Secrets of Sloane House(33)

But now, especially after speaking with Mr. Armstrong, she realized that this had become her mission. It had also become her goal and her priority. It no longer mattered what her parents wanted her to discover or what would make her siblings proud. She wasn’t proud, but she felt this new resolve deep in her bones. And once more, she knew it was the right thing to do as well.

With that in mind, she slipped her letter into her purse and decided then and there to start afresh. Cook had asked her to go to the farmer’s market again that afternoon. She would use the errand as an opportunity to talk to everyone she could. Perhaps she could even make the acquaintance of a maid from one of the neighboring houses. She’d seen quite a few girls doing many of the same errands she did.

Who knew? Perhaps she would even finally stop and chat with the flower seller on the corner and ask if she’d ever seen Miranda. It was worth a try. She was stronger, braver than she used to be. She was different now.

An hour later, when she walked out onto the streets of Chicago, Rosalind’s newfound resolve wavered. As she hesitated outside the servants’ entrance, Jim, that laconic man about trade who had been so chatty weeks ago, approached.

“Hello, Rosalind,” he said in a friendly voice. “Name’s Jim. We spoke in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago.”

“I remember.” She stood still, not quite sure what to say next. Then, like a lightning bolt hitting her, she remembered the promise to herself. So she forced herself to smile and promote conversation. “What brings you out to the house today?”

He looked delighted to be asked. “Ah, you know. This and that. Big houses like this always need something done. Today, I was up in Master Douglass’s suite. Some of the woodwork needed refinishing and such.”

“Had something happened to it? An accident, perhaps?”

Jim chuckled. “What an imagination you’ve got.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he rocked a bit back on his heels. “I’m not one to say what might have been causing destruction in Master Douglass’s rooms, but I have a feeling it might simply be time. Time can do much damage, don’t you know.” He paused. “Or perhaps a pretty young thing like you don’t know.”

“I seem to be learning about time and aging with the best of them,” she said lightly. “And I must be off to post this letter.”

“You going by yourself?”

“Yes. I’m getting quite good at navigating my way around the city. At least this part of the city, that is.”

His expression turned grim. “Have a care now. There was another story printed in the Tribune about the crime rate going up, on account of the fair and all.”

With vigilance, she shook off her unease. And reminded herself that they’d all been worried sick about Tilly, but she hadn’t been hurt at all . . . only in love with a soldier. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Good day, Jim.”

He tipped his hat. “And to you, too, Miss Rosalind.”

His ungraceful antics made her chuckle. And their conversation had given her a small feeling of success too. Perhaps visiting with people was easier than she imagined.

In no time, she purchased all the items on Cook’s list, making an effort to converse with vendors and other domestics. However, it was no use. The market was unusually busy and crowded. No one had time for idle talk.

Resolving to try again another day, she posted her letter, then, after riding the grip car back to Michigan Avenue, walked slowly back to the mansion. The sun was shining and the air almost cool. A faint breeze was in the air, making the usual stagnant city air almost smell fresh.

She stopped and lifted her face to the sun. It was a perfect moment. One to savor.

“A flower, miss?”

The melodic voice beckoned her. Rosalind turned, noticing the flower girl not much older than her, the one she had been planning to talk to. She had set up shop on the corner, an open box of daisies, chrysanthemums, and carnations at her feet.

“No, thank you. I’m only a maid, you see.” Holding up her canvas tote full of cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes, she added, “I’m afraid I don’t have much use for flowers.”

Some of the hope in the girl’s eyes dimmed. “I suppose not.”

Rosalind realized that many people who were on the way to the Sloanes’ probably passed the girl.

And that got her to thinking that maybe, at long last, Rosalind had found someone who could give her some information.

“Who usually buys your flowers?”

The girl’s manner became defensive. “What concern is it to you?”

Rosalind held up a hand, a sign of defeat. “It’s nothing, I promise. I’m just curious, that’s all. They are really beautiful.”