Secrets of Sloane House (12 page)

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 delay 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 asking 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.

It was on the tip of Rosalind’s tongue to admit that it wasn’t so wonderful. The work was hard, and she spent much of her days trying to move silently around four people who thought little of her. But she also had a room at night, enough food, and some level of friendship with some of the other girls in the house.

“Why did you leave Indiana? Why did you come to Chicago?”

The girl frowned. “I read in the paper that there were going to be a lot of jobs, good-paying jobs, for women who wanted to work at the fair. I’d been working as a maid-of-all-work for a family, but had to quit when I fell in love, because the family didn’t like their help socializing none. Then, well, my boyfriend started having a real hard time finding work in South Bend. A terrible time. He said he weren’t going to marry me unless he could afford it, so I got a wild hare and decided to come to Chicago for a spell and surprise him by bringing back a good amount of money home.”

“Your parents let you go?”

Some of the honesty in her eyes shuttered. “My parents don’t care what happens to me as long as I don’t burden them. Plus, like I said, I’d been working in a house for a few years by then.”

“And did you get work at the fair when you arrived?”

“Well, I arrived here along with a slew of other females desperate for work and a bit too ignorant to know better. The group of us got a couple of rooms at a rickety boardinghouse, then appeared at the address listed in the paper.”

She rolled her eyes. Managing to look both embarrassed and
contemptuous, she said, “I discovered soon enough that there was only one way to earn the money the papers had been talking about, and that was on my back.”

Rosalind was surprised, but not as shocked as she would have been just a few short weeks ago. “What did you do?” she whispered. “Start selling flowers?”

A pained look entered the girl’s gaze before she diverted her eyes. “Listen, I don’t know you, and I certainly don’t understand why you’re asking me so many personal questions. But I think I’m done answering them.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“I’ve got to sell these flowers. Otherwise I’ll be out here a lot longer than I had intended.” Her voice hardened, layering a thick shell around herself that assured Rosalind that she wished that layer to be impenetrable. “Leave me be.”

Before Rosalind knew what she was doing, she pulled out a nickel. “I’ll take a nickel’s worth.”

The girl looked at the nickel and was obviously judging it against the last bits of her pride. The look made Rosalind embarrassed for them both.

The girl paused, then shrugged and held out her hand. “A nickel’s worth three carnations, miss.” Her voice was clearer now. Subservient.

“I’ll take them—if I can know your name.”

The girl looked stricken. And for some reason, on the verge of tears.

For a moment, Rosalind was sure the girl was going to refuse her, to turn her back on Rosalind and hold on to her pride, whatever that was still worth.

Then, with great reluctance, she held out her hand. “It’s Minerva.”

“My name is Rosalind. Thank you for talking to me. It was nice to talk to someone from a small town, like me.” She handed over the
coin, then took the three worst-looking carnations, imagining that taking them and not the nicer ones might help the girl some.

After she took the flowers, she paused, half expecting Minerva’s gratitude, or smile. Anything to prove to her that they had become more than strangers.