Secrets of Sloane House (2 page)

A jolt of fear shot up Rosalind’s spine. Was that what had happened to her sister? Had she been dismissed for neglecting her chores and then promptly forgotten?

Or had she been snatched up from the city’s busy streets and simply vanished?

Quickly, Rosalind turned right, then left. She struggled to recall where she was. The house was so vast, such a jumbled maze of curious rooms and narrow, winding halls, that she was continually getting lost. One wrong turn could lead to her flying down a corridor where she had no business being.

Which, of course, could lead to her coming into contact with members of the family.

As she stopped and rested a palm on a wall covered in rich scarlet and burnished gold paisley wallpaper, she let her mind drift, remembering how Miranda had written that she, too, had gotten lost in the mansion more than a time or two. Of course, she’d also confided that some of the people in the house frightened her.

Remembering that the letters had stopped coming before she’d revealed who had frightened her—and how—Rosalind closed her eyes and tried to fend off a new wash of pain.

Oh, Miranda! Where are you?

Her sister, older by only eleven months, was the twenty-one-year-old beauty of the family. Blessed with thick, curly auburn hair, set off by bright blue eyes, she was striking. Rosalind’s mahogany hair and faded blue eyes had always paled in comparison.

As did her personality. Miranda was the more headstrong, the one who was the most self-reliant. Rosalind? Ever the follower.

Over the years, Miranda’s strong personality had always gotten her what she wanted. So much so that Rosalind had often wished she had even a small portion of her sister’s determination.

When things had gone from bad to worse at their farm, Miranda had up and left, leaving behind a note saying that she’d gone to Chicago to find work and she’d send money home as soon as she could.

But Rosalind knew financial concerns weren’t the only reason Miranda had ventured east. No, she’d always been plagued by the need to push limits and boundaries. Even the wide open fields of their farm had seemed far too confining for a woman of her light and exuberance.

Soon after she left, Miranda wrote that she’d gotten a position as a maid in a grand house. More letters arrived over the next two months, each one with a bit of money.

But then they heard nothing.

With a heavy heart, Rosalind was beginning to fear that her earnest prayers for her sister had not only been unanswered, but had also been in vain.

Either Miranda had decided to move on and forget about them all . . . or something dire had happened to her.

Sometimes, in the dark of night, Rosalind admitted that she wasn’t sure which scenario would be easier to bear.

CHAPTER 2

“M
rs. Sloane just changed the numbers for dinner. Now we’re going to have twenty people instead of ten,” Cook announced grumpily when Rosalind arrived in the perpetually steamy kitchens for a bite of lunch. “That means not a one of you is going to be taking a break anytime soon. I need you, Rosalind, to run to the market and pick up another batch of squash for the soup.”

Still feeling off-kilter after her run-in with Douglass and Veronica, Rosalind blinked. “Do you mean the farmer’s market?”

Mrs. Martha Russell—“Cook” to everyone in the house—folded her arms over an ample bosom and glared. “None other.”

Rosalind’s heart dipped. She barely knew her way around the two blocks surrounding the mansion. Chicago streets were crowded and winding, difficult to traverse in the best of circumstances.

Now, with the World’s Fair in full swing and thousands of visitors swarming along the sidewalks, it was near impossible to navigate
the streets with any expediency. She feared that there was a very good chance she’d become lost and ruin Cook’s schedule.

But that was the least of her worries. Never a moment passed when she wasn’t completely aware of the dangers that lurked in the city and that, somehow, her sister had vanished in them.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. But I’m not sure if I’m the right—”

Cook cut her off with a stern expression brewing in her toffee-colored eyes. “I can’t be sparin’ no one else. I need that squash.” Pulling away the bowl Rosalind had just picked up, she snapped, “You’ve got no time to eat! Go now.”

Only Cook’s reputation of being all bark and no bite prevented Rosalind from shaking in her shoes. “Yes, ma’am. Um, where is the market?”

