Secrets of Sloane House

by Gray, Shelley

Stunned by her comment, he curved his hand around hers. “What is wrong, Veronica? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m not hurt. Simply exhausted. It has been a terrible day.”

  “What on earth happened?”

  “The new housemaid broke several pieces of china just minutes before my guests were to arrive.” She shuddered dramatically. “It was simply awful. All the ladies had to wait in my mother’s private receiving room for a full ten minutes while everyone set things to right.”

  He blew out the breath he’d been holding. “You’re crying over a broken teacup? Come now, Veronica. I can never imagine you getting so worked up about something so insignificant.”

  “You’re only thinking that way because you weren’t there to witness it all. Our new maid is ghastly.”

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to fire Rosalind, but my mother said we were already short one servant. Then she declared I was getting too emotional. And then Douglass got in the middle of things.”

  “The maid’s name is Rosalind, you say?”

  She stilled as a new, sharp awareness filled her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “It’s just that I, uh . . . met her the other day in the hall, remember?” Not wanting to create a problem where there wasn’t one, he said, “Tell me, where are your guests now?”

  “Oh, they left.” Her gaze warmed as she reached out and pressed her palm against his lapel. “So, where should we go?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the time to take you anywhere today. I only dropped by to get some stock advice from Douglass.”

  She leaned in a little closer. “Are you sure you can’t change your plans?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He tried his best to look regretful.

  “You’re as bad as everyone else.” With a flounce of her lovely pale pink gown, she strode down the hall, leaving him to wonder where Douglass was. Seeing one of the footmen, he asked.

  “Mr. Sloane is in his rooms, sir,” the footman replied. “He asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Oh.” He paused, half waiting for the man to give some explanation. When the servant merely stared back at him, his gaze revealing nothing, Reid stepped away. “Well, thank you. I’ll be on my way then.” When he was back on the street, he felt at a bit of a loss. He wished he’d brought his carriage instead of choosing to walk to the Sloane mansion. Now he had little choice but to walk back home to get it.

  He’d just turned the corner when he spied a riot of brown curls. He picked up his pace, wondering if he’d guessed right. Just as he got close enough to realize that he had, Rosalind crossed the street to the park.

  Though he feared it wasn’t proper, he followed. He was curious about her, about her side of Veronica’s story, and, he had to admit, drawn to this little slip of a girl.

  The park was several acres, a wide expanse that many had seen as wasted space when it had first been planned. Only the grove of maple, birch, and oak trees prevented it from becoming mowed over for someone’s home. Eventually, however, it became a popular spot for many of the well-to-do families in the area and for many middle-class families seeking a respite from the bustling city.

  When Rosalind slowed, he closed the distance between them. When he did so, he noticed the thick bandage on her hand. That, combined with the careful way she was holding her arm, told him much about Veronica’s complaints.

  Obviously, her version of the events wasn’t the whole story.

  He debated briefly before approaching her. But when Rosalind looked up at him, and the startled look in her eyes faded into suspicion, he knew he had no choice but to speak to her.

  “Hello, Rosalind. I thought that might be you.”

  Her expression turned wary. “Yes, sir? I mean, beg pardon, Mr. Armstrong?”

  Feeling vaguely foolish, he murmured, “Deciding to take a respite outside?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Abrams, the housekeeper, said I might have a short break.”

  “I’m not checking up on you,” he assured. “I was out walking and happened to notice your hand. I didn’t want to walk by without ascertaining if you needed any help.” He waved a hand at the nearby bench. “Please, sit down. That is, if you’d care to.”

  She sat. Moving her bandaged hand to her lap, either to shelter it from his gaze or to ease its pain, he didn’t know. “I don’t need any help. But thank you for asking. Sir.”

  He felt a little foolish, looming over her like he was. “May I join you on the bench?” When she stiffened slightly, he added, “I promise, I only want to talk to you. To pass the time.” He waved a hand and tried to look as innocent and unassuming as he wished he felt. “We are out in the open too.”

  “Of course, sir. Please do sit down, if you’d like.” Looking away, she murmured, “I’m sure you’ve never seen a woman as skittish as me.”

  “It’s a big city. And we don’t know each other well . . .”

  Hugging her bandaged hand a little tighter to her stomach, she added, “Being around so many people can be overwhelming, you see. I grew up on a farm in Wisconsin.”

  “It is natural for a girl like you to be apprehensive. Even a young lady raised in the city would be.” He paused. “Some would say that is even a smart decision, though I will say that you have nothing to fear from me. I assure you of that.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If it is a smart one, it is surely the only smart thing I’ve done today.”

  “It’s been that bad?”

  “The worst.”

  “How did you hurt your hand?”

  “I accidentally broke some china and sliced my palm when I was picking up the pieces.”

  He winced. “That sounds painful. Do you need to go to the doctor?”

  “I’ve already seen one. Mrs. Sloane called for him.” She shook her head with a bit of wonder. “Their personal physician came to the kitchens and took care of my hand. Can you even imagine? A doctor being called to care for a maid’s hand?”

