy as she strolled down one block, then two. Just as she crossed another intersection, a fight broke out on the street.
It began in an instant, with the force of lightning. First there was calm, then within seconds a noisy fray broke out. Fists began to fly, curses were screamed, clothing was torn. Within seconds, the altercation that had started between two men quickly turned into a noisy brawl that encompassed at least twelve ruffians.
Rosalind became frightened as the fight grew more violent. She noticed other women, men, and children taking great care to move far out of the fight’s perimeters. Thinking that was the right decision, she darted into the first open door she saw, the open door to a beautiful stone church.
The entrance loomed like the first sign of hope she’d been aware of in ages. The cool vestibule felt like a long-forgotten hug, easing her muscles. Encouraging her to relax, gently reminding her to take time to pray.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she walked slowly inside, becoming aware of the strong sense of peace that surrounded her, melding in with the dim light, infusing her senses with the scents of incense, candles, and lemon oil.
Her pulse seemed to slow as she breathed in deep. A few fortifying breaths eased her soul.
And then she heard the music.
A choir, made up of an odd assortment of forty men and women, was practicing in the front of the church. Each person held a red leather hymnal in his or her hands. Some were older, some looked to be barely out of school. By their clothing, it was apparent that they came from all walks of life. However, their faces were united in the joy each felt by their combined voices.
And what harmonies, indeed! Rosalind closed her eyes and let the melodious mix of voices float over her. They were singing an old hymn, “How Great Thou Art.” It was a familiar song, close to her mother’s heart. Her mother had sung it more than once while cooking in the kitchen by herself.
Rosalind had always thought she knew the hymn and was familiar with the way it made her feel. But everything she knew was a sad comparison to the purity of the choir’s voices as they melded like the voices of angels.
She was mesmerized.
Sitting down on the first empty pew, she eased back against the worn oak, took comfort in the solitude.
The voices rose in the last chorus, held the last notes for countless seconds, then finally faded. After the last note rang out, the stark return of silence seemed too dark in comparison.
“That was pretty good, everyone. But that last little bit needed some work, don’t you think?”
Rosalind opened her eyes and listened incredulously as the choir director played a few bars on the organ. “Do you hear the difference? Yes? No?”
The choir members made a variety of disparaging noises. Some looked the way she felt, as if it was difficult to outdo perfection.
Smiling broadly, she entertained herself with watching the members struggle to keep their opinions to themselves as the director continued, admonishing them for not practicing enough, for not staying on beat, even for not enunciating more clearly.
A few people in the choir noticed her amusement and grinned back at her, seeming to enjoy the novelty of having a kindred spirit on their side in the audience.
And then she caught one man’s eye and her heart skipped a beat. There, in the middle of this mismatched choir run by a temperamental director, stood Reid Armstrong.
The moment he recognized her, his expression changed from vaguely amused to concerned. After murmuring something to the man on his left, he walked down to see her.
“Mr. Armstrong. Beg pardon, Mr. Armstrong!” the director called out.
Reid stopped. “Sir?”
“Beg pardon, but you have not yet been dismissed.”
“I’m sorry, Deacon Thomas,” he said with a little bow. “But there is someone in the audience I must speak with.”
Deacon Thomas looked over his shoulder in surprise, spied her, then smiled. “Is that the way of it, then? Well, don’t tarry too long, sir.”
A few of the older women tittered as Reid kept walking.
Rosalind felt her face heat. For a moment she considered standing up, but then fearing that it might draw even more attention their way, she stayed seated until he scooted in next to her.
“Rosalind, what a surprise! Are you okay? Is something wrong?” he asked, each word tumbling over the next. “How did you kno
w I was here?”
“I didn’t! There was a fray outside. The crowd got rather big and rowdy quickly. I darted in the church to escape.”
Looking concerned, he reached out for her gloved hand. “Did anyone accost you? Were you hurt?” Gently, he placed her hand between his own.
Even through her glove, she could feel the warmth of his touch. “N–not at all.”
Noticing her stammer, he leaned forward, bringing with him his scent of balsam and cologne. “Are you certain?”
