Secrets of Sloane House (6 page)

Emma’s eyes widened. With a jerk, she pulled her arm out of Rosalind’s grasp. “What’s wrong with you? You almost tore my sleeve.”

“I’m sorry. It’s simply that I’m curious about what you said.”

“Why?”

“Miranda sounds like a really nice girl,” she improvised. “And competent, too. So if she wasn’t well liked, it seems like I wouldn’t have a chance.” Hesitantly, she smiled at her little joke. “So who didn’t like her? Was it someone on staff? Or a member of the family?”

“I was just talking, that was all,” Emma replied in a rush. She turned, picked up two of the delicately embroidered pillows, and set them neatly on the center of the bed. “What do you think?”

Realizing that the conversation was through, Rosalind picked up the two dust cloths Mrs. Abrams left, then scanned the room with a critical eye. Light streamed in from the sheer curtains, sending rays of sunshine across the polished cherry writing desk and freshly cleaned yellow chair cushion.

The bed was made, the pillows were arranged perfectly, the blue-and-ivory-striped coverlet was pressed. The fireplace was cleaned and logs set in. Fingerprints had been removed from silver trinkets. The crystal decanter was filled with fresh water. The carpet was brushed clean.

“I think it looks beautiful in here. Perfect.” Still feeling a bit cautious, she murmured, “Is that what you think?”

“It’s not what I think that matters. We both know that to be true, don’t we?” Before Rosalind could think of anything to say to that, Emma clasped her hands together. “As far as I can tell, we’re done. We’d best go on to the next room. We’ve got a lot to do and no time to do it.”

Reluctantly, Rosalind nodded. She’d heard Emma’s warning loud and clear.

Now all she had to do was wonder if she should heed it.

Rosalind was still stewing about Miranda being liked by “almost” everyone and Emma’s steadfast refusal to explain herself, when she entered the small attic room she shared with Nanci.

Nestled in the attic’s eaves, it boasted a sloping ceiling, a small window, two twin beds, two nightstands, and one very plain and rickety dresser standing tall and regal in between the two beds.

When Rosalind had first come to work at Sloane House, she’d felt like these attic rooms were scary and full of ghosts. The bedroom next to them was empty, and the window was stuck shut so they couldn’t get a breeze on hot July nights. Rosalind had been sure a person could be forgotten up in the eaves, practically never seen or heard from again.

But Nanci, being Nanci, had soon dispelled her of that notion. Together with her matter-of-fact manner and a bounty of discarded fabrics, she’d made their bedroom a happy place. What it lacked in elegance, Nanci had more than made up for in comfort and coziness. She’d covered her bed with a marvelous wedding ring quilt her grandmother had long ago stitched. On her bedside table were an ornate filigree frame and a small silver snuff box, a favor from a gentleman friend whom she’d so far refused to name.

In comparison, Rosalind’s side was as bare and functional as
Nanci’s was inviting. It made her homesick for the comforts of her cozy bedroom at home.

Just last week, Nanci had even wheedled Jim’s services, asking him to see to the window. She’d asked Jim so sweetly and explained the need for repairs so easily to Mrs. Abrams that they got the window fixed with hardly a word of complaint.

Their room was a popular spot with the other girls in the house, despite the sometimes stifling hot summer temperatures. More often than not, Rosalind would come upstairs to find two or three other maids sitting in the room with Nanci, chatting or looking at magazines or newspapers pilfered from the trash. And, as was always the case with Nanci, the conversation would be lively.

Luckily, this evening Nanci seemed as tired as Rosalind, just as happy to slip out of her starched uniform and retire early.

“What a time we had of it today. And for that matter, all week!” Nanci said as they hastily prepared for bed. “I’m exhausted.”

Watching Nanci carefully unpin her hair and begin brushing it with her nightly hundred strokes, Rosalind said, “You seem to be handling it better than me. I almost fell asleep during the dinner service.”

“You’ve had a time of it, for sure. You’re doing both Tilly’s job and yours now.”

“Do you ever worry about Tilly?”

Nanci’s hand slowed. “From time to time, I do. But it’s best not to think about her too much.”

“That sounds kind of harsh.”

“Maybe so, but there’s nothing we can do. Not really.”

“Do you think she’ll return?”

Nanci shook her head. “If she returned, she’d probably be fired. We all know that. Whatever the reason, she’s most likely gone for good.”

Rosalind shivered as she unpinned her waist-length brown hair.
Though it was the fashion to cut hair at least to shoulder-blade length, Rosalind had never felt the urge to do so. The problem with that, however, was that it weighed heavily against the dozen pins she used to keep it in place. It was always a blessed relief to release it at the end of each day.

“Just you be glad you weren’t standing behind hot irons all day today,” Nanci said. “Every time I turned around, another woman was needing her dress pressed.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Rosalind said, thinking about the ladies who had been in the house. “There were more women here than I could shake a stick at.”

Nanci chuckled at her country phrase. “Like I said, it’s bound to continue, fair or no fair. Mrs. Sloane is determined to marry off Veronica as soon as possible. Add that to all the ladies who want their daughters to have Douglass? We’re certain to always have a house full of guests now.”

“I’m already even more exhausted just thinking about it,” Rosalind teased. But still, this evening’s party had been exciting, even from her vantage point, which was firmly in the background.

The Sloanes’ dinner for forty-eight had kept all of them on their toes—and their tongues wagging too. Each young lady looked beautiful, and their mothers were just as handsome and well turned out. One by one they had alighted from their carriages and strolled into the home’s brightly lit entryway in an array of exquisitely styled taffeta and satin gowns, each jewel-colored dress seeming to have more yards of fabric than the last.

The men by their sides wore black tuxedos and top hats, white gloves, and bored expressions.

