Secrets of Sloane House(38)

“They do?”

“Of course they do. You should know that from Nanci.”

Rosalind didn’t want to hear another word about her roommate. “What happens to other people is certainly none of my concern.”

He reached out and ran one finger down the crease in her sleeve. “You know, there was once another girl here who acted a bit like you. She was quiet. Kept to herself.” He shook his head. “Acted so shocked about most everything.” He paused. “But one day that changed.”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Miranda.” He grinned.

The mention of her sister’s name created a new sense of urgency inside her. At another time, on another day, she would have tried to figure out what Jerome meant. But now all she wanted to do was get away.

“If you do not step aside, I will report you to Mrs. Abrams. I will tell her and anyone else who would care to listen that you made terrible, lewd suggestions.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh no. I’ll be sure they know that you accosted me on the stairway.”

He drew back as if burned. “Hold now.”

She continued, eager to make a jab of her own. After all, she had so little to lose where he was concerned. If he did his worst, he could very well ruin her or ruin her reputation. Neither was acceptable. “I assure you, I will. I have nothing to lose.”

“What makes you say that?”

Now that the tables had been turned and he was the nervous one, she went on the offensive. “Did you have something to do with Miranda’s disappearance? Is that why she left in such a hurry? Jerome, did you compromise her? Ruin her? What did you do to her? Where is she?”

“I had nothing to do with her going off.” His eyes were wild now. Worried and doubtful.

“So she just left?”

The stillness between the two of them continued for seconds. The air felt thicker, the tension heightened. For the first time, she felt that everything she was going through was going to be worth it. After all.

Then they heard the faint pounding of soles upon steps. Someone else was in the passage. He stepped to the side with a sarcastic bow. “As you said, you are late. Please, don’t let me keep you further.”

And as the footsteps grew louder, Rosalind knew she had no choice but to hurry back to the kitchens. And hope that she didn’t get in trouble for once again taking too long to do her job.





CHAPTER 13

Sitting in his mother’s elegantly appointed private receiving room, Reid watched her quietly go through the steps of pouring him tea.

He had no desire to drink any. All he really wanted to do was sit in the shade outside, sip a cool glass of lemonade, and remember every word of his latest conversation with Rosalind. Even a day later, the desire to remember each word, each expressive movement of her face, pulled him like little else had in recent memory.

The pragmatic part of him said that it made sense. After all, much of his day was made up of meaningless exchanges about little of importance.

His chat with Rosalind had been anything but that.

“Reid?” his mother prompted.

He realized she’d been holding the fine china teacup out for him for far too long. He took it and then took a sip of the strong East India tea. “Thank you.”

She sipped her own, which was liberally laced with cream and sugar. Then she looked at him directly. “Now that the niceties have been taken care of, perhaps you could talk to me about what is bothering you.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, son, do not play dumb. You’ve spent much of the last ten minutes gazing into nothing. Something has caught your interest, and just like when you were a lad, nothing is going to take it off your mind until you are good and ready.”

He was mildly embarrassed to be so transparent. “I had no idea I still harbored so many childish qualities.”

Her eyes lit up. “That, son, is the very reason you need to confide in me as soon as possible.” With a triumphant smile, she rested her teacup back in its saucer, set them both down on the table, then folded her hands on her lap. “Now, you may begin. I am listening.”

Reid was mildly taken aback. Though he and his mother had spoken about his schooling, his work, and his father’s health, they’d certainly never crossed the line into his personal problems.

“I’m not sure how to begin. Or what to share,” he said honestly. Did a gentleman dare burden his mother with a story like Rosalind’s? Or should he be more thoughtful of her delicate sensibilities?

“Reid, whatever it is, it can be dealt with. With God all things are possible, you know. Begin at the beginning, of course.”