How could she ever reveal that it was his touch and concern—and not the noise of a crowd—that had her on pins and needles? “I am perfectly fine.”
Afraid he would notice how affected she was by his touch, she gently pulled her hand away and straightened her spine a bit. “Anyway, I entered the church for my safety. But it was your chorus of voices that drew me in. You all sounded lovely.”
“I’m afraid our esteemed director doesn’t quite agree.”
She thought about that. “I have never been part of a chorus, of course, but I imagine that being exacting is every choir director’s job.”
“I fear you are right.” He looked at her sheepishly. “I am ashamed to say that sometimes we egg him on. Getting him on his high horse can be quite fun. He is usually the quietest of men.”
She nodded toward the man speaking to the group. Deacon Thomas kept looking over at Reid in an irritated way. “Unless you are agitating him on purpose, I think you should return to your place. He is missing you.”
“I will. And what will you do?”
“Oh, I’ll check outside in another moment or two. If the brawl is over, I’ll go on my merry way.” She leaned forward. “I have the whole afternoon off. Three more hours.”
“Then I insist you stay for the rest of the practice and allow me to walk you home.”
She knew, of course, that she felt too happy about his invitation. It wouldn’t do for her to get any closer to him. Especially when she considered Veronica’s threats. “I’m not sure if that is a good idea.”
“Please reconsider. It’s rare that we are away from the many prying eyes and ears at Sloane House. Plus, we have many things to discuss.” His face became shadowed. “Some things have happened recently that you might not know about.”
Thinking of Veronica accusing her of stealing and Nanci’s refusal to talk about what had happened between her and Douglass, Rosalind nodded. “I, too, have news.”
“Mr. Armstrong?” Deacon Thomas called out, his voice now tinged with impatience. “Do you intend to return to us anytime soon?”
“Yes, Deacon,” Reid said after a quick wink in her direction. “I am sorry for the disruption.” He scooted off the pew and trotted back to his place in the choir.
Rosalind couldn’t help but smile as she leaned back and watched him take his place. He really was the most wonderful of men. Kind to her, recklessly full of fun with deacons. Suave and debonair with the ladies and gentlemen of his station.
As she realized that one day he would find his wife among those ladies, she felt a bit deflated. It would be so nice to imagine that their alliance could continue for years and years. Oh, she certainly didn’t entertain any hopes that everything that kept them apart would suddenly not matter. She was too much of a realist now to ever think that.
But she did like to think that they’d become friends of a sort. Simply put, she enjoyed his company, and she had a feeling he felt the same way about hers. But once her mission was concluded, their alliance would fade. No bride of his would understand a friendship with another woman.
And even if she did, it certainly wouldn’t be the same. They would have lost their reason for being friends. Before long, their conversation would falter into meaningless comments about the weather and the state of their health.
And their former friendship would be merely something she recalled with a slight, surprised skip of her heart. Wondering if she’d simply imagined their alliance was something more than it ever was.
Perhaps she was even doing that now?
The thought gave her pause and embarrassed her. As the deacon raised his hands and led both the organist and the choir into another hymn, Rosalind scooted a bit farther into the center of the pew where the light from the open doorway didn’t skim her skirts. Where she could sit in the shadows, alone with her thoughts.
Desperately hoping that Reid wouldn’t be able to discern her thoughts from where he stood.
CHAPTER 21
Reid couldn’t help but continually glance toward Rosalind. Sitting by herself in the middle of a lonely pew, she looked more fragile than ever.
And, he realized, beautiful.
Wearing a smart-looking bonnet instead of the usual servant’s white cap, her dark mahogany hair shone against the dark wood behind her. Her simple dress, devoid of lace, bric-a-brac, or beadwork, emphasized her slim figure.
It took everything he had to stay on task and keep his attention on the choral director’s directives and the complicated musical score they were learning. Still, he fooled no one.
“Who is the lady?” Andrew Biltmore whispered when the deacon was correcting the sopranos’ stanza.
“Merely a friend.”
