“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Before the lady could rush off, Rosalind said, “I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”
“You don’t need to. We want to help you find your sister. And if that can’t be done, we want to help you, dear.”
“I’m grateful, but I’m afraid I don’t understand why. From the very beginning, Reid, I mean, Mr. Armstrong, has been so kind to me.”
“It’s probably because you’ve been kind to him as well.”
“Not all the time,” she admitted.
“Well, there might be another reason. We believe in Jesus, Rosalind. Do you?”
“I . . . I think so. I mean, I have faith.”
“Jesus did so much for so many, never asking them what was in it for him. He taught us all to be kind and to help those in need. We’re Christians. And we have faith.” She shrugged. “I’m not explaining myself very well. All I can say is that it gives me much happiness to help you. To not just say I want to make a difference in someone else’s life, but to actually do so. I think Reid is much the same way.”
“I’m grateful. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to say I’ve done the same.”
Mrs. Armstrong’s eyes turned luminous. “Oh, you dear child, you don’t see it, do you?” When Rosalind shook her head, she added, “You already have sacrificed yourself for someone you love.” She waved a hand around the room. “Think of all you have already done for your sister! You’ve left your home, and you’ve worked hard to learn information. You’ve humbled yourself for her.”
“But none of it has helped. Even though I’ve tried so hard, nothing has changed. I’ve still failed.”
“You don’t actually know that, do you? You don’t know how the Lord has been working through you. You don’t know how your efforts have rubbed off on other people and encouraged them to open their hearts to Miranda. You don’t know, because you can’t know. Only the Lord does.”
Rosalind wanted to believe Mrs. Armstrong’s words. “I hope you are right. I would like nothing better than to know that I’ve helped Miranda in spite of my mistakes.”
“I can’t promise all your efforts will have a happy outcome, Rosalind. No one can promise you that. But I can promise you that your faith will carry you through. Faith helps us all survive both the lowest points in life and some of the best.”
She turned and left, leaving Rosalind to her thoughts.
She thought about what Mrs. Armstrong had said and couldn’t help but be struck by how right the words sounded. After all, she knew a lot about surviving the hardest of times. But she’d certainly never thought about surviving good times too. But it did make sense. Each moment in her life made her a different person than who she was before. Both the good and the bad influenced her in ways she never could have imagined.
The fact that she was able to keep going? That was something to celebrate. To even praise God for—again and again and again.
Satisfied that Rosalind was getting settled in her guest room, Reid was doing his best to get through a large stack of his father’s correspondence when his mother entered the room.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but I think we need to talk.”
It seemed to him that they’d been doing little but talking. “Can it wait? I want to post some of these letters before dinner this evening.”
His mother sat down. “It cannot.”
“All right then.” He leaned back. “What is wrong?”
“It is about Rosalind.”
Concerned, he got to his feet. “What is wrong?” he asked again. “She moved in on your invitation, Mother. Yours and Father’s.”
“Dear, I am not referring to that. Rather, I’m more concerned about your relationship with her.”
“Mother, I am her friend.”
“Are you sure that is all it is? Because I am fairly sure I saw something else brewing between the two of you.”
He was taken aback. And more than a bit embarrassed. “I do believe I am long past the age of seeking my mother’s permission for friendships.”
“I agree. But, Reid, I fear you are developing a tendre for this girl—this maid.”
She was hitting closer to the truth than he was comfortable with. He did have some feelings for Rosalind. He wanted to think they only revolved around pity and a need to improve her situation. But if he was honest, he’d have to admit that he’d found himself gazing at her with something more like desire more than once.
What he hadn’t realized was that it had been noticeable to anyone else.
Feeling frustrated with himself, he lashed out. “Perhaps I am.”
His mother frowned. “It is not that she isn’t a lovely girl, Reid,” she continued, just as if he’d not said a word. “As a matter of fact, I think she is very pretty. With the right clothes and hair? She might even be stunning.”
He folded his hands across the surface of his father’s oak desk. “And your point is?”
“My point is that I hope your desire to help a housemaid won’t interfere with your place in society. Your father has sacrificed much to propel you into the upper echelons of Chicago. The young lady you take as your wife needs to reflect your position.”
“In other words, taking an undercover maid as my wife will do me no favors.”
Her eyes flashed. “I am not joking about this, Reid. Do not take my words lightly.”
“I am doing no such thing. But, please, don’t forget that I am no green debutante. I am a grown man who needs to follow his conscience . . . and his heart.”
“I . . . I see.” Standing with a flick of her skirts, she artfully arranged her gown, then left the room.
Only when he was alone again did he dare exhale and face the complete truth: no woman would ever intrigue him like Rosalind did. Actually, he was fairly sure that no woman would ever come close. He was fairly sure he was falling in love.
The only problem was that he had no idea what to do about that.
CHAPTER 28
“Well, don’t just sit there, Rosie,” Mr. Emerson Armstrong barked moments after his son left them alone. “Start talking.”