With exaggerated patience, Cook said, “Take a grip car and be quick about it. When you get there, look for Tom. He’s the head grocer, and Sloane House has an account with him.”

“Tom,” she repeated.

“He’s youngish. Has a red beard, and he knows all about Mrs. Sloane’s wants and particulars. He’ll help you find what you need.”

It sounded as if finding Tom might not be too much of a problem, but she dreaded taking the grip car. The only time she’d been on it alone she’d worried she’d miss her stop, get off too early—or worse, too late—far from the neighborhood she was just starting to become accustomed to.

Traveling in the large city was excruciatingly nerve-racking and scary. Especially after Miranda had mentioned time and time again in her letters how dangerous the streets were. Just the descriptions alone made Rosalind wish for eyes in the back of her head. Yes, there were multiple dangers on the streets of Chicago, and a woman alone was always at risk.

But perhaps there were dangers most anywhere? Once again, she found her mind drifting back to Douglass and his piercing gaze . . .

A pair of saucepans clanged together. “Rosalind, what more do you need for me to say? Go on with ya, now.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, yes, I’m off to the market right now.”

Now that she was getting her way, Cook’s voice gentled. “Take some coins from housekeeping just in case you don’t be seein’ Tom. Go on, now. There’s a good girl.”

Nanci, her one good friend in the house, smiled sweetly at Rosalind as their paths crossed in the doorway. “You can do it. It’ll be just like the time we took the trolley to the park. Just take it again, but head south, toward the market. If you get lost, ask for help. Most people in Chicago are honest folk. Most will help you.”

Most.
That one word made all the difference between comfort and wariness. Not everyone was honest. Or helpful. Some, it seemed, were much worse.

Once again, Rosalind recalled Miranda’s letters. She’d written stories of women coming to the fair and getting pulled into brothels, never to be heard from again.

Like a newsboy calling out the day’s headlines, Cook’s voice rang down the hall. “Don’t you be comin’ back without my squash, Rosalind. You do, and I’ll have you be the one to tell the missus herself why her dinner party will be ruined, and you know what will be happenin’ then!”

She’d be let go, that was what would be happening.

Rosalind didn’t doubt Cook’s threat in the slightest. From her first day, she realized the whole staff lived in fear of the mercurial moods of the family. Mrs. Sloane could be at once exceptionally benevolent and malicious. Stories abounded of servants being fired for the slightest offense while others were paid while recuperating from the influenza.

Removing her apron and hanging it in the servants’ closet, Rosalind grabbed four coins from the cook’s top desk drawer, then, at last, darted out the back door.

“Lord, please help me find my courage,” she whispered. “Please help me become strong and not such a ninny. I need to keep my wits about me to find my sister. Please help me become more confident and more hopeful too. Help me be more like the girl I was back home.”

Back home, she’d hardly ever worried about her safety. Back home, she’d known everyone and had felt secure, not only in her surroundings, but in the knowledge that she mattered. To the townspeople nearest to their farm. To her family. To the Lord.

Stepping out onto the broad cavalcade of Michigan Avenue, Rosalind was immediately swept into the crowd of people hurrying among the drays, carriages, and curricles. She was sure her starched gray blouse and skirts were about to be hopelessly stained.

Then she knocked into the side of a lad no more than twelve.

“Watch it,” he muttered with a fierce scowl. He was a messenger boy, distinguishable as such by his hat, sturdy satchel, and single-minded expression.

“Sorry.” Suddenly, with a burst of steam, the trolley squealed to a halt in front of her. Though she’d only traveled on the crowded conveyance twice before, she knew she had to push her way on and hold on tightly. Within seconds, the trolley car moved forward, pushing its way through the cacophony of carriages and people filling the street.

Noise filtered by the congestion rang in her ears. Rosalind gripped the leather strap more tightly. Looking around, she sought a friendly face. Directly across from her stood a woman, most likely a typist, given her black skirt and crisp white shirtwaist. “Pardon me, have you ever gone to the market? I mean, to the farmer’s market,” she clarified. “You know, for vegetables?”

