“How long have you worked here, Emma?”
“Three years, I have.”
Emma couldn’t be more than eighteen. “That long?”
“Started here when I was fifteen, in the laundry,” she said proudly. “Now, here I am, a parlor maid. One day I aim to be what Nanci is.”
“A lady’s maid?”
Emma nodded. “I figure one day Nanci will leave to get married or something. When that happens, I aim to take her place.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“I’m praying it is. I can sew better than Nanci, and I’m almost as good with hair as she is.”
“Who taught you how to do hair?”
“Miranda.” She smiled softly. “She was talented.”
“Did you know her well?” Rosalind let her voice drop softly, hoping that she added just enough of a touch of openness to encourage more sharing.
Emma tilted her head to one side. “As well as anyone did. She was beautiful. Almost too beautiful, you know? I heard Mrs. Abrams caution her to watch herself.”
“Why would she do that?”
“It wouldn’t do to be so pretty around Miss Veronica, you know. Plus, looks like hers would have gotten her into trouble. Men start to notice things they shouldn’t, you know. Or the ladies begin to feel threatened.”
“I wish I could have met Miranda.”
“Oh, you would have liked her, I bet. Almost everyone did.”
“Almost?”
Emma’s cheeks turned red. “I didn’t mean anything. That was just an expression.”
Desperate to learn something, anything of use, Rosalind reached out to Emma. Grabbed her sleeve. “Who didn’t like her?”
Emma’s eyes widened. With a jerk, she pulled her arm out of Rosalind’s grasp. “What’s wrong with you? You almost tore my sleeve.”
“I’m sorry. It’s simply that I’m curious about what you said.”
“Why?”
“Miranda sounds like a really nice girl,” she improvised. “And competent, too. So if she wasn’t well liked, it seems like I wouldn’t have a chance.” Hesitantly, she smiled at her little joke. “So who didn’t like her? Was it someone on staff? Or a member of the family?”
“I was just talking, that was all,” Emma replied in a rush. She turned, picked up two of the delicately embroidered pillows, and set them neatly on the center of the bed. “What do you think?”
Realizing that the conversation was through, Rosalind picked up the two dust cloths Mrs. Abrams left, then scanned the room with a critical eye. Light streamed in from the sheer curtains, sending rays of sunshine across the polished cherry writing desk and freshly cleaned yellow chair cushion.
The bed was made, the pillows were arranged perfectly, the blue-and-ivory-striped coverlet was pressed. The fireplace was cleaned and logs set in. Fingerprints had been removed from silver trinkets. The crystal decanter was filled with fresh water. The carpet was brushed clean.
“I think it looks beautiful in here. Perfect.” Still feeling a bit cautious, she murmured, “Is that what you think?”
“It’s not what I think that matters. We both know that to be true, don’t we?” Before Rosalind could think of anything to say to that, Emma clasped her hands together. “As far as I can tell, we’re done. We’d best go on to the next room. We’ve got a lot to do and no time to do it.”
Reluctantly, Rosalind nodded. She’d heard Emma’s warning loud and clear.
Now all she had to do was wonder if she should heed it.
Rosalind was still stewing about Miranda being liked by “almost” everyone and Emma’s steadfast refusal to explain herself, when she entered the small attic room she shared with Nanci.
Nestled in the attic’s eaves, it boasted a sloping ceiling, a small window, two twin beds, two nightstands, and one very plain and rickety dresser standing tall and regal in between the two beds.
When Rosalind had first come to work at Sloane House, she’d felt like these attic rooms were scary and full of ghosts. The bedroom next to them was empty, and the window was stuck shut so they couldn’t get a breeze on hot July nights. Rosalind had been sure a person could be forgotten up in the eaves, practically never seen or heard from again.
But Nanci, being Nanci, had soon dispelled her of that notion. Together with her matter-of-fact manner and a bounty of discarded fabrics, she’d made their bedroom a happy place. What it lacked in elegance, Nanci had more than made up for in comfort and coziness. She’d covered her bed with a marvelous wedding ring quilt her grandmother had long ago stitched. On her bedside table were an ornate filigree frame and a small silver snuff box, a favor from a gentleman friend whom she’d so far refused to name.