“What would you like me to talk about, Mr. Armstrong? And I’m sorry, but my name is Rosalind.”
“That’s too stuffy for a girl like you. I like Rosie better.”
She was momentarily taken aback. “So if you like it better, that should become my name?”
“That would be a yes.” He opened one eye, the exact shade of green as his son’s. “Do you have a problem with that?”
She knew she had no choice about what she should be called. The Armstrongs had taken her in and were offering her shelter while so many others had not. With that in mind, she decided she had no problem being called Rosie.
“Not at all, sir.”
“Good. Now start telling me about yourself.”
“You want to hear my life story?” She said the words as a bit of a joke. But by the look on his face it was apparent that that was exactly what he had in mind.
“Perhaps I should pour us some tea? This might take awhile.”
“I don’t want any tea. But go get yourself some. Can’t have you being parched in my company.”
Hiding a smile, she crossed the room to the pretty table, where a full tea service had been placed—by someone other than her. That was something to celebrate in itself.
Another thing to celebrate was Reid’s father. The older man had certainly taken her by surprise. He was nothing like his son. Where Reid was polished good looks and perfect manners, his father was wrinkled, disheveled, and disarmingly blunt. Instead of speaking quietly, his words flew out of his mouth in spurts and sputters, each word hitting her with a staccato beat.
His accent wasn’t nearly as formal or high-class as Reid’s or even his wife’s. Visiting with him made Rosalind feel completely at ease. Though she would never forget their differences in social status, the lines didn’t seem as stark or strict in his presence.
Quickly, she added a bit of milk to her t
ea, then returned to sit next to him. “Well, I should start by saying that I grew up on a farm in Wisconsin.”
“How many brothers and sisters?”
“I’m one of five.”
“Five is a good round number,” he said with a smile. “I’m one of five myself.”
“Then we have something in common, perhaps.”
One eye opened again. “We might have more in common than that, Rosie.” As his eye closed, he waved his left hand impatiently. “Well, go on.”
“I am the second eldest. My sister, Miranda, was the eldest. I mean, is the oldest.”
His expression turned thoughtful. “What do you think, Rosalind? Do you think she’s still alive?”
Reid had never asked such a direct question. She’d never dared to ask herself such a question. But to her surprise, she found she was ready to face it. Taking a breath, she gave voice to her secret fear.
“No. I don’t think she was abducted. I don’t think she ran off. I think she’s dead.”
“I see.”
“You’re not going to encourage me to hold out hope?”
“No.” Both eyes opened this time and stared at her. His gaze was piercing. Direct. “Here’s why: If she was anything like you, Miranda wouldn’t simply vanish. You are too loyal. Even if she was only half as loyal as you? I doubt she would have left you all without a single word. If she were alive, she would have found some way, no matter how difficult, to contact her family.”
She was stunned. This man she barely knew had been able to focus on the one trait she knew ran especially strong in her family. It was one of the reasons Miranda had left home in the first place, to help support her siblings. It was why her father had endured the ridicule of the police when he’d journeyed to the city to ask questions. It was why she’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t, all in an attempt to discover the truth.
“You’re right, sir.”
“You needn’t sound so surprised. I usually am.” He chuckled softly, his laughter fading into a harsh cough that looked like it took the wind right out of him.
“Sorry.”
“Would you care for some tea now?”
A look of distaste crossed his features. But he still held out his hand. “No milk. Only one sugar cube.”
Rosalind hastened to her feet, then quickly poured him a cup. After stirring in the sugar cube, she carefully carried the teacup to him and helped his shaking hands maneuver it to his lips. After four sips, he leaned back with another angry cough.
Rosalind took the cup from his hands and carefully set it on his bedside table. Then she continued her story. “Anyway, after Miranda and me, there are three boys—Henry, Steven, and Ethan.”
“And how old is Ethan?”
“Eight.”
“And what does one do on the farm all day?”
“Any number of things. I often looked after my brothers. Gardened.”
“You enjoy gardening?”
She nodded. “I do. I suppose it’s because I don’t mind being outside for hours at a time. I like it.”
“What did you grow?”
“Everything. Beans. Corn. Potatoes.” She continued, her voice warming to the memories. She told him about the cucumbers and zucchinis. About the time a squirrel or raccoon ate one bite out of every single tomato growing on the vines.
She chuckled when she relayed one of her brother’s misadventures with a particularly hungry pig. Then she noticed that Mr. Armstrong’s breathing had slowed and become even. Her chatter had caused him to fall asleep.
Uncertain about what to do next, she sat quietly next to him for another hour, content to listen to him breathe—and to allow herself to remember her home and the farm and the times she’d had there.
And she allowed herself to accept that she might not ever discover what happened to her sister. And that she was going to need to come to terms with the very real possibility that Miranda was dead.
Dead. It was such a stark, final word. But she needed that descriptor. She needed to accept it.
At last, she picked up the heavy tray and exited the room. Almost immediately, she saw Reid.
“Rosalind, I was just coming to check on you both. How did your visit with my father go?”