  “I’m glad she sent for the doctor. By the looks of that bandage, his assistance was needed.” When she smiled, he ventured, “What did he say?”

  “That I needed twelve stitches,” she quipped. “But he also said that after a day or two of rest I’ll be right as rain.”

  “Twelve!” Irritation flooded him as he recalled Veronica’s callous version of the incident. “Rosalind, that was no mere scratch, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t, sir.” A line formed between her brows as she fingered the fabric of her dress. “This is my Sunday dress. We’re soaking my uniform, hoping to get the bloodstains out of it. I hope we can.”

  It seemed a trifling thing to worry about, what with her injury and all. “I’m sure the Sloanes will procure you a new uniform if one is needed.”

  “I’ve cost them quite enough with the doctor’s visit. I don’t dare imagine that they’ll be too eager to spend another cent on my behalf.”

  He ached to tell her that a single pair of Veronica’s gloves were most likely double the price of one of her uniform dresses, but he was afraid that would only make her feel worse about her situation. “Please don’t worry,” he said. “Accidents happen. And china cups practically beg to get broken.”

  She smiled for the first time. “Thank you for saying that, Mr. Armstrong.”

  Glancing at her again, he noticed how the smattering of freckles on her nose made her seem adorably innocent. “Tell me about your farm and your family. Do you have any siblings?”

  To his surprise, a dark shadow appeared in her eyes. “I have a large family. My parents, three brothers, and . . . a sister.”

  “You hesitated.” Seeking to tease a smile from her, he raised his brows. “Are you not sure if you have a sister?”

  If anything, her expression became more stricken. “There were five of us growing up. Miranda, me, then Henry, Stephen, and Ethan. But a few months ago, my sister moved to Chicago.”

  “And?”

  “And after the first couple of months, we didn’t hear from her
again. She’s disappeared.”

  “She’s missing? Are you certain?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what has happened to her.” She paused, eyed him more closely, then blurted, “That’s the real reason I’ve come here to Chicago. I promised my family that I’d try to discover what has happened to her.”

  “I’m surprised your parents allowed such a thing.” Reid was shocked. He couldn’t deny that.

  “I’m afraid they didn’t have much choice. We are all desperate, you see. And very worried. Plus, when my father came to Chicago, he didn’t get much help. The police said she’d probably run off with a man.”

  The police response shocked him as well. But he was also curiously drawn into her story. “Where was she when she left? Was she with a man? Did she have a job?”

  Rosalind opened her mouth, then closed it just as quickly as she scrambled to her feet. “I must go.”

  Reid got to his feet, too, and attempted to stop her. “Why must you leave this very minute? I could help you. I mean, I’d like to try.”

  “I don’t know how you could help.” Nibbling her bottom lip, she blurted, “I probably shouldn’t have even told you this much.”

  “What about the Sloanes? What do they say?”

  Looking even more distressed, she stared hard at him. Then, as if she’d suddenly made a momentous decision, she whispered, “My sister was working for the Sloanes, sir. I fear that someone in the house had something to do with her disappearance.”

  Without a word, they both sat down again.

  “You can’t be serious,” Reid finally scoffed.

  And she knew at once that telling Mr. Armstrong had been the absolute worst thing to do. As his statement rang in her ears, Rosalind could practically feel her sister’s exasperation. From the time she’d been old enough to be embroiled in any sort of conflict, Rosalind had been miserable at keeping secrets. Time and again, Miranda would glare at her, whisper that if she could ever be trusted, it wouldn’t be too soon. Rosalind would promise to do better in the future.

  But yet, here she was again, sharing the most important secret she’d ever kept in her life . . . to one of the people she should be treating as a suspect, not a confidant.

  She kept her eyes trained on her injured hand, but couldn’t resist taking a peek at him through the corner of her eye.

  As one might have expected, he looked flummoxed.

  After taking a long moment—she assumed to gather his thoughts—he turned slightly so that he was more or less facing her on the cool iron bench.

  “Who accompanied you? Who has been sharing your burden here?”

  The question couldn’t have been more surprising. “My family knows, of course. But I am here by myself.”

  “Have you talked to the Sloanes? Asked them for their help?”

  “No, sir. When my father came here to find answers, he went to the Sloanes first. They wouldn’t give him the time of day. So if none of the servants are to blame . . . I fear that someone in the Sloane family might have had something to do with her disappearance.”

  “Nonsense. They’re one of the oldest families in the area. Very respected.”

  “I fail to see how that means anything at the moment.” She made a move to rise and leave him. This had been a mistake, a terrible one, and one that she sincerely hoped wouldn’t cause further difficulties in her investigation. “I had best go back now, sir,” she said stiffly.

  He whipped out a hand and held her in place. “Not yet.”

  “Sir?”

  “Why would you think the Sloanes would be suspects?”

  She debated saying any more, but she realized that only the truth, not further evasiveness, was going to bring her sister’s fate to light. And she had a feeling that the search wasn’t meant to be easy. Not the things she learned and not the pain and worry she was going to subject herself to.

