Secrets of Sloane House

by Gray, Shelley

  “Me?”

  “You are the most beautiful woman in the room, Eloisa.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I speak only the truth. Your beauty is blinding.”

  His effusive flattery embarrassed her. They continued walking to the side of the ballroom. To her surprise, Douglass bypassed several groups of their friends. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere private. Someplace where we can talk.”

  Because she did need to speak with him, she kept her silence, even when Douglass led her into a vacant hallway. As she glanced down the passageway, empty except for a few closed doors and a series of rather stuffy portraits of dead relatives, her uneasiness grew. It wasn’t the norm for guests to wander uninvited into closed rooms, and it wasn’t her norm to ever do so in the company of a man, with no escort or chaperone in sight.

  “We will be missed. We should probably get back.”

  “I agree. But not yet. We still have to talk, yes?” Smiling a bit, he led her farther down the passageway, trying one door, then the next, but finding them all locked.

  “Douglass, where are you taking me?” she asked, feeling more than a little vexed.

  “Listen to that. You have called me by my name. At last.”

  His expression was so pleased, his words so boyish, she chuckled. “I guess I have.”

  They walked farther down the hall, away from everyone else. “Here we are.” He paused at a door that had swung open. “Will you come inside with me?”

  “Of course not, Douglass. I wanted to talk to you about something important.”

  “I won’t have a conversation out in the hall. Anyone could overhear us.”

  His statement was ridiculous. No one was around. No servants. Certainly no other guests. She pulled away from his grasp. “I am going back.”

  “No,” he said in all seriousness. “No, Eloisa, I don’t believe that will be happening. Not yet.”

  To her shock and dismay, he pulled her into the room and closed the door firmly behind them.

  “Douglass!” she cried out.

  But there was no way she could continue, because then his mouth was on hers, and his arms held her firmly against him.

  And just as she was about to struggle, he pressed one of his hands against her neck, preventing her from breaking away.

  Then, as he grasped her dress, all thoughts of orphans and Reid Armstrong and maids named Rosalind evaporated. All she felt was humiliation and pain.

  Reid had just called for his carriage when he saw Eloisa standing all alone, just beyond a copse of trees. He wouldn’t have recognized her, wouldn’t have even noticed her, if not for the broad beam of light that a carriage made as it exited the home’s driveway.

  Alarmed, he murmured to his driver that he would be a few minutes and strode toward her. When he got close enough, he realized she was shuddering and sobbing into her hands—and it looked like she could be injured.

  A sixth sense warned him to approach her with great care, as if he was approaching a scared child. “Eloisa? Eloisa, yes, I thought that was you. Are you all right?”

  She didn’t answer, only pressed her hands more completely against her eyes. Her shoulders curved, hiding her face from view.

  His concern grew. He reached out to touch her, gently placing a hand on her arm.

  With a cry, she flinched from his touch. Then, at last, lifted her face to his.

  Her eyes were swollen from her tears. But even in the dark evening he could see that her golden hair was mussed, her lips looked swollen, and her skin was deathly pale. “Eloisa?” he whispered. “Eloisa, it’s Reid. My dear, what has happened to you?”

  Her eyes widened, her lips formed a small o, and then she closed her eyes. “Reid?” Slowly, recognition and relief filtered through her gaze, followed closely by worry. And something that looked very much like pain.

  “Oh, Reid,” she said at last. “What am I going to do?”

  Conscious of where they were standing, as well as his carriage waiting for him, he made a decision. “Eloisa, I’m going to escort you home in my carriage. I’ll tell the doorman to tell your driver to go ahead on his way.”

  She began to tremble. “I can’t go home. Not yet.”

  “All right then. I’ll take you to my home. I live with my parents, you know,” he said conversationally, as he slowly reached for her elbow and guided her to his side. “We’ll go there for a bit.”

  “I don’t know if I can face your mother.”

  “Then we’ll sit in the kitchen,” he soothed. “It’s late. No one will bother us there.”

