Removing her apron and hanging it in the servants’ closet, Rosalind grabbed four coins from the cook’s top desk drawer, then, at last, darted out the back door.
“Lord, please help me find my courage,” she whispered. “Please help me become strong and not such a ninny. I need to keep my wits about me to find my sister. Please help me become more confident and more hopeful too. Help me be more like the girl I was back home.”
Back home, she’d hardly ever worried about her safety. Back home, she’d known everyone and had felt secure, not only in her surroundings, but in the knowledge that she mattered. To the townspeople nearest to their farm. To her family. To the Lord.
Stepping out onto the broad cavalcade of Michigan Avenue, Rosalind was immediately swept into the crowd of people hurrying among the drays, carriages, and curricles. She was sure her starched gray blouse and skirts were about to be hopelessly stained.
Then she knocked into the side of a lad no more than twelve.
“Watch it,” he muttered with a fierce scowl. He was a messenger boy, distinguishable as such by his hat, sturdy satchel, and single-minded expression.
“Sorry.” Suddenly, with a burst of steam, the trolley squealed to a halt in front of her. Though she’d only traveled on the crowded conveyance twice before, she knew she had to push her way on and hold on tightly. Within seconds, the trolley car moved forward, pushing its way through the cacophony of carriages and people filling the street.
Noise filtered by the congestion rang in her ears. Rosalind gripped the leather strap more tightly. Looking around, she sought a friendly face. Directly across from her stood a woman, most likely a typist, given her black skirt and crisp white shirtwaist. “Pardon me, have you ever gone to the market? I mean, to the farmer’s market,” she clarified. “You know, for vegetables?”
“I have,” the woman said with a regal nod. Long black feathers circling the brim of her hat fluttered with the motion.
“Am I going in the right direction?”
If the lady heard, she didn’t deign to give a reply. Flummoxed, Rosalind resigned herself that she’d have to wait and see.
“Exit the next stop, miss,” an older man in multiple layers of brown tweed and tan muttered from her other side. “Exit and walk toward the west. Can’t miss it.”
A young woman dressed in a plain dress flashed a reassuring smile. “He’s right, lamb. You’ll see the stalls before you’ve walked too far. You’ll smell them too. Nothing smells better than the market in the afternoon.”
Rosalind took their advice with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
“Have a care, now,” the working girl warned. “The streets can be a challenge for one who’s not familiar with them.”
Rosalind nodded but said nothing more. The girl’s warning told her nothing she didn’t already know. And nothing her sister hadn’t already found out.
Rosalind made it back in two hours. She had no idea if she’d made good time or had taken twice as long as necessary. All she cared about was that she’d accomplished her mission, by herself, with little problem. That, she felt, was something to celebrate.
“This is what Tom had today,” she said as she handed over a cloth sack filled to the brim with squash. “I hope it will do.”
The cook’s fleshy face brightened as she looked into the parcel. After pulling out one of the yellow vegetables, she held it to her nose, breathed deeply, then nodded. “It will.”
Rosalind breathed a hearty sigh of relief.
Her gaze warmer, Cook clucked a bit. “Now you’d best sit down before you fall down and have something to eat. You’re so thin, sometimes I fear a sharp wind is going to take you away from us,” she teased. “Not a one of us will be getting any rest ’fore midnight, I expect. Master Douglass is entertaining this evening too. He’s hosting a rowdy crowd of gentlemen in the billiard room.”
Rosalind took a thick stoneware bowl, filled it with mutton stew, and sat down at the far end of the kitchen table. No meal had ever looked so good.
With a brief prayer of thanks, she dived in. She was hungrier than she realized. Each bite brought her warmth and felt cozy and filling. It was a welcome oasis amid the hustle and bustle of the busy kitchens.
“And who might you be?” a man asked as he pulled up a chair and sat next to her. It was the same question Douglass had asked her upstairs.
Off-kilter by the nerve-racking events of the day, Rosalind looked at the short, mustached man with more than a slight degree of suspicion. “I’m sorry . . . Have we met?”
“I should say not,” Cook said, her voice merry. “This here’s Jim Quinn. He’s doing a bit of repair work in the wine cellar today.” After a moment, she added kindly, “And no need to worry about him. Jim’s a mite too forward, that’s true enough. But he’s harmless enough.”