Secrets of Sloane House(10)

“Don’t tire him out, son.”

“Of course not.”

He knew everything she was not saying. He’d better not tell his father any news that might prove distressing.

She didn’t have to worry. Years ago, Reid had promised himself he would be everything his father wanted him to be . . . even if, sometimes, it was never what he had wanted at all.





CHAPTER 4

Two days had passed since that terrible conversation in the kitchen. For Rosalind, however, it felt as if it had taken place only hours before. Trying not to think about Miranda’s last days at Sloane House was that difficult.

Her only recourse was to keep busy. Whenever she had a moment’s peace, Jim’s words and Cook’s warnings reverberated in her head, making every person seem suspicious and every corner filled with danger.

In spite of her worries and fears, she was becoming accustomed to the rhythm of working at Sloane House. She had learned to get up with the dawn, quickly eat breakfast, then help with the breakfast service. Each day, she laid out the breakfast silver in neat, orderly rows, making sure each fork, spoon, and knife gleamed in the early morning light.

Working with a dozen strangers, some who had never really known a life other than serving the Sloanes, was feeling easier too. Rosalind was slowly but surely getting to know everyone, making them less like strangers every day. She was learning which servants she could talk to and which ones were best to avoid. She’d become close to Nanci and had begun to form friendships with some of the other girls as well, especially Emma and Emily.

Mrs. Abrams and Cook—and even the butler, Mr. Hodgeson—began to trust her more too. Soon, little by little, she was allowed to be around the family more often. This was good for Rosalind and her sleuthing, but so far she’d been too intimidated by them and her job to do anything but concentrate on the duties she was assigned.

None of the previous tasks had brought anything close to the fear she was facing at the moment.

Her mouth went dry as she stared at the large tray holding a silver coffeepot, a delicate china teacup and saucer, a basket of toast, and a plate filled with eggs. “Are you sure you would like me to take this up to Miss Veronica, Cook?”

Cook looked her over in that way she always did, as if she was still attempting to understand how someone so ill equipped had come to work in her kitchen. “There ain’t no one else. Emma is off this morning and Nanci is attending to Mrs. Sloane as she always is.”

“I see.”

Jerome, one of the footmen, crossed his arms over his chest as he glared at her. “Surely even you can handle carrying a tray?”

“Of course I can.” She could handle it. She was just afraid of tripping on the stairs, dropping everything on the way to Veronica’s bedroom, and, of course, saying the wrong thing to the woman. So far, it seemed as if she was often saying the wrong thing.

Cook clucked. “Good. Now, I’ve checked and double checked, and you should have everything Miss Veronica needs. Don’t forget that she likes her coffee to be mixed with a fair bit of cream and sugar in the cup.”

Thinking of pouring Veronica’s coffee in front of her brought forth a whole new host of terrible worries. Already Rosalind had visions of splashing the hot liquid on the young lady.

“All right then, off you go,” Cook said with a reassuring smile. “Remember, knock twice, count to five, then let yourself in, easy like. Miss Veronica will be in a frightful mood, but don’t take it personal. She’s not a morning person.”

Rosalind had never known Veronica to be anything but waspish. “Anything else?”

“Yes, indeed.” Cook pointed to the stairs. “You’ll be needin’ to go up right this minute or I’m going to have to make Miss Veronica a fresh breakfast. She won’t be pleased if the coffee and eggs are cold,” she said sharply. “Go on now, and be quick about it.”

After whispering a quick prayer for strength, Rosalind gripped the silver tray with both hands, took a deep breath, then ascended the stairs.

By the eighth step, the muscles in her arms began to protest. She was a strong girl—anyone brought up on a dairy farm would be—but the effort of carrying a heavy silver tray loaded with china, coffee, toast, and eggs was not to be disputed. By the tenth step, she was already longing for a place to rest for a few seconds.

It was half past ten in the morning. She’d already been up for five hours, and truthfully, the time felt decidedly mid-morning. For most of her life, she’d had to rise at dawn to help feed and tend to the animals. Now, here she was, tending one of the most popular girls in Chicago society.