“Just fine. He fell asleep about an hour ago.”
As he had just noticed the tray in her hands, he reached for it. “This is too heavy for you. Please allow me—”
“Certainly not, Mr. Armstrong.” She stepped backward just enough to get it out of his reach. “I can carry this just fine.”
“Are you certain?”
“I carried trays like this for the Sloane family many a time, sir.”
He frowned. Stared at her a long moment, then took a step backward himself. “I see. Well, I won’t keep you then. Unless you’d like my help finding the kitchens?”
“I’ll find another staff member to help me.” She turned and started walking down the hallway toward the stairs, then gingerly began the long journey down. Her arms were shaking from the weight of the tray. But she kept her chin up and was bound and determined not to lose her composure . . . or the tray.
Just as she got to the marble entryway, Benjamin hurried to her side. “Need a hand?”
“If you could direct me to the kitchens, I would appreciate it. And, please, may we not argue this point? It is fairly heavy.”
“It’s this way.” With a new resolve, she followed the valet toward the kitchens, bracing herself to be unwelcomed into the private sanctuary of the servants’ rooms.
She was pleased, however, to have stood her ground with Reid. The Armstrongs needed to remember who they were and where they came from as well as her own station in life. Remembering the line that neither could cross was necessary.
For all of them.
Reid watched Rosalind walk down the stairs, then accept Benjamin’s guidance to the kitchens. To his chagrin, he felt a bit jealous. He, not his valet, was the one who knew her well. He should be the one helping her.
And that, he realized, was why he needed to remember his mother’s warning. Maybe her words did have merit. Obviously, Rosalind still was very aware of their stations, and perhaps he should remember that too. Maybe there really couldn’t be anything between him and Rosalind beyond giving her a helping hand.
Deciding that this encounter had been just the thing he needed to remember his place, he glanced at his pocket watch, saw that it wasn’t too late to pay a call, and decided to go call on Eloisa Carstairs. He’d enjoyed talking with her at that dinner party, and she was the perfect candidate for a wife.
He shouldn’t waste another moment in pursuing her.
As his driver drove the carriage to Eloisa’s house, Reid knew he would talk to her about the Sloanes and their maids as well. Perhaps she would know something about their household staff that he wasn’t aware of. After all, women were insightful like that. They were able to see many personality conflicts of which men were blissfully unaware.
He presented his calling card to Eloisa’s butler. He looked at the card, gazed at Reid, and smiled politely. “Yes, sir. I’ll inform Miss Eloisa that you have called.”
Less than two minutes later, the butler guided him through a maze of rooms and out to a solarium. When Reid had visited before during a social call with his mother, they’d been directed to the formal receiving room. The solarium was far more private. It was also one of the prettiest rooms he’d ever been in. Bright and airy, the room boasted large picture windows and a pair of French doors that opened onto a stone patio.
And there, on the patio, stood Eloisa. Her back was to him. She was wearing a light blue frock that was undoubtedly an expensive work of art, with its many flounces, tucks, and pleats. The effect was charming. As if she sensed his presence, she turned and caught his eye. Smiled softly.
She was so beautiful that she almost literally took away his breath. Right then and there, Reid decided her gown was worth every penny.
The butler stood at attention. “Miss Elo
isa is outside, sir. She asked that you join her out there?”
“Yes, that would be pleasant.” With a nod, he added, “I’ll let myself out. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler nodded again, then left the solarium quietly, leaving Reid to stare at Eloisa a little bit longer before striding outside.
She held out both hands to him. “Reid, this is a surprise.”
“But a welcome one, I hope?” he asked as he squeezed both her hands gently.
“Very much so.” She smiled again, then bent down and picked up a pair of garden clippers. “I was just about to cut some flowers. My mother is hosting a dinner later this evening.”
“I’ll hold your basket for you.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” She smiled again, then turned back to the grouping of rosebushes, their appealing fragrance warring with their red and gold beauty. Eloisa fingered a gold-tipped blossom before deftly snipping off the stem and gently placing it in the basket Reid had retrieved from a nearby table.
As she turned to clip another stem, she said, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Would you believe me if I said I merely wanted to see you?”
She snipped another stem. “I would be flattered. But I wouldn’t believe you.” She grinned as she clipped another stem, a blood-red rose this time. “You are not the kind of man to pay calls for no reason.”
He considered disputing that, but opted for telling the truth instead. “I came over for your help. And to discuss our future with you.”
He saw only her profile, but he could tell that she was visibly struggling to retain her composure. “I see.” With deliberate movements, she set down the clippers and reached for the basket.
When both were resting on the stone wall behind her, she stepped to the French doors. “Perhaps we should sit down.”
He did the honors with the doors, then followed her back into the solarium. After she was seated, he seated himself in a sturdy-looking wicker chair at her right. Though he did his best to appear composed, inside, he was calling himself ten types of a fool. What had he been thinking? Paying a call on an elegant woman like Eloisa and being such a stumbling cad.
Secrets of Sloane House Page 21
