She smiled back at him then, just as a group of four schoolgirls walked by. Their chatter was loud and their need to stand four-across made it necessary for Reid to pull Rosalind close to his side, almost against the plastered wall of a bank building.
With that step, she was so close that he could smell the faint scent of lemons in her hair.
His hand curved around a trim waist that felt only slightly corseted. Surprised, she gazed up at him. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes beckoning him. If they were alone, he knew he’d be tempted to kiss her.
Which, of course, would be a terrible mistake. No matter how much he enjoyed her company, nothing more personal could ever erupt between them. Definitely nothing romantic.
All he was doing now was helping a friend in need. Being a Christian. Nothing less.
Because there could definitely be nothing more.
Rosalind soon discovered that not only had her walk with Reid been observed by some of the other servants, but apparently, according to Mrs. Abrams, it had also been commented upon by one of Mrs. Sloane’s acquaintances.
Less than an hour after she returned, she felt the effects.
At the servants’ table that evening, everyone from the scullery maid to Mrs. Abrams herself treated her with a bit of disdain. By the time they had finished the main course, Rosalind was feeling stung and more than a bit defensive.
“Mr. Armstrong merely walked me back. That is all,” she said for the third or fourth time. “As I’ve told you all, I darted into his church to escape quite a ruckus.”
Nanci sniffed. “Don’t you sound all high-and-mighty now, needing a fine gentleman to accompany you on the sidewalks.”
Cook cast a sharp glance her way. “Getting a bit above ourselves, are we, Rosalind?”
Emma raised a shoulder. “Maybe he’s sweet on her.”
“Of course he is not,” Rosalind protested. “Mr. Armstrong was merely being kind.”
Jerome scoffed as he pulled over a dish and helped himself to a heaping portion of raspberry trifle. “Swells do that sort of thing with their ladybirds. If that’s what you are, you should just say it. You wouldn’t be the first girl to compromise herself for a bit of fun.”
Rosalind didn’t need a mirror to know that her face was now beet red. “I have not compromised myself. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Well, your behavior has once again become suspect,” Mrs. Abrams said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to speak with Mrs. Sloane about this.”
Rosalind felt heat leave her body and become replaced with what felt like ice. She turned her head, hoping to catch Nanci’s eye. But Nanci was as determined as ever to ignore her. She had gotten up, poured herself a cup of coffee, and was now leaning against the door frame. Distancing herself yet again.
Rosalind knew she was now truly, completely alone. She sat without speaking another word until Mr. Hodgeson excused the table. After taking her dishes into the scullery, she escaped to her room, glad that it was still technically her day off.
She read a book she’d borrowed from the home’s library off and on for the next hour, half waiting for Nanci to enter their room. But as the hours passed, it became apparent that Nanci was in no hurry to spend any time with her at all.
Rosalind wondered what Nanci was doing. Was she spending time with the other women servants? Or was she attending Veronica?
Or was she spending yet more time with Douglass even though Rosalind was still sure he had hurt her that day at the fair?
Rosalind hated that such things were even going through her mind. But that was what she’d been reduced to, she decided. She was afraid and running out of time. When the housekeeper spoke to Mrs. Sloane, Rosalind knew she would be let go.
At last, she closed her eyes and willed herself to go to sleep.
Early the next morning, Rosalind rose, noting that everything around her still looked the same. She was startled to see that Nanci’s bed was already neatly made. Rosalind didn’t recall her roommate returning during the night, but she also realized that she’d slept like the dead.
Checking the simple clock on their shared chest of drawers, Rosalind winced. She’d awoken ten minutes later than usual! Nanci probably had dressed in a flash and was already going about her duties.
Not wanting to be thought of as neglecting her duties, too, Rosalind dressed as quickly as she ever had, then hurried below stairs. After a quick breakfast eaten in silence, she prepared trays for Cook, then was sent to clean the main parlors. Next, she helped with a dozen other tasks, all the while feeling the other servants’ judgmental eyes on her.
