Knowing her days at Sloane House were numbered, Rosalind began to jump at any chance to escape the confines of its walls. Now she accepted any errand as an opportunity to ask grip car drivers, market vendors, and even newsboys about Miranda. Cook found much amusement in her change of heart and began to seek Rosalind out for any errand that needed to be done.
After seeing Minerva two days in a row at the same spot, she began talking with her. On the fourth day, she pulled out the daguerreotype of her sister and showed it to the flower girl.
“There is a resemblance, that’s true,” Minerva said after taking a cursory look at the photograph.
“She is my sister. Almost a year older. Do you by chance ever remember seeing her?”
Minerva glanced at the picture again, this time closing her eyes for a few seconds after staring at it hard. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I remembered her, though I do seem to recall a woman looking much like her walking this way a time or two.”
“Thank you for that.” But no matter how hard she tried to conceal her thoughts, she knew her disappointment was evident.
Minerva looked at her kindly. “I’m proof that a gal can try not to be found. Don’t despair, if you’re thinking the worst. Sometimes a woman simply finds something she’d rather do. Or receives a better offer.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Obviously not.” She jutted up her chin a bit. “But I’m still alive, so that says a lot. Things could be worse.”
“Yes, I’m starting to realize that sad fact. Things can always be worse.”
“Get on with you now. You’re going to attract attention, standing here with me. And it won’t do me any good either. I’ve got flowers to sell.”
Discouraged, but feeling a bit braver, too, Rosalind walked to some of the other street sellers and showed them Miranda’s daguerreotype. Most took a hard look at the photo when Rosalind told them that the woman pictured was her sister.
But no one had any information for her.
Rosalind was about to feel discouraged until she remembered that Chicago was a very big city. It would be too much to hope that one of the few street sellers she talked to would not only recognize Miranda but have useful information too. All she could do was persevere and hope and pray that her determination would soon pay off.
Later that afternoon, Nanci cornered her in the laundry. “What in the world are you doing, going out and about so much?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what it looks like. I saw you talking to that flower girl, showing a picture. What were you doing?”
“I was showing a daguerreotype of my sister.”
“So you’re bound and determined to not give up your search? Even though I’ve warned you time and again that doing so is a mistake?”
“I can’t give up.”
“If you don’t give up, you had better start wishing for eyes in the back of your head. You’re going to get harmed.”
“Why would you say that?”
Immediately, Nanci clammed up.
Rosalind jumped at the sliver of hope. “You know something about Miranda, don’t you?”
“I’ve said more than once that I don’t.”
“No, I think you do. I think you know a whole lot more than you are letting on.”
A momentary weakness flooded Nanci’s expression before she visibly tamped it down. “All I know is that you’re playing with fire. And the way you’re doing things? Never taking no for an answer? It’s going to cause you pain. And I can promise you that I won’t lift a finger to help you.”
Rosalind was disappointed. She’d really hoped that Nanci had become a friend. But whether something had happened between her and Douglass the other evening—or whether she was afraid to help Rosalind with her investigation—it was obvious that there was a chasm between them that was widening day by day.
“I hear you.”
Nanci shook her head. “Just stop what you’re doing and concentrate on your life here—or go back home. I promise, things could be worse. Things could be a lot worse.” She turned away before Rosalind could comment on that.
Hours later, she was delivering a freshly pressed grown to one of Mrs. Sloane’s guests when she practically ran into Reid. He grasped her shoulders. “Careful,” he said in that kind way of his. “You almost ran me down.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She gestured to the pale peach dress she was holding. “I was attempting to deliver this too quickly.”
“Do you need some help?”
“Of course not.” Worried that someone might spy the two of them talking, she edged away. Needing him to drop his hands—and wishing she could always have him by her side. “I’d best go . . .”