Secrets of Sloane House (18 page)

Bitterness coursed through her as she did as bid, then handed the cup and saucer back to Veronica. “Will there be anything else, miss?”

Veronica eyed her carefully, seeming to examine every hair and inch of her. As if she liked what she saw—Rosalind’s obvious fear—she smiled. “No. I think that will be all. For now.”

Seething, Rosalind turned away.

“And, Rosalind?”

She paused. “Yes?”

“Tell Cook and Abrams that I have no desire for you to bring me my morning coffee again. I definitely do not like starting my day with you at my side.”

“It will be my pleasure to pass that on, Miss Veronica,” she said before escaping. Out in the hall, she leaned against a wall and willed herself to stop shaking.

Something had just changed. Everything had just gone from bad to worse.

Knowing her days at Sloane House were numbered, Rosalind began to jump at any chance to escape the confines of its walls. Now she accepted any errand as an opportunity to ask grip car drivers, market vendors, and even newsboys about Miranda. Cook found much amusement in her change of heart and began to seek Rosalind out for any errand that needed to be done.

After seeing Minerva two days in a row at the same spot, she began talking with her. On the fourth day, she pulled out the daguerreotype of her sister and showed it to the flower girl.

“There is a resemblance, that’s true,” Minerva said after taking a cursory look at the photograph.

“She is my sister. Almost a year older. Do you by chance ever remember seeing her?”

Minerva glanced at the picture again, this time closing her eyes for a few seconds after staring at it hard. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I remembered her, though I do seem to recall a woman looking much like her walking this way a time or two.”

“Thank you for that.” But no matter how hard she tried to conceal her thoughts, she knew her disappointment was evident.

Minerva looked at her kindly. “I’m proof that a gal can try not to be found. Don’t despair, if you’re thinking the worst. Sometimes a woman simply finds something she’d rather do. Or receives a better offer.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Obviously not.” She jutted up her chin a bit. “But I’m still alive, so that says a lot. Things could be worse.”

“Yes, I’m starting to realize that sad fact. Things can always be worse.”

“Get on with you now. You’re going to attract attention, standing
here with me. And it won’t do me any good either. I’ve got flowers to sell.”

Discouraged, but feeling a bit braver, too, Rosalind walked to some of the other street sellers and showed them Miranda’s daguerreotype. Most took a hard look at the photo when Rosalind told them that the woman pictured was her sister.

But no one had any information for her.

Rosalind was about to feel discouraged until she remembered that Chicago was a very big city. It would be too much to hope that one of the few street sellers she talked to would not only recognize Miranda but have useful information too. All she could do was persevere and hope and pray that her determination would soon pay off.

Later that afternoon, Nanci cornered her in the laundry. “What in the world are you doing, going out and about so much?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what it looks like. I saw you talking to that flower girl, showing a picture. What were you doing?”

“I was showing a daguerreotype of my sister.”

“So you’re bound and determined to not give up your search? Even though I’ve warned you time and again that doing so is a mistake?”

“I can’t give up.”

“If you don’t give up, you had better start wishing for eyes in the back of your head. You’re going to get harmed.”

“Why would you say that?”

Immediately, Nanci clammed up.

Rosalind jumped at the sliver of hope. “You know something about Miranda, don’t you?”

“I’ve said more than once that I don’t.”

“No, I think you do. I think you know a whole lot more than you are letting on.”

A momentary weakness flooded Nanci’s expression before she visibly tamped it down. “All I know is that you’re playing with fire. And the way you’re doing things? Never taking no for an answer? It’s going to cause you pain. And I can promise you that I won’t lift a finger to help you.”

Rosalind was disappointed. She’d really hoped that Nanci had become a friend. But whether something had happened between her and Douglass the other evening—or whether she was afraid to help Rosalind with her investigation—it was obvious that there was a chasm between them that was widening day by day.

“I hear you.”

Nanci shook her head. “Just stop what you’re doing and concentrate on your life here—or go back home. I promise, things could be worse. Things could be a lot worse.” She turned away before Rosalind could comment on that.

Hours later, she was delivering a freshly pressed grown to one of Mrs. Sloane’s guests when she practically ran into Reid. He grasped her shoulders. “Careful,” he said in that kind way of his. “You almost ran me down.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” She gestured to the pale peach dress she was holding. “I was attempting to deliver this too quickly.”

“Do you need some help?”

“Of course not.” Worried that someone might spy the two of them talking, she edged away. Needing him to drop his hands—and wishing she could always have him by her side. “I’d best go . . .”

“Not yet.” He reached out again, this time placing his hand on her bare forearm. Then, to her disconcertion, he kept it there, warming her arm . . . and to her shame, her insides. “Tell me how your search for your sister goes.”

“I’ve discovered nothing new, though I have a feeling Nanci
might know more than she is letting on.” Briefly, she also told him about how she’d started showing street merchants Miranda’s picture.

“That was another good idea.” He smiled at her encouragingly. “I had an idea too. How about I accompany you to the police?”

“I told you. My father already went there once. They laughed at him.”

“No offense, but sometimes the police must pick and choose which cases they try to solve. They might put a bit more thought into saying no to me.”

“Thank you, sir. I would be so grateful if you could do that.”

He smiled. “
We
, right? I wouldn’t think of going without you.”

“And where would that be?” a voice called out from behind them.

Only then did Reid’s hand fall. Rosalind turned around with a deep sense of foreboding. “Miss Veronica. I . . . I was just returning Miss Livingston’s gown.”

Veronica’s lips thinned with a barely controlled fury. “Is that what you were doing? Because it sounded to me like you were doing something far different.”