It was almost a relief when Mrs. Abrams summoned her to another meeting with her and Mrs. Sloane. She walked behind the housekeeper, keeping her eyes on the floor in front of her so she wouldn’t have to see anyone’s expression as they passed.
At last they arrived at Mrs. Sloane’s private drawing room. “Mind your manners today, Rosalind,” Mrs. Abrams cautioned.
“Yes, ma’am.” Oh, she would watch her tongue. But she also realized that she now had very little to lose. Already she was being judged for her actions when she knew that in truth she hadn’t done anything wrong. Slowly, she raised her head and stood a bit straighter.
“Mrs. Sloane, I’ve brought Rosalind in,” the housekeeper announced.
“So I see. Both of you, please come in and sit down,” Mrs. Sloane said. Her voice sounded strained. Perhaps a little aggrieved too.
Feeling more than a bit confused, Rosalind sat.
After a sigh, Mrs. Sloane said, “Rosalind, it has come to my attention that you have continued to push the boundaries of acceptability. Definitely below the expectations of this household.” Staring hard at Rosalind, she paused. Obviously, she was waiting for Rosalind to protest or defend herself.
Rosalind said nothing, though. She was feeling rather tired of defending herself to both Mrs. Sloane and the other servants in the household. She was also becoming weary of being told to act in an acceptable way while both Douglass and Veronica were allowed to behave so poorly. Though she wasn’t the green, naive girl she’d been when she first arrived at the house, it still smarted a bit to be on the losing end of such a double standard.
Mrs. Sloane raised her brows at Rosalind’s silence, cleared her throat, then spoke, her voice even darker and more disapproving. “Under normal circumstances, we would be asking for you to leave. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that isn’t going to be possible.”
“Why?” Rosalind asked.
The housekeeper intercepted Mrs. Sloane’s answer and answered with a sigh. “It seems that Nanci has left us. Being her roommate, we were hoping you could shed some light on her disappearance.”
She leaned forward, completely jolted. “What? Was this planned?”
“Did she not share any of her plans with you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m afraid we haven’t been talking too much. We had a falling out.”
Both women sent Rosalind looks that signaled they weren’t in the least surprised. “When did you last see her?” Mrs. Sloane asked.
“Last night at the servants’ dinner.”
“She didn’t come to your room last evening?”
“She hadn’t by the time I went to sleep.”
“And this didn’t alarm you?” Mrs. Sloane looked incredulous.
“I thought maybe she was attending Miss Veronica late last night. Sometimes we catch catnaps in the servants’ sitting room while waiting to be called to help undress hair or prepare bedrooms.”
She didn’t dare add that she’d wondered if Nanci could have been with Douglass for at least part of the night. It didn’t seem in character for Nanci, but certainly stranger things had happened in the house, and more than one footman told tales of helping women slip out the door in the early morning hours.
“I see,” Mrs. Sloane murmured, though it was obvious she didn’t believe her.
Mrs. Abrams studied Rosalind. “And what about this morning? Do you really mean to say that you
didn’t see her at all?”
“I woke up about ten minutes late, and noticed right away that Nanci’s bed was neatly made.”
“And did you remark on it to Cook? To anyone downstairs?”
“I’m afraid I did not.” Nerves threatened to get the best of her. Her hands started to shake a bit. Not wanting the other women to see how affected she was by Nanci’s disappearance—and by their disdain—Rosalind clasped her hands tightly together.
When she caught her composure, she said, “I assumed that Nanci had risen before me and had gone to do her duties. As I said, we had a disagreement and had been avoiding each other.”
“Before I went to fetch you,” Mrs. Abrams informed her, “I went to your room and inspected it. Her clothes have been removed. She must have packed up her things in the middle of the night.”
On one hand, that gave Rosalind a bit of relief. Surely Nanci wouldn’t have packed a bag if she’d been in danger. But on the other hand, she thought about Douglass and the way Nanci had looked at him—at least before the incident at Wooded Island. Was she—still?—so smitten that she would do anything he asked of her . . . even become his mistress?
