Looking around, he noticed that haziness had filled the early evening air, most likely from the increased number of trains in the city. It was thick with fog and smoke and the faint scent of trash and debris.
Just a block away a somewhat bedraggled flower girl was hawking roses to passersby. And Reid realized that the air had never smelled so sweet. He promptly bought a dozen roses for his mother. He had a feeling they would brighten her day immeasurably. And, perhaps, make Calvin pleased.
That was something, he supposed.
CHAPTER 19
She was late.
After running past a sneering Jerome and a disapproving Mr. Hodgeson, Rosalind darted to her room and hastily put on a freshly starched apron. Seconds after that she winced at her reflection in the mirror, then bit her lip as she took down her hair and hastily pinned it up again. She’d just pinned her cap on her head when Mrs. Abrams walked to the doorway.
“Ah, Rosalind. There you are.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
Mrs. Abrams scanned Rosalind’s form, taking in everything in one fell swoop, from her precariously pinned cap to her apron to her black boots, which were sorely in need of a shine. Her gaze softened before turning resolute.
“Mrs. Sloane would like to have a word with you. Come with me, please.”
The request almost took Rosalind’s breath away. Not trusting her voice, Rosalind silently followed the housekeeper through the maze of servants’ rooms, through the thoroughly scrubbed dining area, along the narrow, windy hallway that led to the wine cellar, the silver room, and the laundry. A few servants paused as they passed. Some looked away; others stared at her with expressions of disbelief and disappointment.
Rosalind’s stomach knotted as she prepared herself for the worst. Obviously, she was about to be let go. She only hoped and prayed that she would get a day to make other plans before she had to leave the estate.
As they walked up the steep flight of stairs to Mrs. Sloane’s private study, Rosalind figured she had nothing to lose by asking Mrs. Abrams for information.
“Do you know what this is about, Mrs. Abrams?”
“I do.”
Her voice was clipped, and those two words were filled with enough censure that Rosalind knew it would be pointless to ask another question. Obviously, she was not going to get any immediate answers.
When they entered the study, Rosalind saw that Mrs. Sloane sat at her desk, carefully penning letters. Mrs. Abrams practically stood at attention, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Yes, Abrams?” the lady finally murmured.
“I have brought Rosalind, as you requested. Is now still a good time for you to speak to her?”
At last Mrs. Sloane turned, her gray silk gown rustling with the motion. She studied both Rosalind and Mrs. Abrams, then nodded. “I suppose this is as good a time as it will ever be.” As she crossed the room, she gestured toward a pair of upholstered chairs. “Please sit down.”
Rosalind followed Mrs. Abrams’ lead and took a chair, perching on the edge of the floral fabric.
Mrs. Sloane sat down as well, neatly arranging her skirts. After a lengthy pause, she looked at Rosalind with a vague expression of distaste. “I’m afraid there is no easy way to do this. It has come to my attention that you are suspected of stealing from my home.”
It was all Rosalind could do to keep from gaping. “Beg pardon?”
“It would be best if you went ahead and told us the whole story instead of denying it,” Mrs. Abrams said. “Lying will only make your situation worse.”
“Ma’am,” she sputtered. “I mean, Mrs. Sloane, I promise, I have never stolen anything from you, never taken a thing from this house.” The words tumbled out faster. “I have never stolen anything in my life.”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “Are you sure you are not mistaken?”
“I am positive! What have you heard?” Turning to Mrs. Sloane, Rosalind added, “Ma’am, what have you heard? What is it that is being said I stole?”
“Rosalind,” Mrs. Abrams reprimanded. “Watch your tongue.”
“I’m sorry. But I really have no idea . . .”
Mrs. Sloane’s voice turned pained. “My daughter said you delivered her breakfast tray the other day. Is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She didn’t understand what that had to do with anything.
“Veronica said she was asleep when you entered, but awoke long enough to watch you pocket one of her combs after you laid her tray on her desk.”
“Her comb?”
“Veronica has, or rather had, a pair of tortoiseshell combs. Each is inlaid with silver and decorated with a spray of amethysts. They are not only very dear, but they have extreme sentimental value. They were a gift from her grandmother on her sixteenth birthday.” Smoothing a hand down one of her sleeves, Mrs. Sloane murmured, “I’m sure you can understand how upset she was to discover one missing.”