  “No . . . no one will mind?”

  “Not at all. And if you do choose to speak to my mother, I promise, she’ll be honored by your visit.” He smiled lightly. “You know what she’s like,” he teased, hoping she would take his over-the-top remarks for what they were—a light attempt at humor in a distressful situation.

  However, she gave no response other than a weepy sigh. Glancing at her once more, he pulled off his overcoat and draped it around her as they walked to his carriage. The fact that he was leaving with a woman who was wrapped in his coat would cause some talk, but hopefully he would bear the brunt of it. He was hoping that no one would be able to identify the lady he was with.

  Billy, his driver, looked at him in surprise when Reid helped Eloisa into the carriage. But like the well-trained servant he was, he wisely kept to business. “Where to, sir?”

  “Billy, we’ll be going home. But first, please inform the doorman that Miss Carstairs has left with one of her lady friends and that he needs to tell her driver.”

  “Right you are, Mr. Armstrong,” he said without missing a beat. “I’ll go deliver that message right away.”

  Reid smiled his thanks, then entered the carriage and sat across from Eloisa. “Billy’s going to send word that you left with a lady friend,” he explained.

  “Do you think anyone will believe that? I didn’t even retrieve my cloak.”

  “All that really matters is that no one will actually be able to disprove it.”

  In reply, she huddled a little farther into his coat. Moments later, Billy got into the driver’s seat, snapped the reins, and guided the horse for the short drive home.

  Reid debated whether to ask any questions, but decided against it. Eloisa needed a fortifying cup of tea and, hopefully, would allow his mother’s soft, steady presence. Already, he suspected that Eloisa was the victim of something terrible. His concern for her, along with his fierce disdain for anyone who preyed on women, was threatening his composure. Though he would do everything he could to not frighten her in any way, he feared his best might not be enough.

  When they arrived at his house less than a half hour later, he carefully helped her out of the carriage, then escorted her into the house.

  Watterson eyed them with surprise. “Sir?” he asked diffidently.

  “Good evening.” Reid turned to Eloisa, who was standing by his side. She looked pale and fragile, her bearing as stiff as a rail. It was obvious that she was doing everything she could to keep in control. “Where would you like to sit down, my dear?” he asked gently. “In the drawing room? The library? The kitchens? I promise, the choice is yours.”

  Wide eyes stared at him in confusion, then slowly focused. “Your library.”

  “Very well, dear.” He turned to Watterson. The man was almost his parents’ age and was a trusted member of their house. Reid had always believed he could accomplish almost anything; he’d certainly done his best to make Reid into a gentleman.

  “I need you to summon someone in the kitchen to fetch us a pot of tea and bring it to the library.”

  “Yes, sir. Will your mother be joining you as well?”

  “Would you like my mother’s company, Eloisa?”

  She winced at the use of her name, then, after a long pause, nodded.

  “Please summon Hannah to wake my mother and ask her to join us. Perhaps in ten minutes or so.”

 
Watterson bowed slightly. “Yes, sir. A fire has already been laid in the library.”

  And with that, Reid guided Eloisa with the lightest of touches at the small of her back into his father’s library, just off the foyer. Watterson knew Reid often spent time there after an evening out before going to bed.

  Reid took care to seat her by the crackling fire, then lit a lamp. Then another.

  At last, Eloisa faced him. The dim glow highlighted her golden hair, her striking blue eyes. And the bruise on her cheek. Then the marks on her neck.

  And the tear in the lace of her gown.

  Every muscle in his body tensed as his worst fears were confirmed. “Eloisa, you’ve been attacked.”

  She bit her lip, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Do you need a physician?”

  She winced. “No.”

  “Do you have other wounds?” He didn’t know how else to ascertain how serious her injuries were. Though he felt a little foolish, he held out a hand. “Perhaps you’d feel better with your gloves off?”