Together, the group looked like something out of a picture post-card or one of the society magazines Miranda used to spend too much money on and examine in awe.

Thinking of how much Miranda must have enjoyed seeing the gowns at parties when she worked there, she mused, “The ladies looked bright and beautiful. Truly lovely.”

“That they did.”

“Did you notice Mrs. Anderson’s bustle?” Rosalind mused, thinking back to the petite woman dressed in unrelieved black. “It was very stylish for a lady in mourning.”

Nanci wrinkled her nose as she continued to pull the horsehair brush through her caramel-colored tresses. “From the way her cheeks were blooming, I wouldn’t put it past her to already be looking for a new man.”

The thought was appalling. Turning to Nanci, Rosalind shook her head. “Surely not. I mean, ladies in mourning are the same everywhere, don’t you think? No amount of money could ever bring back a cherished husband.”

“You’ve got to learn about life here at Sloane House. The people who live here aren’t like anyone you’ve ever met, and some of their friends are even more outlandish.” Lowering her voice, she cast a concerned eye at the door, just as if she imagined someone was listening at the keyhole. “You should prepare yourself to be shocked.”

“By what?”

Looking as if she’d said something she shouldn’t, Nanci shook her head. “Never you mind that.”

“You’re not going to even give me a hint? Perhaps I should consider looking through some of those keyholes.”

“Don’t you ever do that,” Nanci said, her voice hard. “Some things go on here that you don’t want to know about. Ever. And I shudder to imagine what would happen to you if one of the family discovered you were spying on them.”

“I was only joking.” It was all Rosalind could do not to shake off
the words with a bit of a nervous giggle. Never before had she received a warning like that. Had Miranda been warned like this? Was that what had frightened her so?

Looking a bit chagrined, Nanci spoke more lightly. “I hope I didn’t scare you none. I don’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that a home like this is a big change from your life in Wisconsin. The people here do things a bit different too. And if you don’t get used to it, well, it can cause a lot of problems in the long run.”

Nanci’s change of tone gave Rosalind confidence to ask questions.

“Is that what happened to Miranda? Did she never get used to things here?”

“Miranda refused to listen to reason. That’s what happened with her. If she would have listened in the first place, it would have saved her a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, though. Just like you suggested.”

“Good. You’re the best roommate I’ve ever had. I don’t want to lose you anytime soon!”

“Thank you for that.”

Now dressed in her nightgown, Nanci crawled into her narrow bed. “We should get some sleep, since tomorrow is sure to be wonderful.”

“I’d almost forgotten.”

“I don’t know how! Can you believe our luck? We both get tomorrow afternoon and evening off. And Mr. Sloane has given us tickets for admission to the fair and tokens for the midway!”

Just a few hours before, Mr. and Mrs. Sloane had lined up all the staff and presented each member with tokens and tickets for both the fair admission and the Ferris wheel in the midway. Even the most senior members of the staff had trouble containing their excitement.

Mr. Hodgeson and Mrs. Abrams had then, in turn, made up a schedule that allowed a few of them at a time to visit the fair, in
addition to their usual half day off once a week. Nanci and Rosalind were paired together.

The idea of going to the fair was tremendously exciting . . . and terribly hard for Rosalind to accept. She didn’t feel she should do anything other than hunt for Miranda or work. Taking part in even the most harmless of amusements felt wrong.

But perhaps she could show her sister’s daguerreotype to a few of the workers while she was there. It was a long shot, to be sure, but at least it was an attempt to find some answers. As Nanci continued to prattle on, Rosalind tried to look excited too. But as she washed her face and then got under her sheet, her mind drifted to other things. About how she used to share her bed at home with Miranda.

And how at the moment, the cold cotton settling against her skin felt like ice despite the warmth of the room. Whether it was the coolness of the sheet or the direction of her thoughts, Rosalind felt her skin break out in chill bumps. A tremor coursed through her as her body attempted to warm itself. Thinking about how cold their attic room would be when winter came . . . Oh, what she’d give then for just one of the down comforters that were in the guest rooms, not to mention how wonderful it would be to have a fireplace in a bedroom like Veronica did.

Yet she should know better than to not count her blessings. She was lucky, and that was the truth. Back home, the work was just as hard, only there was little gaiety or anything to break up the days. Early morning brought milking, then the hard labor of sterilizing the buckets and milking areas. Afterward, a long line of chores blended each day into the next, and all the while she was pestered by her younger brothers. Only gardening gave her much pleasure.

But the worst part was sitting at her parents’ table and feeling their despair and exhaustion cloud the room. Her mother, though not
even forty, looked twenty years older. Her father’s perpetually grim expression was weighted down with the burdens of the nation’s recession and the responsibility of caring for the four children still at home.

And then, of course, there was the ever-present worry about Miranda. From the time her dear sister’s letters had stopped arriving, Rosalind had tossed and turned at night and worried and fretted. She had to find her. She had to. Or she had to discover what had become of her. There was no choice.

After the kerosene lamp was dimmed and their attic room was wrapped in darkness, Rosalind finally remembered to tell Nanci her news. “Guess what? I talked to Douglass the other day.”

“Oh? Where did you see him?”

“In the east hallway. I turned around, and there he was. He remembered my name.”

“Did he?”

Rosalind noticed that Nanci wasn’t responding the way she’d imagined she would. Instead of teasing Rosalind, she almost sounded . . . jealous?

“We didn’t say much to each other.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing.” Now Rosalind wished she’d never even brought it up, and she was glad she’d never told Nanci about her first encounter with Douglass. “I had just delivered Miss Veronica’s tray. He wished me good morning.”

“Ah. Well, he would. He’s special that way,” Nanci replied in a much warmer tone. “I bet he was just curious about the new maid in the house.”