Secrets of Sloane House (20 page)

“Well, um, it seems that Nanci recalled seeing it when she put away some of Veronica’s stockings. The comb was not lost at all. It must have fallen in the drawer accidentally. I fear this has all been a silly misunderstanding.”

A
silly
misunderstanding?
Veronica had not only lied about her taking the comb, but she’d lied about what had happened in her room when Rosalind had given her the tray. Her mother had been ready to
dismiss her without a recommendation. Mrs. Abrams had been content to accept the story and hadn’t been going to do anything at all.

However, it seemed that she was expected to deal with the consequences without a word or an apology and go on her way.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she said softly, feeling the irony in every pore.

Rosalind didn’t dare look Veronica’s way. She did glance at Nanci, though. But to her surprise, Nanci looked just as distant as the other women in the room did.

Mrs. Abrams stood as well and brushed her hands against each other as if the last half hour had sullied them. “I am glad this little confusion had a happy ending. Will that be all, ma’am?”

“It is. I am sorry for taking you two away from your duties.”

Feeling as if she was in the midst of a storm, Rosalind meekly followed Mrs. Abrams out of the room and down the hall. Only when they were on the servants’ stairwell did she say anything. “Mrs. Abrams, did you believe Veronica when she told her mother I’d taken that comb?”

“It didn’t matter what I believed.”

“But I hadn’t done anything wrong. Veronica was lying. And Mrs. Sloane didn’t even apologize.”

“Why should she? She is the lady of the house, and it seems as if it was an honest mistake.”

Not ready to give up her indignation, she blurted, “Veronica made up the story.”

Mrs. Abrams turned on her heel. “Listen to me, girl,” she said, impatience lacing her tone. “Over time, you will find that there might be a great many things the family does that you might not agree with. That is the drawback of being in service. You learn far too many secrets about a family. But our place is certainly not to judge.”

Though she knew she was letting her temper get away from her,
Rosalind couldn’t hold back the onslaught of words. “But if Nanci hadn’t found the comb, I would have been fired without a reference.”

“That is true.”

Rosalind stopped. “But what would have become of me then? I wouldn’t be able to get another job. I would have been forced to live on the streets.”

“That is why you must always make very sure that your conduct and demeanor are beyond reproach.” A thread of impatience tinged Mrs. Abrams’ voice then, as if she had seen something very important and she was frustrated by Rosalind’s inability to see it. “Rosalind, it is time you understood that you must be on guard at all times. Stop running late. Stop taking so many risks. Stop talking to Mr. Armstrong. Become worthy of the job you hold.” She paused, then wagged a finger. “And most of all, remember that there is no one in this house you can trust.”

That sounded overly dramatic. Gathering her gumption, Rosalind raised a brow. “You mean to say I can’t even trust Mrs. Sloane herself?”

“No one,” she whispered before turning away, leaving Rosalind with even more questions and feeling as if she’d already lost something valuable that she’d never get back—her reputation.

Hours later, when she was brushing out her hair, Rosalind turned to her roommate. “Nanci, I truly am so grateful that you found that comb. Thank you so much.”

“I certainly didn’t do it for you. Miss Veronica needed the second comb for her hair.”

Rosalind smiled, sure her friend was joking.

But if anything, Nanci only looked more sullen. “Rosalind, since you’ve been here, you’ve done nothing but start trouble. You’re not a good fit, and I’m not the only person here who thinks so. The truth is, I wouldn’t have been sorry if you’d been asked to leave.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“It may be hard to hear, but it’s the truth.”

Rosalind searched her friend’s face. “Nanci, won’t you ever tell me what happened with Douglass?”

The skin around Nanci’s lips tightened. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Come now. We both know that something happened on Wooded Island. If you’d like to talk about—” Nanci cut her off with a scowl. “Rosalind, I might have once tried to be your friend, but we are not friends now. You’ve brought a lot of havoc into my life. I’ll be civil to you, but let me be clear. I no longer want to converse. You should know that I’ve talked to Mrs. Abrams and asked to share a room with someone else as soon as possible.”

Too hurt to reply, Rosalind turned away and climbed into bed. Minutes later, Nanci extinguished their light, blanketing their room in darkness. For a brief selfish moment, Rosalind ached to give in to self-pity and let the tears form. Everything was going so poorly and her parents and brothers had put their faith in her.

Now, more than ever, she was completely alone.

Dear
Lord
, she prayed.
I
don’t know what to pray for that you don’t already know about. You know I have tried everything I
can
think
of
to
discover
Miranda’s whereabouts. But every road seems to bring me to a dead end. Now I am at my wit’s end
.
I’ve
alienated
everyone, and it’s obvious I’m completely alone. I simply don’t know what to do any longer.

She was just about to close her eyes when she realized something very important. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alone, and she never had been.

No matter what happened with her mission, no matter what happened with her position at Sloane House or with Nanci, with her
search, or even with her beginning friendship with Reid, there was One who was always there.

Just as he was for Miranda.

Little by little, the tension in her shoulders eased and a smooth sense of peace covered her. Grateful, she felt tears sting her eyes as she drifted off to sleep.

Unaware when Nanci got up and walked out of the room.

CHAPTER 20

F
or the last few weeks, instead of sending the majority of her money home to her parents, Rosalind had kept half. She felt bad about that. She knew her siblings needed new shoes and clothes and her parents had lots of bills to pay.