“I have,” the woman said with a regal nod. Long black feathers circling the brim of her hat fluttered with the motion.

“Am I going in the right direction?”

If the lady heard, she didn’t deign to give a reply. Flummoxed, Rosalind resigned herself that she’d have to wait and see.

“Exit the next stop, miss,” an older man in multiple layers of brown tweed and tan muttered from her other side. “Exit and walk toward the west. Can’t miss it.”

A young woman dressed in a plain dress flashed a reassuring smile. “He’s right, lamb. You’ll see the stalls before you’ve walked too far. You’ll smell them too. Nothing smells better than the market in the afternoon.”

Rosalind took their advice with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Have a care, now,” the working girl warned. “The streets can be a challenge for one who’s not familiar with them.”

Rosalind nodded but said nothing more. The girl’s warning told her nothing she didn’t already know. And nothing her sister hadn’t already found out.

Rosalind made it back in two hours. She had no idea if she’d made good time or had taken twice as long as necessary. All she cared about was that she’d accomplished her mission, by herself, with little problem. That, she felt, was something to celebrate.

“This is what Tom had today,” she said as she handed over a cloth sack filled to the brim with squash. “I hope it will do.”

The cook’s fleshy face brightened as she looked into the parcel. After pulling out one of the yellow vegetables, she held it to her nose, breathed deeply, then nodded. “It will.”

Rosalind breathed a hearty sigh of relief.

Her gaze warmer, Cook clucked a bit. “Now you’d best sit down before you fall down and have something to eat. You’re so thin, sometimes I fear a sharp wind is going to take you away from us,” she teased. “Not a one of us will be getting any rest ’fore midnight, I expect. Master Douglass is entertaining this evening too. He’s hosting a rowdy crowd of gentlemen in the billiard room.”

Rosalind took a thick stoneware bowl, filled it with mutton stew, and sat down at the far end of the kitchen table. No meal had ever looked so good.

With a brief prayer of thanks, she dived in. She was hungrier than she realized. Each bite brought her warmth and felt cozy and filling. It was a welcome oasis amid the hustle and bustle of the busy kitchens.

“And who might you be?” a man asked as he pulled up a chair and sat next to her. It was the same question Douglass had asked her upstairs.

Off-kilter by the nerve-racking events of the day, Rosalind looked at the short, mustached man with more than a slight degree of suspicion. “I’m sorry . . . Have we met?”

“I should say not,” Cook said, her voice merry. “This here’s Jim Quinn. He’s doing a bit of repair work in the wine cellar today.” After a moment, she added kindly, “And no need to worry about him. Jim’s a mite too forward, that’s true enough. But he’s harmless enough.”

“Pleased to meet you.” He tipped his cap. “I’m a carpenter, miss. I do odd jobs, doing my best to make a dime, you know.”

“I’m Rosalind.”

“I know that. I do.” He winked. “As soon as I saw there was a looker new on staff, I asked about you.”

“Out with ya, Jim,” Cook exclaimed. More confidentially, she leaned closer to Rosalind. “His mouth is going to get him in trouble
yet, you mark my words. But if you learn to ignore most of his silly flirting, you’ll see that Jim’s as good a man as they come. I’d trust him with my soul, I would.”

Before Rosalind could think of a reply to that, Jim started speaking. “Have you been to the fair yet?” When she shook her head, he grinned. “Didn’t think so. If you had, you’d be smiling.”

Still too rattled to even think about attending the World’s Fair, she murmured, “I doubt I will go.”

“You should. I mean, you should if you can get the time off.” Jim rested his elbows on the table as he continued. “It’s something to see, make no mistake. If you had seen Jackson Park before we got to work, you’d be right amazed at all the changes that have come about. Us carpenters have been right busy, making one building after another into a thing of beauty.”