“You don’t have anything to say to me about that, Rosalind?” she murmured, sarcasm lacing each word. “No quaint comment, no maudlin, sanctimonious saying about how I’m worth more than my name? That I’m more than a myriad of social graces learned from a mother’s knee?”
“W–would there be anything else, Miss Veronica?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
Rosalind turned and quickly left the room. Only when she had closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall did she exhale. She’d been holding her breath and hadn’t even realized it. Veronica’s bitter diatribe had unnerved her—and had made her feel as if her quest was forever unobtainable. How was she ever going to discover what happened to Miranda when she could hardly even serve coffee to Veronica?
“Rosalind, why are you loitering in the hall?”
She sprang to attention. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Abrams. I’m on my way downstairs now.”
The formidable housekeeper’s gray gaze narrowed. “See that you leave the floor immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hastily, she turned to her right and rushed down the hallway, anxious to make it to the servants’ stairs and the dimly lit emptiness of the stairwell.
She’d almost made it when yet another door opened and Douglass appeared.
“Ah, Rosalind,” he murmured, forcing her to stop. “Look at you.” As he scanned her form, his lips curved slightly upward. “You’re up early. And so bright-eyed too.”
“Y–yes, sir. I mean, Mr. Sloane.”
“Only my father is Mr. Sloane. I’m Douglass. I think the very least you could do is call me by my Christian name, don’t you think?” he asked, his voice turning low and silky. “I mean, here we are, living together.”
Well aware of Mrs. Abrams still standing at the other end of the hallway, watching her, she felt her cheeks heat again. She opened her mouth—to say what, she wasn’t sure.
But then she felt his gaze settle on her lips.
Anxiety coursed through her, whether from his heated stare or her nerves or her fear, she didn’t know. Too afraid to guess, she turned and practically ran to the stairs.
Behind her she heard Douglass chuckle.
Finally alone in the servants’ passage, she pressed her shoulder blades against the cool plaster and closed her eyes.
Never before had she felt so much like one of the ivory balls on the billiard table, rolling to and fro. Always at everyone else’s mercy. She forced herself to breathe in more slowly and gather her thoughts. Perhaps she was at everyone else’s mercy, but if she was, then Miranda had been too. And that meant she needed to do whatever it took to discover what had happened to Miranda.
Only now was she beginning to realize what “anything” might be. And though she was afraid, she was more determined than ever. For Miranda, she had to be.
CHAPTER 5
When Rosalind came down for breakfast the next morning, a far different scene greeted her. Mrs. Abrams’ dress was wrinkled, her hair hastily pinned. Cook’s apron was stained and tied crookedly about her waist. Both women looked weary.
The other servants were wandering around somewhat aimlessly. A strange, strained silence permeated the room.
Jerome was standing against the back door. His usually polished appearance looked a bit on the shabby side. His eyes fastened on hers when she entered the room.
“What is going on?” Rosalind asked. “What happened?”
After glancing in Mrs. Abrams’ direction and seeing her slight nod, Cook spoke. “It’s Tilly.”
“What about her? Is she sick?”
“No. Um. I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid she’s gone missing.”
Rosalind felt as if someone had suddenly taken a hammer to her senses. Remembering that offhand remark Tilly had made in the kitchen about what could have happened to Miranda, and how Cook had pushed it aside with a meaningful look, she began to feel dizzy. Did this have anything to do with secrets about her sister?
Nanci rushed to her side and unceremoniously pushed her to a chair. “Pull yourself together.”
She’d hardly known Tilly. Certainly not as much as the rest of the staff. With sheer force of will, she told herself to pull herself together as Nanci had commanded. “What happened? You don’t think she simply decided to leave?”
Cook shrugged. “I can’t imagine that she would. Tilly is a good girl. She doesn’t run off or leave when she’s not supposed to.”
“Besides, where would she go?” Nanci asked.
“Her day off was yesterday. She was going to go to the fair with two other girls from other houses,” Cook murmured. “But they said she never showed up. And she never came home.”