Her imagination continued to run wild. Perhaps someone from the fair had lured her away. Perhaps at this very moment Nanci was trapped in an impossible situation, just waiting for someone, anyone, to help her.
“Do you think she is all right?” she blurted. “Should we ask the police to become involved?”
“We shall do no such thing,” Mrs. Abrams said sharply.
“But she could be in danger.”
The housekeeper’s gray eyes flashed. “You are forgetting yourself, Rosalind.”
Rosalind knew she was stepping out of bounds. But there was still that knowledge that Nanci was the only person in the house to whom she’d told her suspicions about Miranda. Had Nanci said something to the wrong person? “I am merely concerned about Nanci.”
“I understand your concern, but I am afraid it is misplaced.” Mrs. Sloane raised a reprimanding brow. “A missing housemaid, especially one who has packed her bags, is certainly no reason to set up an alarm to the authorities. Besides, what would we say, exactly? That she left without telling us good-bye?”
Rosalind tucked her chin. Afraid again of acting the fool. “I just don’t want anything to happen to her. That’s all.”
“What we must concentrate on now is you,” Mrs. Abrams said sharply. “As Mrs. Sloane stated previously, we would ordinarily ask you to leave immediately. However, since Nanci left without notice, we cannot spare you.”
Rosalind felt her throat tightening, though whether it was in relief or fear of her future, she didn’t know.
“I don’t think you understand. Be assured that just as soon as I hire a replacement and ascertain she is acclimated to the household, you will be given your notice. Your days here are numbered, Rosalind.”
“I—I understand.” She was eager to leave the room, eager to figure out what happened to Nanci. But then she remembered Minerva, standing at the corner selling flowers. And she knew what she had to do.
“If there was a woman interested in the job, could she simply knock on the door for an interview?” She glanced back and forth between the two women.
Mrs. Sloane deferred the question to Mrs. Abrams with a nod.
The housekeeper thawed a bit to answer. “We’ll be using a placement agency. But we might also place an ad in the paper. Lately, the agency hasn’t been sending us the best of candidates. Why do you ask?”
“I have met a woman who used to be a lady’s maid.”
“And?”
“And . . . I would hope that you might give her a chance.”
“Your tenacity knows no bounds, Rosalind.” The housekeeper shook her head. “We will absolutely not start meeting with stray women you’ve met.”
“Please! She’s nothing like me. She might be a good fit. I simply thought that perhaps she could apply.”
“She may apply, Rosalind,” Mrs. Sloane allowed. “But I will point out that a reference from you would not be the best idea.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Without waiting to be excused, Rosalind stood up and walked out of the room. She was tired of following rules that didn’t apply to everyone. Tired of living in fear. Tired of worrying about her future.
Actually, she was just plain tired.
CHAPTER 22
For all her good intentions, Rosalind had no opportunity to run to the corner to discuss employment with Minerva. She also had no time to do any investigating about Miranda’s or even Nanci’s disappearance. Whatever the reason for Nanci’s departure, it had created an enormous amount of work for the remaining staff at Sloane House.
Nanci had been extremely talented at arranging Mrs. Sloane’s hair. Because neither she nor Veronica wanted Rosalind dressing their hair, Emma and Emily had been asked to do it. This, of course, necessitated that other servants perform the usual duties of the parlor maids.
And because Mrs. Sloane had been more vocal than usual about the disruption in the house, Mrs. Abrams had felt obligated to double check everyone’s work. Like a game of dominoes, her actions determined everyone else’s behavior. Her stress made her usually clear directives jumbled and disjointed. That, in turn, had set both Cook and Mr. Hodgeson off.
And because those leaders felt out of sorts, their instructions to the rest of the kitchen staff, coachmen, and footmen turned clipped and impatient. They barked commands, scolded over minor accidents, and everyone’s tempers rested on increasingly short fuses.
