Secrets of Sloane House(13)

“Oh my goodness. What do Mr. and Mrs. Sloane say?”

“They don’t know as of yet.” Mrs. Abrams sighed. “When Mr. Hodgeson discovered that some of her things were still here, he called for a police officer to stop by, but that man was no help. Said no scullery maid was ‘missing’ unless she was gone for a full week.”

Rosalind was shocked. “But by then, anything could have happened to her!”

Cook nodded. “That would be true. If something did happen.”

“We’ll all just have to keep a lookout for anything unusual,” Jerome murmured.

“And you, Rosalind, will need to help us out a bit in here until we decide what to do next,” Cook stated. “Don’t bother trying to get out of going to the market for me, neither. You ain’t got no choice.”

Rosalind got a cup of coffee, then sat down to her breakfast. For some reason, things seemed to get harder at Sloane House instead of easier.



Two days later, Tilly was still missing.

Mrs. Sloane had been informed, but as of yet the lady had not given Cook permission to replace her. Mrs. Abrams said she was holding out hope that Tilly would return to the house one day soon.

Did Mrs. Sloane give Miranda the same consideration? Rosalind wondered. Was that why there was an opening when she applied for a job at Sloane House? Cook had said Miranda’s disappearance was still upsetting to Mrs. Sloane all these weeks later. That fit with the stories she’d heard about how kind Mrs. Sloane sometimes was toward her servants.

Would she ever know?

Rosalind had spent much of the previous day in the kitchen, carefully chopping vegetables and dressing chickens. Today, on the other hand, she’d been mostly in the company of Mrs. Abrams, cleaning the east wing guest rooms in preparation for yet another group of guests. The last group, a party of six from Philadelphia, had left only minutes before.

The Sloanes’ next guests, friends from New York City, were expected within three hours. Frantically polishing and cleaning silver and crystal, dusting and ironing sheets and pillowcases, they worked as quickly as they dared to set things to rights.

Indeed, the spacious home had become a hotel of sorts for some of the fair’s most esteemed visitors. At least, much of the staff was starting to feel that way. Because of the fair’s popularity, rooms at hotels such as the Fairmont had become not only exorbitantly expensive but scarce. That left even wealthy out-of-town guests relying on the hospitality of Chicago society.

Rosalind had always imagined that no one worked harder than farmers, whose lives were dependent on caring for livestock and growing crops. But she was slowly coming to realize that until her arrival in Chicago, she had led a very sheltered life.

Now her hours were spent cleaning and arranging rooms to perfection, unpacking and then packing a dizzying array of gowns, and doing her best to stay invisible.

That was what was so difficult, she realized. A good job was an unnoticed one. Where no one realized she’d even been in the room.

At the moment, she was by Mrs. Abrams’ side in the blue bedroom. One of the Philadelphia ladies had been especially messy, and it was taking even the housekeeper’s diligent efforts to clean and prepare the room for the next round of visitors.

“I don’t understand how one woman can make such a mess,” Rosalind said as she eyed the crumpled stationery on the floor and the boxes and tissues from the shopping trips. And the faint stains of powder and kohl that stained the dressing table cushion.

Her hand in an old sock, Mrs. Abrams was carefully swiping the stains with a baking soda paste. Little by little, the streaks of kohl were being removed. “Ours is not to wonder why. Only to clean it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She looked up gratefully when Emma brought in the new set of freshly ironed sheets. “Thank you.”

“I’ll stay and help you get the bed made up,” Emma said. “Mrs. Abrams, Cook was lookin’ for ya.”

After giving the cushion one last thoughtful swipe, she nodded. “I imagine she’s in a dither about tonight’s menu. Girls, when this room is done, don’t forget to check in with the laundry. They might need your assistance pressing dresses or even napkins.”

“This work, it’s enough to make one dizzy, it is,” Emma said when they were alone.

“I’ve been so exhausted when I fall into bed, I hardly move.” Remembering her sister’s chatty letters, the first ones so filled with excitement and wonder, Rosalind wondered how Miranda had handled it all.

Or had she not? Had her early letters about how wonderful her new life was really been full of lies? Had she opted to write about a world that never was, choosing to share her wishful dreams of her life instead of the stark, vacant reality?