Secrets of Sloane House

by Gray, Shelley

  “I have. I’m running my father’s business with him.” Reid was pleased he could say the words without even flinching. When was he ever going to come to terms with his father’s failing health?

  He tensed, half waiting for Eric to ask him about his father’s state of being. Most everyone knew he had tuberculosis and was ailing. In addition, many feared that Reid Armstrong would never be the man his father was—and weren’t shy about saying so. Many did not know he had now also started his own business.

  But instead of going that route, Eric simply looked him over like he was an unusual specimen. “Ah, yes. I had heard that you chose to go right to work.” Eric’s voice had turned cool. “Well, it seems to have done you no harm. Your success has been creating quite a stir in some circles. Congratulations on your success.”

  “Thank you. I have much to be thankful for. I feel blessed beyond measure.”

  The words, so honestly stated, drew an obviously uncomfortable breath from Eric.

  He fidgeted a bit, and even went so far as to take a step backward, giving them each some distance from the other. “So, I’m on my way to see Sloane. I imagine you are doing the same. You two always were thick as thieves,” he added languidly. “Are you leaving or about to enter?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have just taken my leave.” Reid decided Eric could discover for himself that Douglass wasn’t receiving visitors.

  “It’s lucky that our timing coincided. We seem to have missed each other at some of the debutante balls.”

  “Yes. It’s been good to catch up.”

  Eric glanced at Sloane House. “It is, however, unlucky for me that I arrived just as your tête-à-tête with that fetching girl finished.” His voice lowered, becoming oily. “I would have liked to have made that one’s acquaintance.”

  Only living for years in a boarding school, pretending he was one of the crowd, kept Reid’s expression impassive. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I believe you do,” Eric said in a light, joking way. “Was I mistaken, or were you sitting on this bench a few minutes ago?” He held up a hand, laughing off any reply Reid might have attempted. “Don’t answer that. We both know you were. Actually, it looked like you were having quite a fine time flirting with her. Who is she? A maid in one of the houses nearby? I looked away and didn’t see where she went to.”

  Reid could have cursed his naïveté. Had he really imagined their conversation wouldn’t be noticed? “I was speaking with a lady—”

  “No offense, but she was no lady, Armstrong.” Eric’s gaze hardened. “Don’t even try to deny it. Her gown was only something one of the lower classes would wear. And there is only one reason a woman of her class would be in this part of Chicago. No one with eyes would mistake her to be anything else.”

  While Reid stood stoically, Eric chuckled to himself. “She’s a pretty thing, I’ll give her that. How is she under the sheets?”

  This was beyond any sort of decency. Straightening to his entire six-foot-two height, Reid looked down his nose at Eric. “I beg your pardon. Sir.”

  Eric laughed. “Sorry, chap. I should have remembered that you still possess far too many of those bourgeois, middle-class sensibilities. You don’t date and talk, do you? Of course, it wouldn’t be an actual date, and you very well might not have been talking about anything at all . . .”

  Reid knew Eric was baiting him. He also knew enough to realize that any protestations he made would be duly noted. His words would be used as gossip and as fodder for bored conversations in the best drawing rooms. Next thing he knew, his imagined transgressions would be exaggerated and shared and joked about. And eventually, regarded as the truth.

  Before long, it would reach the ears of one of the Sloanes. And then Rosalind would be fired.

  And that was the best scenario. Eric could also use his protesting as a way to subtly blackmail him at a future time or merely use it as a source of amusement among their circle of friends. The result of that, of course, would tarnish Rosalind’s reputation, and perhaps even cause her to be the recipient of several lurid offers.

  And since he was now very aware of how much she needed the job, he merely smiled. “Enjoy your afternoon, Newhouse,” he said with the slightest of bows before turning the opposite way on the street.

  Eric paused as a new thread of respect flew into his words. “It seems you’ve become a bit shrewder over the years, Armstrong. I must admit that I’m surprised. And impressed.”

  Reid kept walking, but that brief exchange had served him well. He’d just been reminded that cruel gossip could be born and spread at the drop of a hat . . . and that it could spread twice as quickly as gossip some might deem “innocent.”

  He wasn’t going to be able to meet with Rosalind anywhere publicly again. Of course, meeting in private had its own set of cruel consequences. If he wasn’t careful, it wasn’t going to be ribald rumors or gauche innuendo that ruined her reputation. No, it would be his inability to constantly remember that they were never alone and always being observed.

  It was a pity he hadn’t remembered that a half hour earlier.

  CHAPTER 11

  And so that, dear family, is what I have discovered so far.

  Rosalind wrote at the bottom of her long, somewhat rambling letter.

  I now have an idea about Miranda’s life here at the Sloane estate, and I am acquainted with most of the servants with whom she worked. I also know when she disappeared. But I have no idea why she did so. That is the most disturbing aspect of my efforts. Sometimes I am so close to making progress, but then the reality of how much I do not yet know threatens to overwhelm me and I begin to doubt myself and your belief in me.

  Holding the nib of her quill lightly over the paper, she wondered if she should mention anything else.

