“You know this isn’t good enough.”
“Well, now. Aren’t you just the perfect lady? What have you decided? That because you have struck up a conversation with Mr. Armstrong, you now have every right to boss me about?”
Rosalind was completely taken aback. “I’m trying to help you. Can’t you see that?”
“I was doing just fine before you entered the house. I will be that way long after you leave too.”
“Why would you think I’d be leaving?”
A true wariness entered her eyes. “No reason.”
Setting the stocking she was darning to one side, Rosalind said, “What really happened between you and Mr. Sloane at the fair?”
Nanci paled. “That is none of your concern.”
“I think it might be. You’re making mistakes that I could be blamed for.”
Nanci sniffed. “Everything that goes on in this house is not your business. In fact, it would be better if you kept your nose out of other people’s business entirely. The sooner, the better.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, you might just find yourself out of a job. Or gone.”
“Gone?”
The flicker of unease Rosalind had started to feel grew stronger. To stop her hands from shaking, she clenched them into tight fists. “Nanci, you know a lot more about Miranda’s disappearance than you’ve let on, don’t you?”
“Why are you so fixated on that girl? She isn’t the first girl in Chicago to have gone missing. You hardly batted an eye when Tilly left.”
“I cared about Tilly. Besides, we all discovered Tilly got married.”
“Then care about Miranda enough to stop mentioning her name.”
“I can’t.”
Nanci jumped to her feet. “Why on earth not? You didn’t even know her.”
Rosalind bit her lip. Though everything inside of her warned her to keep silent, her heart couldn’t seem to do that anymore. “I did,” she finally said. “I do know Miranda.”
Nanci slowly turned back to her. “What are you talking about?”
“Miranda is my sister,” she whispered.
“What?” The last bit of color tingeing her cheeks faded to white. “Is that why you came here? To Sloane House?”
Rosalind nodded. “I have to figure out what happened to her. When she first got here, she wrote us all kinds of stories about the house. About the Sloanes.” She waved a hand. “About all of you. But then her letters got shorter, her stories more evasive.”
Nanci’s shoulders tightened. “And then?”
“And then we heard nothing. One week passed. Then two. Three. Then we were all so concerned, my father traveled out here and talked to the police.”
“What did they say?”
Remembering the haunted expression on her father’s face when he came home after that painful trip made her want to cry too. “They laughed at him. They said that she’d probably run off with some man. Or that she didn’t want to be found. They disparaged her character, making my older sister sound like no better than an adventuress.” Picking up another stocking, she wrapped it around her opposite hand. Tightened it until it hurt. “Don’t you understand why I’m here, Nanci? Don’t you understand why I can’t simply give up and walk away? I know in my heart that something happened to her. I feel it.”
“It would be better if you gave up. You . . . you might find out things you don’t want to know.”
“I don’t know that I would.”
“I do. Miranda . . . she was no saint, Rosalind.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I have my reasons.”
“What are they?” Impulsively, Rosalind reached out for her. “Nanci, what do you know?”
For a moment, Nanci looked like she was about to divulge a secret, but then only shook off Rosalind’s touch. “Now that I know why you’ve been asking, I’m going to tell you something that you need to never forget.”
Her breath hitched. “What?”
“Accept that there are some things you’ll never know. Accept that she is gone. Stop asking questions and accept it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You’re going to have to. There are things happening in this house that you are either too oblivious to notice or refuse to see.”
“Like what? And who are you referring to? Do you mean someone on staff . . . or someone in the family?” Thinking quickly, she said, “Did Miranda hurt someone’s feelings or something? Or did someone suspect her of something worse? Nanci, some of her last letters hinted that she’d begun to be afraid. Who do you think she was afraid of?”