Not for the first time, she reflected on what it must feel like to simply expect to be looked after. To assume that others would make her breakfast, bring it to her, and pour her coffee.
Rosalind was slowly realizing that she was the only person who seemed to think it odd. But perhaps that was because most of the other servants in the house had always worked for the rich and powerful. Even Nanci had reminded Rosalind that they each had their role to play in the house. They were to complete tasks as perfectly as possible and strive to be invisible.
Veronica’s role was to marry well; Douglass’s responsibility was to continue the family fortune.
Nanci said she’d heard from Jerome that Douglass and Veronica’s last guests hadn’t left the house until after three in the morning, after all of them had been drinking gin, no less! Rosalind had never drunk spirits, but she had a feeling that she would want to stay abed late in the morning, too, if she’d had that kind of evening.
Slowly and with care, she walked up the narrow servants’ stairs, the tray growing heavier by the second. Each of her steps seemed to fall heavier too, each landing with a dull thud. When she arrived at the second floor, she caught her breath. Thankful that the hallway was empty, she straightened and walked to Veronica’s closed door.
She stood staring at it, yearning for a third hand to knock and turn the door handle. She was just considering putting down the tray in order to knock when she heard footsteps on the main staircase.
Finding an extra amount of strength she hadn’t known she possessed, she gripped the tray with one hand, braced it against her body, and smartly knocked once, then twice.
Then she counted to five and opened the door just as Mrs. Sloane herself approached.
After giving the lady a hasty curtsy, she walked into Veronica’s room and faced the daughter of the manor, who was peering out at her from under an intricately embroidered coverlet.
“Good morning, Miss Veronica. I have your breakfast.”
Veronica said nothing as Rosalind approached the large bed dressed in pale pink silk sheets, cream-colored lace, and a plethora of down pillows. She noticed that the delicate table next to the bed was littered with a long strand of pearls, two rings, and two tortoiseshell combs inlaid with silver.
“Where would you like me to set the tray?”
Veronica glanced at the table, seemed surprised that no one had already cleared it, then sighed. “I suppose you may set it over there,” she said, pointing to the finely crafted desk by the window.
“Yes, miss.” By now Rosalind’s arms were shaking from the weight of the tray. She used her last bit of strength to gently rest it on the center of the desk. “Coffee?”
“Of course.”
Rosalind carefully set the cup and saucer to rights, then poured in a small amount of cream and a spoonful of sugar. Finally, she poured in the coffee, stirred it once, and carried it to Veronica.
By now, thankfully, Veronica had sat up in bed. Her nightgown was a frothy mixture of gray satin and ecru lace. Her auburn-colored hair was still neatly bound in a thick braid and rested over one slim shoulder.
It was almost the same exact shade of Miranda’s hair. Unbidden, a memory spilled forth, one of her sister laughing as Rosalind tried to tame her hair into perfect curls, just like they’d seen in a magazine at the mercantile. Miranda’s hair had been shiny and full of body, but much like the woman herself, the curls had a mind of their own. They no sooner would have agreed to be tamed than Miranda would have taken Rosalind’s advice.
For a brief second, Rosalind stared at it, remembering her sister, feeling her loss as acutely as if she had only recently vanished.
Realizing what she’d been doing, Rosalind felt her embarrassment rise. “Your coffee, miss.”
Veronica took the coffee without a word and sipped.
Anxious to leave, Rosalind stepped backward. “Will you be needing anything else, Miss Veronica?”
Veronica lifted her head as her mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “Do you ever think how odd it is for you to call me ‘miss’? After all, we’re almost the same age. I might even be older. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty, ma’am.”
Veronica laughed. “Now I’m a ma’am, am I? Though you haven’t asked, I’ll reveal that I’m all of twenty-three. Practically ancient. Almost a spinster. And almost a disappointment to my mother.” She paused, then murmured, almost to herself, “Almost. But not yet.”
If they’d known each other better, or if Veronica had been a nicer person, Rosalind’s heart might have gone out to her. At this moment in time, however, all that counted was their position in society, and especially their position in the house.