  To his relief, she placed a hand in his, letting it limply rest in his right palm as he unfastened the buttons, then smoothed down the kid glove. He did the same for her other hand. Then, before she could pull her hands away, he held them both in his and looked for any bruises on her wrists.

  He found several.

  His mood darkened. “Eloisa, we need to talk about what happened. Would you like to discuss this with me privately or when my mother joins us?” Thinking about his sister and how shy she was, he swallowed. “Or perhaps you’d rather I leave the room when my mother arrives?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He wasn’t sure what she was referring to. “No, you don’t wish me to leave?”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it ever.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t allow that. Something must be done. Someone hurt you.”

  “Reid, you offered me shelter and some tea. That is what I accepted.”

  He nodded. Unable to take his eyes from the dark marks on her neck, he said, “Perhaps I should summon the police.”

  She sighed. Looked at him as if he were a green boy instead of a grown man. “We both know I cannot allow you to do that. No one can ever know what happened.”

  As her words registered, a curious sense of peace rolled over him. He knew. He now knew what had happened to her. She had been raped. He was as sure of it as he was of anything.

  After the briefest of knocks, the library door opened. His mother walked in first, wearing her favorite embroidered violet dressing gown. She was followed by Cook, who was looking a bit disheveled in a rumpled plain black dress. In her hands was a tea tray, complete with three china cups and saucers, a large pot of tea, cream, lemon and sugar, and a small platter of sandwiches and cookies.

  With barely the briefest of glances at Eloisa, she set down the tray and placed three starched napkins next to it. “Would you like me to pour, sir?”

  “I’ll do it, Anne,” his mother said as she took a seat next to Eloisa.

  “It weren’t nothing.”

  When they were alone, his mother took a long look at Eloisa, then picked up the teapot. “How do you take your tea, Eloisa? Cream? Lemon? Sugar?”

  “Lemon. If you please.”

  His mother prepared three cups, handing one to Eloisa, then the next to him, with efficient movements born of many years hosting guests under varying conditions.

  Then she spoke. “What can we do to help you?”

  Eloisa clasped her hands together on her lap. “There is nothing you can do.”

  Reid shared a look with his mother, then said what had to be asked, no matter how uncomfortable it made their guest. “Who did this, Eloisa?”

  She averted her eyes but said nothing.

  Hating to cause her further discomfort but feeling duty bound, he prodded a bit more. “I’m guessing that you were violated?”

  Her face paled. For a moment, he feared she would faint. Then she nodded. Twin tears traipsed down her cheeks. After a ragged sigh, she lifted the cup, but her hands were shaking so badly, his mother had to help her guide the china to her lips. For a moment, he considered sending a servant to the kitchens to ask for a drop of brandy. They kept it for medicinal reasons, and he believed this was definitely a time of need.

  But he was also afraid to spook her, and the offer of spirits might do that.

  Therefore, he did the only thing he could, which was to promise her that he would take care of things. “Eloisa, who harmed you?”

  She pursed her lips, then set down the cup. “I don’t want to press charges. It would only be my word against his. And I don’t want my parents to know.”

  “Your mother would want to help you, dear.”

  “No. My mother would say I was ruined. That all those years of grooming and schooling and French and deportment classes were all for naught.”

  Reid wanted to say he was surprised, but he wasn’t. Any woman who was ruined held the blame. And it wasn’t just in the upper classes that this was true. It was in the middle and lower classes as well.

  “If you tell me, I won’t reveal your name. But you need to be avenged.”

  “I don’t need to be avenged, Reid. But . . . I do believe that what happened to me tonight is the missing link to your mystery.”

  He blinked, trying to follow her train of thought.

  “With Rosalind and her sister?” Then, “Was it Douglass, Eloisa?”

  “I would never say his name aloud.”

  But her eyes said differently. Her whole body’s stance and posture said differently. And his heart and soul did too. “I understand.”

  Reid stood up. He thought of trying to reassure her, let her know that justice would be served, but he wasn’t so naive as to spew false promises.

