Secrets of Sloane House(32)

He wasn’t going to be able to meet with Rosalind anywhere publicly again. Of course, meeting in private had its own set of cruel consequences. If he wasn’t careful, it wasn’t going to be ribald rumors or gauche innuendo that ruined her reputation. No, it would be his inability to constantly remember that they were never alone and always being observed.

It was a pity he hadn’t remembered that a half hour earlier.





CHAPTER 11

And so that, dear family, is what I have discovered so far.

Rosalind wrote at the bottom of her long, somewhat rambling letter.

I now have an idea about Miranda’s life here at the Sloane estate, and I am acquainted with most of the servants with whom she worked. I also know when she disappeared. But I have no idea why she did so. That is the most disturbing aspect of my efforts. Sometimes I am so close to making progress, but then the reality of how much I do not yet know threatens to overwhelm me and I begin to doubt myself and your belief in me.

Holding the nib of her quill lightly over the paper, she wondered if she should mention anything else.

She flexed her fingers, happy that her palm didn’t hurt so much anymore. It had been three days since she’d broken the china, injured her hand, and talked to the handsome Reid Armstrong on the park bench. Three days since she’d felt the first ray of hope that she was going to be able to discover what had happened to her sister.

But she didn’t dare mention any of that. Her parents would only worry, and there was no real news anyway.

Picking up the nib again, she wondered if she should mention how distant and sometimes cruel Veronica could be. Or how Douglass had been kind to her, but she still felt a bit apprehensive whenever she was in his presence.

And what about Reid? Should she mention how she had given in and told him her whole story? Speaking to him had been against her better judgment and had been the opposite of their wishes to keep her investigation as private as possible.

She ached to give them hope, but at the same time, she knew better than to give them such a gift. Hope was one of the Lord’s blessings, that was true. But in other ways, hope could be the very work of the Devil. It permitted a person to believe that their imaginations or dreams could actually be true.

She had certainly found herself experiencing several moments like that. She’d spy something in Mr. Armstrong’s gaze that seemed to be far warmer than an impersonal glance to a maid. Or she’d be ironing one of Veronica’s delicately light linen nightgowns and she’d imagine what it would be like to go to sleep in such luxuriousness.

Finally, she’d be dining in the servants’ hall, eating leftovers from the family’s dinner, and she’d catch herself wishing for more steak or fish or velvety smooth custard. All of those things had been foreign to her when she arrived and would become distant memories when she returned to Wisconsin.

And sometimes, particularly in a time like 1893, mere years away from the new century, Rosalind feared their class-filled society could only do damage to the souls who were not prepared to understand their place in it. At this time and place—especially in a city like Chicago—it was imperative that people knew their place. Workers weren’t treated well in the factories. But strikes and fires did little to change things. All they really did was delay the inevitable and cause loss of job or harm to those who stood in the way of progress.

Whether she had become philosophical or only dared to let her family live in the dark for as long as possible, she ended up simply signing her name as she always did.

With love, Rosalind

Then she sealed her letter and carefully set it aside to be posted before she changed her mind.

She was going to have to take more risks and push herself harder. She was going to need to leave the mansion more often, talk to strangers, and ask more pointed questions. Otherwise, she feared she would never fulfill her promise to her family.

Worse, she would never learn the truth.

And if that happened? Well, that would be unconscionable. Her sister was impetuous and beautiful. She was willful and bold—and perhaps a flirt around men she’d met in Chicago.

But that was who she was, not the reason for her disappearance.

In her heart, Rosalind was sure someone had preyed on Miranda. Or convinced her to do something she should not. And even if Rosalind didn’t feel comfortable learning about some of the things Miranda might have done, even if she didn’t really want to know the worst secrets about her sister, she could always bear that herself. All the family needed to know was what had happened to Miranda. They didn’t need to know every single detail. Actually, it was probably best if they never knew.

This new knowledge gave her a sense of security. Made her feel a bit more at peace. When she’d left home, she’d merely been acting as an arm of her family. She’d come to Chicago at their bidding, determined to make them proud by doing what they asked.