“Surely she is more?” he said, lowering his voice. “She came to your rehearsal, after all.”
“She’s here by happenstance. There was a ruckus outside. A few men started an argument and several others joined in. She stepped inside for safety, then was drawn in by our music.”
Andrew looked like he was torn between skepticism at the story and gratification about their chorus bringing in an audience. “It’s your lucky day then.” He grinned. “Where did you meet her? At one of your many parties or dances?”
Reid shook his head. Andrew was a junior lawyer in a small legal firm. Not of his social class. While he was socially acceptable, he wasn’t part of one of the families that attended the balls. He was certainly nowhere near Douglass Sloane’s social status, or Reid’s for that matter. But that said, Andrew was quite a bit beyond the servant class.
And that meant Andrew would be shocked and not a bit dismayed to imagine that Reid was courting a housemaid. Young men generally hoped to marry up, after all. Reid instinctively knew Andrew wouldn’t understand a mere friendship between them, either. And to betray Rosalind’s confidence was unthinkable.
Luckily, Deacon Thomas didn’t give them any further time to speak. He raised his arms and had them begin the last section of the hymn from the very beginning.
Forty minutes later, the deacon dismissed the group, they said their good-byes, and Reid was escorting Rosalind down the busy street. Horses and their carriages trotted by, their clip-clopping hooves mixing in with the jangle of the trolley bells in the distance.
“You are a wealth of surprises, Mr. Armstrong,” Rosalind said with a smile. “I would have never imagined you as part of a church chorus.”
Reid was used to the comment. He’d known when he joined the choir that his choice of activities would be questioned, but he’d found that his enjoyment of the group far outweighed any negative comments. However, he was still interested to hear her reasons for the statement.
“What surprised you? My singing in a church or the company I was keeping?”
“Both.” She paused, obviously choosing her words with care. “I had no idea you could sing. And while I don’t see myself as an authority on the upper classes, I didn’t imagine church—or church functions—were seen as important.”
He pondered that as he kept to her right, taking her arm as a pair of unruly boys scampered down the sidewalk on her left. “I’m a Christian,” he said at last. “It’s as much who I am as the color of my eyes or the fact that I’m left-handed. My mother is very devout. She raised me to have the Lord in my life. I’m grateful for that.”
“And your father?” she asked as they paused at an intersection.
He thought about that. “His faith is important to him as well, though I must admit that he was never one
to openly embrace his faith. Usually it was just an understood thing.”
Determined to get to know her better, he looked into her eyes. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes. It’s only fair that you get to have your share of questions,” he teased. “Were you raised with religion?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t so formal. We have a community church, but it takes over an hour to get to it. Living on a farm as we do, my folks couldn’t always take off so much time, not even on Sundays.”
“You mean to say that your animals haven’t heard of a day of rest?”
She chuckled. “Oh, they’ve taken the resting part to heart. They just haven’t come around to thinking that we need to take time off too.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “No matter how much I’ve talked to the pigs, they still want to eat every day.”
His lips twitched, enjoying her humor. “So what do you do instead?”
“We have church at home. My father reads from the Bible. We pray together. We talk about our week and our dreams. Talk about where we see the Lord calling us.”
“That sounds nice,” he murmured, meaning it. “I like the idea of making things simple.”
“It is simple, but it is certainly nice too.” She smiled. “One of the benefits of growing up in a large family is that there are a lot of us to contribute to any discussion. Sometimes we agree. Sometimes we don’t. But no matter what, those moments together in our family room? When we’re all seated and discussing the Lord’s Book? It brings us closer together.”
“You’ve been blessed.”
“I think so.” Glancing at him, she added, “But there is something awe-inspiring about sitting in a pew and listening to a choir. It was beautiful.”
“I’m rather new. I’ve only been there a year. But I do like it. As you noticed, our choir is made up of all sorts of people.”
“Mainly middle-class folks?”
“Yes.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Not at all. My roots are firmly middle class. Besides, I like knowing all sorts of people.” He smiled, hoping she’d realize he included her in that group.
Secrets of Sloane House Page 16