  She flexed her fingers, happy that her palm didn’t hurt so much anymore. It had been three days since she’d broken the china, injured her hand, and talked to the handsome Reid Armstrong on the park bench. Three days since she’d felt the first ray of hope that she was going to be able to discover what had happened to her sister.

  But she didn’t dare mention any of that. Her parents would only worry, and there was no real news anyway.

  Picking up the nib again, she wondered if she should mention how distant and sometimes cruel Veronica could be. Or how Douglass had been kind to her, but she still felt a bit apprehensive whenever she was in his presence.

  And what about Reid? Should she mention how she had given in and told him her whole story? Speaking to him had been against her better judgment and had been the opposite of their wishes to keep her investigation as private as possible.

  She ached to give them hope, but at the same time, she knew better than to give them such a gift. Hope was one of the Lord’s blessings, that was true. But in other ways, hope could be the very work of the Devil. It permitted a person to believe that their imaginations or dreams could actually be true.

  She had certainly found herself experiencing several moments like that. She’d spy something in Mr. Armstrong’s gaze that seemed to be far warmer than an impersonal glance to a maid. Or she’d be ironing one of Veronica’s delicately light linen nightgowns and she’d imagine what it would be like to go to sleep in such luxuriousness.

  Finally, she’d be dining in the servants’ hall, eating leftovers from the family’s dinner, and she’d catch herself wishing for more steak or fish or velvety smooth custard. All of those things had been foreign to her when she arrived and would become distant memories when she returned to Wisconsin.

  And sometimes, particularly in a time like 1893, mere years away from the new century, Rosalind feared their class-filled society could only do damage to the souls who were not prepared to understand their place in it. At this time and place—especially in a city like Chicago—it was imperative that people knew their place. Workers weren’t treated well in the factories. But strikes and fires did little to change things. All they really did was de
lay the inevitable and cause loss of job or harm to those who stood in the way of progress.

  Whether she had become philosophical or only dared to let her family live in the dark for as long as possible, she ended up simply signing her name as she always did.

  With love, Rosalind

  Then she sealed her letter and carefully set it aside to be posted before she changed her mind.

  She was going to have to take more risks and push herself harder. She was going to need to leave the mansion more often, talk to strangers, and ask more pointed questions. Otherwise, she feared she would never fulfill her promise to her family.

  Worse, she would never learn the truth.

  And if that happened? Well, that would be unconscionable. Her sister was impetuous and beautiful. She was willful and bold—and perhaps a flirt around men she’d met in Chicago.

  But that was who she was, not the reason for her disappearance.

  In her heart, Rosalind was sure someone had preyed on Miranda. Or convinced her to do something she should not. And even if Rosalind didn’t feel comfortable learning about some of the things Miranda might have done, even if she didn’t really want to know the worst secrets about her sister, she could always bear that herself. All the family needed to know was what had happened to Miranda. They didn’t need to know every single detail. Actually, it was probably best if they never knew.

  This new knowledge gave her a sense of security. Made her feel a bit more at peace. When she’d left home, she’d merely been acting as an arm of her family. She’d come to Chicago at their bidding, determined to make them proud by doing what they asked.

  But now, especially after speaking with Mr. Armstrong, she realized that this had become her mission. It had also become her goal and her priority. It no longer mattered what her parents wanted her to discover or what would make her siblings proud. She wasn’t proud, but she felt this new resolve deep in her bones. And once more, she knew it was the right thing to do as well.

  With that in mind, she slipped her letter into her purse and decided then and there to start afresh. Cook had asked her to go to the farmer’s market again that afternoon. She would use the errand as an opportunity to talk to everyone she could. Perhaps she could even make the acquaintance of a maid from one of the neighboring houses. She’d seen quite a few girls doing many of the same errands she did.

  Who knew? Perhaps she would even finally stop and chat with the flower seller on the corner and ask if she’d ever seen Miranda. It was worth a try. She was stronger, braver than she used to be. She was different now.

  An hour later, when she walked out onto the streets of Chicago, Rosalind’s newfound resolve wavered. As she hesitated outside the servants’ entrance, Jim, that laconic man about trade who had been so chatty weeks ago, approached.

  “Hello, Rosalind,” he said in a friendly voice. “Name’s Jim. We spoke in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I remember.” She stood still, not quite sure what to say next. Then, like a lightning bolt hitting her, she remembered the promise to herself. So she forced herself to smile and promote conversation. “What brings you out to the house today?”

  He looked delighted to be asked. “Ah, you know. This and that. Big houses like this always need something done. Today, I was up in Master Douglass’s suite. Some of the woodwork needed refinishing and such.”

  “Had something happened to it? An accident, perhaps?”

  Jim chuckled. “What an imagination you’ve got.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he rocked a bit back on his heels. “I’m not one to say what might have been causing destruction in Master Douglass’s rooms, but I have a feeling it might simply be time. Time can do much damage, don’t you know.” He paused. “Or perhaps a pretty young thing like you don’t know.”

  “I seem to be learning about time and aging with the best of them,” she said lightly. “And I must be off to post this letter.”

  “You going by yourself?”

  “Yes. I’m getting quite good at navigating my way around the city. At least this part of the city, that is.”

