Secrets of Sloane House

CHAPTER 1

Chicago, August 1893

As circumspectly as she could, Rosalind Perry smoothed her dark gray skirts before meeting the wide, assessing gaze of Douglass Sloane, the twenty-four-year-old son and heir of the Sloane estate.

“And who might you be?” he asked.

“Rosalind, sir.”

“I haven’t seen you here before, have I?” His dark eyes scanned her form, her face.

“No, sir. I’m new.” A prickling ran up the length of her spine. Why was he watching her so closely? Had she done something wrong that she wasn’t aware of?

Below them, down the stairs, the steady ticking of a mahogany grandfather clock floated upward, echoing the quick beating of her heart. The surrounding walls, with the rose trellis wallpaper and great array of samplers and portraits, seemed to close around her.

As if he had nowhere else to go, Douglass leaned a shoulder against the wall. The movement nudged the corner of a frame displaying the likeness of one of his dead relatives, showing a patch of dark wallpaper underneath. Rosalind did her best to stand still, though her hands longed to fidget. These questions were out of the ordinary. Never had the other members of his family conversed with her. Never had she expected it.

Cook had warned her that all four Sloanes were particular about the servants remembering their station in the formidable home. Hired help who spoke too much, didn’t follow directives, or proved slovenly were soon replaced. Rosalind didn’t doubt that to be true.

As she stood as still as a statue, Douglass Sloane continued to examine her as if she were one of the World Fair’s new inventions.

“So . . . Rosalind.” A dimple appeared. “Shakespeare, yes?”

She nodded. The name was from the play As You Like It. Her mother was a great fan of all things literary. Her children’s names had been a reflection of that. And perhaps to show the world that she was more than merely a farmer’s wife.

Clarifying her mother’s reasons for naming her Rosalind, however, seemed unnecessary. Too personal.

Not asked.

His arms crossed. The white linen of his shirt shone against the dark woodwork behind him. “And where might you be from?”

“Wisconsin, sir.” A small dairy farm near Milwaukee, to be specific.

“Ah, Wisconsin. That veritable utopia to our west.” Skimming her features again, he almost smiled. “And now here you are. In Chicago. Dusting.”

“Yes.” Her shoulders began to relax. Obviously, this member of the household meant her no harm. He was just curious about the newest housemaid on staff.

Perhaps that made sense. During the three weeks she’d worked in the home, the master’s son had been on a buying trip with his father to New York City. She heard they’d returned just two days ago—and the downstairs talk was filled with gossip about his escapades.

Rumor had it that Douglass had spent every waking hour in city pubs and gaming halls. Anywhere he liked, actually. With a name like Sloane, a man could do what he liked whenever he chose.

“Really, Douglass,” Veronica Sloane called out as she entered the hall on the arm of an extremely handsome man. “Leave the girl alone. If you cause her to tarry, she won’t get all her work done.” Somewhat mockingly, she raised a finely curved eyebrow. “And then what will we do?”

“I’m doing nothing out of the ordinary.” He dared to wink, and his gaze gripped Rosalind again. “Merely getting acquainted. As I’ve done many times before,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

With those words, alarms sounded in Rosalind’s head again. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but she was certain his statement was laced with another meaning.

“There’s little to get acquainted with,” his sister said as she and her companion joined Douglass, their bodies effectively circling Rosalind. Her voice was sharp. “She’s a servant, Douglass. Not a debutante.”

Rosalind clutched her dust rag more tightly. Yes, in their world she was only a servant. But in her heart, she knew she was more than that. She was a child of God. In his eyes, she counted as much as anyone.

As much as her sister, Miranda, had . . . before she’d gone missing.

Douglass stepped forward, bringing with him the faint scent of scotch. “Tell me, Rosalind, are you liking our home?”

His voice had turned silky. Rosalind’s mouth turned dry. The question felt loaded, but she wasn’t sure what the expected answer was. Her heartbeat quickened.

Oh, why had she been dusting in this spot at this moment?

Staring at her intently, Veronica once again raised a brow. “Do you? Are you happy?” Her voice lowered. “Content?”

Content? “I . . . I—”