Before Rosalind could say a word in her defense, Reid spoke. “Come now, Veronica. Aren’t you being a bit dramatic? There was nothing more going on here beyond a small conversation.”

“I am a lot of things, Reid. However, naive is not one of them.” As she turned to Rosalind, her voice lowered. Turned malicious. “I believe I warned you about what would happen. If I were you, I’d try to act surprised when it did.” She turned and walked away.

And Rosalind realized that she’d just made her very worst mistake. “I’d best be on my way, sir.”

Reid’s eyes narrowed and he reached out again, like it was taking everything he had to not pull her close to him. “Wait a moment. It sounded like she was threatening you. What did Veronica mean?”

Oh, the temptation was there. She ached to give in to every weakness she had and tell him the truth, reveal that she was close to being out of work and a place to live.

But then she noticed just how incredulous he was. He really had no concept of what it meant to be completely at another’s mercy. And for some reason, she was in no hurry to dispel his confusion. Besides, there was nothing he could do anyway. The very last thing her reputation needed was for him to show a real regard for her.

Carefully, she removed all expression from her face, turning it into a mask. “That was nothing you need to worry about, sir.”

He gripped her arm. “Rosalind, the truth, now.”

“No, now I must see to my job.” Pasting a smile on her face, she murmured, “I have a dress to deliver, you see.”

Only after she delivered the dress, walked down the hall, and finally was walking upstairs to her room did she let herself react to Veronica’s words. With shaking hands, she wiped away the two tears that had dared to slip from the corners of her eyes. At last, something at Sloane House was now abundantly, beautifully clear. She would soon be out of a job.

The only question was when . . . and what she would do next.

CHAPTER 18

W
hen Reid was twelve, he lost his brother. Calvin had come into the world four years after him, and though Reid would like to say he had welcomed his baby brother with open arms, that would surely be a lie.

From the time Calvin had been old enough to walk, he’d been determined to tag along after Reid. Reid had no choice but to accept his brother’s company. However, he did his best to ignore him.

As the years passed, Reid came to notice something: Calvin was everything he was not. Whereas Reid was known to be impatient and selfish, Calvin was always willing to give of his time. In addition, ownership meant nothing to Calvin. He shared his toys, his food, his time, his attention with whoever needed it. Their little sister, Beth, two years younger than Calvin, adored him. She merely tried to stay out of Reid’s way.

By the time Calvin was eight, there were many things about him of which his family could be proud. He loved sports and excelled in
them. He was handsome too. Their mother used to say that Calvin’s looks would garner them all nothing but trouble.

In fact, on more than one occasion, Reid remembered thinking that his brother had been gifted with a great many blessings in life. So many that it was sometimes hard not to be jealous. And Reid probably would have been jealous, except for the fact that Calvin did have one substantial flaw. Calvin was a liar.

Oh, not in a bad way, of course. What eight-year-old did terrible things? But he was the person who would never admit to being tired, or hungry, or in pain. He was always
fine
. Always.

He died because he hadn’t admitted that he was sick.

For two days, he kept his illness to himself. He stayed in his room and pretended to study his readers when he was actually sleeping.

Beth was the one who noticed that Calvin’s face was suspiciously flushed at dinner. Reid, of course, hadn’t noticed. He’d been too preoccupied with his friends and a certain girl who was inordinately fond of wearing blue ribbons in her hair.

When Beth mentioned Calvin’s bright red cheeks, his mother took a better look at her younger son and noticed his glassy eyes. When she pressed her hand on his forehead, she realized Calvin had a high fever. A doctor was called. And that doctor confirmed that Calvin had contracted the influenza.

A panic arose in the house. Beth was sent away to stay with cousins. Reid—much to everyone’s surprise—refused to leave his brother’s side.

For the next twenty-four hours, he cajoled and bullied Calvin to drink the medicines and submit to cold baths to bring down the fever. His brother had done it all without complaint, but there was an acquiescence in his eyes that told Reid much. He accepted that there was no hope.

Finally, late the next evening, long after their parents had fallen
into an exhausted slumber and the nurse had done the same, Calvin finally told Reid the truth.

“I’m going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” Reid had countered. “And you’d better not say any of that again or Father is going to whip your behind.” That had been their father’s constant threat, though he’d yet to make good on the promise.

But even that reminder hadn’t made Calvin smile. “No, Reid. I know I’m going to die soon. I’ve been talking to God and his angels for days now. They say I don’t have much more time here.”

Reid hadn’t bothered to waste time pointing out that angels definitely did not talk to little boys about trips to heaven. Instead, he’d done his best to sound like their father. Stern. No-nonsense. “You listen to me, Calvin. You need to tell those angels that you’re not ready to go. Promise them anything, Calvin.”

“I already have. But they’ve made some promises too.” With a stare that was far more mature than his eight years, Calvin spoke again. “The angels have promised to look out for you. They say you’re destined for great things.”

It had been all he could do to will the tears not to fall. “You are the family’s hope, not me.”

“That is where you are wrong.” Calvin coughed, the effort racking his body. A flash of pure pain entered his eyes.

Reid helped him sit up, patted his back softly. “We don’t need to talk about this anymore. You’re supposed to be resting.”

Calvin shook his head and glared. “No. No, Reid, I’ve gotta tell you this. The angels told me that you are going to make Mom and Dad real proud. Beth is going to depend on you. You’re going to be real rich too.”

“Calvin—”

“Listen,” Calvin whined in a voice that was very un-Calvin-like. “You are going to do everything, Reid.”