  His expression turned grim. “Have a care now. There was another story printed in the Tribune about the crime rate going up, on account of the fair and all.”

  With vigilance, she shook off her unease. And reminded herself that they’d all been worried sick about Tilly, but she hadn’t been hurt at all . . . only in love with a soldier. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Good day, Jim.”

  He tipped his hat. “And to you, too, Miss Rosalind.”

  His ungraceful antics made her chuckle. And their conversation had given her a small feeling of success too. Perhaps visiting with people was easier than she imagined.

  In no time, she purchased all the items on Cook’s list, making an effort to converse with vendors and other domestics. However, it was no use. The market was unusually busy and crowded. No one had time for idle talk.

  Resolving to try again another day, she posted her letter, then, after riding the grip car back to Michigan Avenue, walked slowly back to the mansion. The sun was shining and the air almost cool. A faint breeze was in the air, making the usual stagnant city air almost smell fresh.

  She stopped and lifted her face to the sun. It was a perfect moment. One to savor.

  “A flower, miss?”

  The melodic voice beckoned her. Rosalind turned, noticing the flower girl not much older than her, the one she had been planning to talk to. She had set up shop on the corner, an open box of daisies, chrysanthemums, and carnations at her feet.

  “No, thank you. I’m only a maid, you see.” Holding up her canvas tote full of cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes, she added, “I’m afraid I don’t have much use for flowers.”

  Some of the hope in the girl’s eyes dimmed. “I suppose not.”

  Rosalind realized that many people who were on the way to the Sloanes’ probably passed the girl.

  And that got her to thinking that maybe, at long last, Rosalind had found someone who could give her some information.

  “Who usually buys your flowers?”

  The girl’s manner became defensive. “What concern is it to you?”

  Rosalind held up a hand, a sign of defeat. “It’s nothing, I promise. I’m just curious, that’s all. They are really beautiful.”

  The girl dimpled as some of her reticence eased. “I had violets and four roses, but a gentleman picked them up for his ladybird a couple hours back.”

  “So it’s the gentlemen who buy most of your flowers? The ones who live in these houses? Not ones who merely work around here?”

  The flower girl took a moment to ponder that. “It depends, I suppose. Some men buy them for their mistresses or girlfriends. Every so often I sell blooms to a man who’s in trouble with his wife, though. Then he’s buying everything I got.” Her eyes lit up with mirth. “One evening, a gentleman bought everything I had, on account of his wife being upset with him for forgetting their anniversary.”

  “Ouch.”

  She chuckled. “I told him if my flowers won’t do the trick, nothing will.”

  Rosalind smiled back, liking the idea of someone’s big problem being a forgotten anniversary. “Have you worked on this corner very long?”

  “Longer than I’d like. Almost two years.”

  Excitement welled inside her. “Then you probably recognize many of the people who live and work in the area.”

  “I do.” She nodded slowly, gazing at Rosalind with a new suspicion. “Why are you chatting with me all of the sudden?”

  “What do you mean all of the sudden? Have I been rude to you?”

  “Rude?” The woman looked at Rosalind askance, as if she’d just sprouted horns and started speaking German. “Listen to you, acting like you’re worried about my feelings. I’m a flower girl, not one of the swells living here and squiring their ladies!”

  “What did you mean, then?”

  Her cheeky expression turned a bit hesitant. “I meant, why are you aski
ng me so many questions all of the sudden?”

  “No reason. I, uh, was just curious about some things . . .” Her voice drifted off, hoping that the girl wouldn’t ask her to explain much more than that. If she pushed her, Rosalind didn’t know what she would say next.

  Luckily, however, the girl didn’t seem too put off. “Well, usually I would say that you walk by me all furtive like, like you’re afraid your own shadow is going to catch hold of you.”

  Rosalind was embarrassed. She had no idea that was how she appeared. “I’m rather new here. At first, I think I was scared of my own shadow. I guess I didn’t realize I was so noticeable.”

  “Maybe not to everyone. But I stand here a lot, you know. And sometimes I don’t have many customers.”

  Remembering her vow, Rosalind pushed a bit for information. “I moved here from Wisconsin a few weeks ago. You might think this is silly, but at first, I was afraid of everything here.”

  “That’s not surprising at all. Chicago is a big place, and with the World’s Fair being here and all? It’s gotten bigger every day, and that’s a fact. When I first got here, I was scared to death of them trains. I was even certain I was going to get run over by one of them trolley cars.”

  “I did the same thing.” With a self-conscious chuckle, Rosalind added, “I mean, I still do.”

  “You’ll get the hang of the grips. Everyone does.”

  “Where do you hail from?”

  “Indiana.” She looked Rosalind over, and for the first time Rosalind realized that the girl wasn’t looking at her with contempt or through superior lenses. Instead, it was with a good dose of envy. “How did you manage to get hired on right away at one of the big houses?”

  “I’m not sure,” she fibbed. “I went to the employment agency on the same day one of the families had just requested a new housemaid. They sent me right over.” At least they had after she told her tale about her mother wanting her to work for the Sloanes.

  “Lucky, that. It must be something, living in one of those big houses and working for one of those fancy families.” A thick longing was in her voice.