But a sixth sense told her it was important to keep some money aside for a rainy day. Her situation at Sloane House felt too precarious to not be prepared for any sort of problem. Yesterday’s events only reinforced that.

With some of the portion she kept, she bought another ticket to the fair. She also hid some cash in the lining of her boot. If she suddenly did get dismissed, she didn’t want to be worrying about how she was going to eat or find shelter. At least not immediately.

Rosalind went to the World’s Fair on her next day off. This time, she didn’t mention where she was going to anyone. Things had gone
from bad to worse with Nanci, and though no one had actually said anything, Rosalind felt a shift in everyone’s attitudes toward her—as if she hadn’t been completely innocent when Veronica claimed she’d seen her steal her tortoiseshell comb.

After paying the entrance fee, she went directly to the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building. It was not only the largest building, but also had the distinction of being the only structure that held booths from almost every state and country present at the Columbian Exposition. Rosalind figured if Miranda had gotten mixed up with someone at the fair, there was a good chance that someone in that building might have seen her.

She was wrong.

In fact, three hours later, she was regretting her decision. She’d forgotten that thousands of people visited the fairgrounds every day, and during that time, exhibitors were busy talking to visitors. No one had time to scan the crowds and look at women.

Still, she tried. Over and over, she interrupted conversations, asked for help, and explained that her sister was missing. But no matter how many people she showed Miranda’s photograph to, no one recognized her sister. In fact, the only response she’d gotten had been lewd offers.

After a pair of workers from the Ireland cubicle followed her for several minutes, Rosalind left the building. Outside, the air was warm and humid. Almost stagnant.

She left the fairgrounds in a haze of disappointment. She was running out of ideas for whom to contact about Miranda, but she was not eager to rush back to Sloane House. But she stepped on a trolley and took it back toward Michigan Avenue.

By now she was familiar with grip cars and was even more used to the ebb and flow of big-city life. Now she had a better sense of whom to avoid completely. In addition, she’d begun to be invigorated by the
noises and sights of Chicago. She was intrigued by the many people from different backgrounds, amused by the way everyone—no matter what economic level they were on—was able to mingle and meander together. An energy was present that didn’t exist in the countryside of Wisconsin.

After helping a very scared tourist on the trolley with directions, Rosalind realized she’d come full circle. Now, instead of avoiding crowds, she sought them. Instead of only looking to associate with people just like her, she was finding joy in meeting folks who were far different. She was worlds apart from the shy, timid girl who’d arrived at Sloane House with only a hope and a prayer of discovering what had happened to her sister. Somehow, some way, she’d come into her own.

And she was grateful for that, she realized. Even if she still failed in her efforts to discover what had happened to Miranda, she was thankful for the opportunity to grow as a person. So few people had been given opportunities like the one she’d received.

She traveled a quarter of an hour, then hopped off the trolley and stepped into a candy store. Giving in to temptation, she bought a small bag of peppermints. After popping one in her mouth, she decided to avoid the street car for a bit and walk to Sloane House.

The peppermints kept her happy as she strolled down one block, then two. Just as she crossed another intersection, a fight broke out on the street.

It began in an instant, with the force of lightning. First there was calm, then within seconds a noisy fray broke out. Fists began to fly, curses were screamed, clothing was torn. Within seconds, the altercation that had started between two men quickly turned into a noisy brawl that encompassed at least twelve ruffians.

Rosalind became frightened as the fight grew more violent. She noticed other women, men, and children taking great care to move far
out of the fight’s perimeters. Thinking that was the right decision, she darted into the first open door she saw, the open door to a beautiful stone church.

The entrance loomed like the first sign of hope she’d been aware of in ages. The cool vestibule felt like a long-forgotten hug, easing her muscles. Encouraging her to relax, gently reminding her to take time to pray.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she walked slowly inside, becoming aware of the strong sense of peace that surrounded her, melding in with the dim light, infusing her senses with the scents of incense, candles, and lemon oil.

Her pulse seemed to slow as she breathed in deep. A few fortifying breaths eased her soul.

And then she heard the music.

A choir, made up of an odd assortment of forty men and women, was practicing in the front of the church. Each person held a red leather hymnal in his or her hands. Some were older, some looked to be barely out of school. By their clothing, it was apparent that they came from all walks of life. However, their faces were united in the joy each felt by their combined voices.

And what harmonies, indeed! Rosalind closed her eyes and let the melodious mix of voices float over her. They were singing an old hymn, “How Great Thou Art.” It was a familiar song, close to her mother’s heart. Her mother had sung it more than once while cooking in the kitchen by herself.

Rosalind had always thought she knew the hymn and was familiar with the way it made her feel. But everything she knew was a sad comparison to the purity of the choir’s voices as they melded like the voices of angels.

She was mesmerized.

Sitting down on the first empty pew, she eased back against the worn oak, took comfort in the solitude.

The voices rose in the last chorus, held the last notes for countless seconds, then finally faded. After the last note rang out, the stark return of silence seemed too dark in comparison.

“That was pretty good, everyone. But that last little bit needed some work, don’t you think?”

Rosalind opened her eyes and listened incredulously as the choir director played a few bars on the organ. “Do you hear the difference? Yes? No?”

The choir members made a variety of disparaging noises. Some looked the way she felt, as if it was difficult to outdo perfection.

Smiling broadly, she entertained herself with watching the members struggle to keep their opinions to themselves as the director continued, admonishing them for not practicing enough, for not staying on beat, even for not enunciating more clearly.