  “My mother and I will pay a call on Sloane House tomorrow.”

  Eloisa shook her head. “He will deny everything.”

  “I imagine he will. But his parents and his sister might tell a different story.”

  “I don’t want my name bandied about. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “I’m not asking for that. All I am going to say is my experience, when I saw him with Nanci at the fair, then saw her after being with him. I am sorry to say that she looked much the same as you do now.”

  “He’s done this before.”

  “I had heard rumors.”

  His mother said, “Eloisa, do you believe that he has preyed on other young ladies of your social stature?”

  “There is reason to believe so.” She, too, stood up, wrapped her arms around her slim waist, hugging herself so tightly he felt his heart ache. “D–Douglass forced me into an empty room. And he kept whispering that I would be fine if I didn’t fight him. That no one would know.” She shivered again. “I believed him after he hit me.”

  A dozen choice words filled Reid’s head, none of which were suitable for mixed company. “I will do my best to see that your suffering is not in vain.”

  Eloisa looked at his mother. “I believe I need to go home now. I hate to impose, but could you, perhaps, summon a maid to help me repair myself? I can’t go home like this.”

  His mother smiled. “I know just the person to help you, dear. Rosalind. She is staying up in one of the guest bedrooms. Of course, she knows how to dress hair and mend torn hems and seams. We’ll have you looking as fresh as can be in no time.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  Every trace of humor left his mother’s expression. “Please don’t thank me. It is the very least we can do. And I promise, it is not all we will do, either. Now, Reid, please go knock on Rosalind’s door and tell her that I’ll be walking Eloisa to her room in five minutes’ time. And then you may go to bed.”

  “Mother—”

  “Your day will be tomorrow, son. For now, I think it might be best if Eloisa and I have a few moments to speak privately. And the only way that will happen is if you remove yourself from the situation.”


  He knew she was right. With a new resolve, he strode to Eloisa and bowed in front of her formally. “Miss Carstairs, I bid you good evening.”

  “I can never thank you enough.”

  “I assure you, it was an honor and a privilege to assist you.”

  After kissing his mother lightly on the cheek, he left them and strode up the stairs to quietly make his way to Rosalind’s room, hoping all the while that they were all doing the right thing.

  Only God knew. Perhaps only the good Lord would ever know for sure.

  CHAPTER 31

  How far she’d come. As Rosalind methodically pinned up Eloisa Carstairs’ hair and applied cold compresses to her bruised cheek, she realized that in many ways she’d grown into herself while in Chicago.

  Just a few weeks previously, she’d been a timid, rather self-centered girl. Not spoiled, but rather unaware of the world around her, her family, her small farm in Wisconsin. The problems one faced while living in a big city like Chicago had been as foreign to her as the United States must be to the natives from West Africa at the fair.

  Rosalind remembered her first glimpse of the foreigners. She’d stared at them curiously, quite unable to fathom that they were all the same human race. The men had seemed too different from the men she’d known. Their dress—or lack of it—such a distraction that she’d forgotten that such things didn’t really matter at the end of the day.

  As she calmly completed dressing Miss Carstairs’ hair and then painstakingly repaired the torn hem of her dress, the tear in its lace, and the rip in its sleeve, Rosalind felt less dismay and shock and more concern and sympathy.

  That was the difference. She was less inclined to do nothing, more determined to make a difference as best she could.

  Forty minutes after Reid had awoken her with two firm raps of his knuckles on the face of her door, Rosalind was saying good-bye to Miss Carstairs.

  “Are you certain there isn’t anything else I may do for you, miss?”

  “You are too kind.” Eloisa gave her a shaky smile. “Thank you, but I think I am sufficiently presentable to make it past our butler without him alarming the household.”

  “I know this is none of my business, but wouldn’t it be good if your family knew what happened?” Reid had prepared her with the truth, knowing that she would never betray Miss Carstairs.