For those two days, the house—a stressful place on the best of days—had begun to feel like an extremely luxurious workhouse. None of the servants had time off. Nerves continued to fray, tensions rose, and more accidents happened. And because everyone needed to point a finger at someone, Rosalind was their favorite target.
Dora had not been shy about telling everyone who would listen that she was sure Rosalind’s falling out with Nanci had fueled her departure. Jerome gossiped to anyone who would listen as well.
Knowing there was nothing she could say to turn their opinions of her, Rosalind kept to herself as much as possible. For those two days, she worked silently and as efficiently as she could. But more chores and duties than she would ever have time for were heaped on Rosalind’s slim shoulders.
Ironically, the hard work and tense atmosphere were improving her domestic skills. Rosalind could now clean a fireplace and lay a new set of logs faster and more efficiently than almost anyone in the house. She could also iron dresses perfectly, lay out breakfast trays expertly, and put a room to rights for guests in a matter of minutes.
She could tell her improvements had been noted but had also been viewed with a type of resignation with which one might imbibe medicinal syrup. It was appreciated, but not enjoyed.
In the midst of all the drama and isolation, one person did make an effort to befriend her. To her dismay it was Douglass Sloane.
At least once each day—sometimes more—he sought her out and spoke to her kindly. To her shame, she found herself looking forward to these visits, sometimes even enjoying his company. She tried to tell herself she shouldn’t say a word to him. That he likely had something to do with Nanci’s disappearance and perhaps even her sister’s disappearance. But even though there were countless reasons to avoid him, she still found herself talking to him when he spoke to her, a smile on his handsome face.
“Rosalind, you are the proverbial busy bee these days. Are they even letting you sleep?” he’d asked just a few hours earlier. She’d been walking back to the kitchens after delivering a coffee service and tray of pastries to Mrs. Sloane’s study. “Every time I turn around, I see you walking to and fro with a purpose.”
“It’s because I have been walking purposefully, sir,” she quipped. “Your household is a busy place.”
He leaned against the wall of the narrow hallway. With his body positioned like that, and his direct gaze seeming to prevent her from looking anywhere e
lse, Rosalind at last felt like she counted, like someone was paying attention to her and she was worth something.
“Are they working you too hard, dear?”
The endearment caught her off guard. “No, sir.”
“Sir? It’s Douglass, remember.” His voice softened. “Is there anything I may do for you? I would be happy to ask Mrs. Abrams to go a little lighter on you.”
“Please don’t.” She knew—even if he didn’t—that her days at Sloane House were almost at an end. As soon as Mrs. Sloane could replace her, she would.
Before she knew what he was about, he reached for her hand and held it between his own hands. Neither was wearing gloves, of course. And her rough skin with the chewed cuticles and short nails looked even more frightful than they usually did. “Your hands . . .” His voice drifted off as he inspected them.
Standing across from him, so close, she felt the first flicker of unease, and the realization that once again, she’d been such a fool. Of course she’d been happy for his attentions because she’d been so lonely.
But that didn’t change the fact that there was something dark and almost sinister about him. Something that made a lump in her throat ache and all her senses wake up and take notice. He was a dangerous man.
A dangerous man wrapped up in a beautiful, desirable package. But still, she was afraid of him.
He didn’t let go of her hand. Still staring at it, he ran one finger along her knuckles. “Have you figured out yet what happened to Nanci?” he asked.
His voice was deceptively casual. Unnervingly direct. Though he still hadn’t met her gaze, she felt his regard as intently as if he was staring straight at her. When she said nothing, his grip tightened. It didn’t hurt, but she would have a difficult time freeing her hand without pulling hard to get it free.
“Are you going to answer?” he murmured in that easy, silky way he spoke. “Or attempt to ignore me?”
Apprehension hit her hard. His question felt like a test of sorts. It was obvious that he was waiting for the right reply. Waiting for her to tell him what he wanted to know.
Secrets of Sloane House Page 17