  Slowly, she said, “My sister wrote the family letters. In them, she talked about everyone she came in contact with. At first, it was only because her experiences were so exciting and so different from anything we’d ever known.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Later, though, she told us things that made us worry for her. She said some of the Sloane family seemed . . . ruthless. And secretive.” She gazed at him, not trusting him entirely, but needing for someone to know the truth of what she was saying. “Mr. Armstrong, she began to fear the family, that she would lose her job. I think she may have discovered some of their secrets. But she needed the job, needed the recommendation that only staying—no matter what—could bring her. But she was not terribly happy.”

  “Chicago is a dangerous city, Rosalind. Especially now, with so many foreigners and tourists here. The police are overwhelmed and underpaid. Anything could have happened to a young woman on her own.”

  “Yes, sir. I am aware of that.” Feeling more frustrated and confused than ever before, she made to stand up again. “I must go. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be very grateful if you kept this between the two of us.”

  He closed his eyes, obviously striving for patience. “Rosalind, I want to talk to you about this some more. I want to help you.”

  “There is nothing you can do.”

  “I disagree. By the very nature of your job, you have limited access.” Lifting his chin a little, as if he were daring her to disagree, he said, “I can speak to people you cannot. I can speak to the men and women of my society, see if they have heard of any tales about a missing housemaid.”

  “Don’t you imagine that they’d find your sudden preoccupation with missing housemaids peculiar?”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He turned his head so that he was looking at her directly. “I think, at the very least, it is worth a try.”

  “Why would you do this? Miranda is nothing to you.” She swallowed hard and removed the last bit of her pride. “I’m nothing to you.”

  One of his eyebrows arched. “Does someone have to mean something to a person in order to do the right thing for them?”

  His voice had turned haughty. In that moment, he was very much the wealthy society gentleman. His arched look, combined with the dizzying emotions running through her veins, caused her own voice to become painfully sharp. “I don’t know, Mr. Armstrong. I would usually say yes. Because though I might have been aware of all sorts of dangers women faced in the big city, until it was my sister I feared hurt, I never did anything. Do you often make it your business to help others?”

  He looked away first. “No. But I want to help. And once more, I think you need my help. Let someone help you, Rosalind.” Lowering his voice to a mere whisper, he added, “Let that someone be me.”

  His words were dizzying. The offer was tempting.

  But more than that was the feeling for the first time that she didn’t have to be alone any longer. If she accepted his offer, she would have someone to discuss her suspicions with.

  “Rosalind, now that I know, I fear I am already involved. I’m going to try to help you, with or without your approval. You might as well give in.”

  He was right. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice. She could either give in gracefully or perpetuate the myth that she was strong enough to do this on her own.

  “Thank you, Mr. Armstrong. I will appreciate any assistance you may give me.”

  The faintest of smiles hovered on his lips. “I am glad you’ve seen things my way. Now, when is your next afternoon free?”

  “Not for almost a week.”

  “I’ll try to find a way to see you at Sloane House. And don’t fear, Rosalind. I will be nothing but proper at all times.”

  The reminder of how precarious her job situation was made her stand up and back away. “Until then,” she said before turning and walking away.

  And though the afternoon sun shone on her back, she had the strangest feeling that it was Reid Armstrong’s concern that was warming her insides.

  CHAPTER 10

  Unwilling to stop himsel
f, Reid watched Rosalind walk back to the Sloane estate, bypass the front door, and walk to what must have been the servants’ entrance. Not for the first time, he reflected that the somewhat utilitarian dress should have detracted from her beauty. It was plain and loose fitting, so different from the current ladies’ fashions. Most women of his class were wearing bright satins and taffetas decorated with cords of ribbon and yards of lace.

  But Rosalind looked as fresh and quietly pretty as many of the women of his acquaintance. Of course, the beauty he was thinking about wasn’t the result of fine textiles and ingenious design. Instead, it radiated from within.

  This was not the first time he’d thought about her—or his attraction to her, he realized—since first meeting her at Sloane House. He’d found himself thinking of her at odd times and in odd places. He’d be speaking to one of the women at his church and he would notice the fine dusting of freckles on her nose . . . just like Rosalind’s. Or he’d overhear a person’s voice on the streets, the way they lengthened their vowels, and he would think they sounded like Rosalind.

  He wasn’t sure what his preoccupation with her or his need to help discover what happened to her sister meant. All he knew was that there was a voice inside him that proclaimed she was important. Perhaps it was his conscience?

  Maybe it was God, gently reminding him to do good works?

  “Armstrong? I say, Armstrong, is that you?”

  Startled from his musings, Reid turned in surprise. Almost as quickly, he attempted to hide his dismay. It was Eric Newhouse, one of his classmates from Lawrenceville, but unlike Douglass Sloane, Reid felt no sense of obligation or gratitude toward the man.

  “Hello, Eric,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I’ve been on the continent. Doing my tour before I settle into the family business.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, it only lasted a year. You know how that goes, though.”

  Reid actually did not know, but there was no reason to share that. Eric had been born into almost as prominent a family as Douglass had. Reid, who had not, was instead his parents’ calling card into high society.

  “It’s been several years since we matriculated. Have you stayed here in Chicago this whole time?”