Secrets of Sloane House(79)

“How many brothers and sisters?”

“I’m one of five.”

“Five is a good round number,” he said with a smile. “I’m one of five myself.”

“Then we have something in common, perhaps.”

One eye opened again. “We might have more in common than that, Rosie.” As his eye closed, he waved his left hand impatiently. “Well, go on.”

“I am the second eldest. My sister, Miranda, was the eldest. I mean, is the oldest.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “What do you think, Rosalind? Do you think she’s still alive?”

Reid had never asked such a direct question. She’d never dared to ask herself such a question. But to her surprise, she found she was ready to face it. Taking a breath, she gave voice to her secret fear.

“No. I don’t think she was abducted. I don’t think she ran off. I think she’s dead.”

“I see.”

“You’re not going to encourage me to hold out hope?”

“No.” Both eyes opened this time and stared at her. His gaze was piercing. Direct. “Here’s why: If she was anything like you, Miranda wouldn’t simply vanish. You are too loyal. Even if she was only half as loyal as you? I doubt she would have left you all without a single word. If she were alive, she would have found some way, no matter how difficult, to contact her family.”

She was stunned. This man she barely knew had been able to focus on the one trait she knew ran especially strong in her family. It was one of the reasons Miranda had left home in the first place, to help support her siblings. It was why her father had endured the ridicule of the police when he’d journeyed to the city to ask questions. It was why she’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t, all in an attempt to discover the truth.

“You’re right, sir.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised. I usually am.” He chuckled softly, his laughter fading into a harsh cough that looked like it took the wind right out of him.

“Sorry.”

“Would you care for some tea now?”

A look of distaste crossed his features. But he still held out his hand. “No milk. Only one sugar cube.”

Rosalind hastened to her feet, then quickly poured him a cup. After stirring in the sugar cube, she carefully carried the teacup to him and helped his shaking hands maneuver it to his lips. After four sips, he leaned back with another angry cough.

Rosalind took the cup from his hands and carefully set it on his bedside table. Then she continued her story. “Anyway, after Miranda and me, there are three boys—Henry, Steven, and Ethan.”

“And how old is Ethan?”

“Eight.”

“And what does one do on the farm all day?”

“Any number of things. I often looked after my brothers. Gardened.”

“You enjoy gardening?”

She nodded. “I do. I suppose it’s because I don’t mind being outside for hours at a time. I like it.”

“What did you grow?”

“Everything. Beans. Corn. Potatoes.” She continued, her voice warming to the memories. She told him about the cucumbers and zucchinis. About the time a squirrel or raccoon ate one bite out of every single tomato growing on the vines.

She chuckled when she relayed one of her brother’s misadventures with a particularly hungry pig. Then she noticed that Mr. Armstrong’s breathing had slowed and become even. Her chatter had caused him to fall asleep.

Uncertain about what to do next, she sat quietly next to him for another hour, content to listen to him breathe—and to allow herself to remember her home and the farm and the times she’d had there.

And she allowed herself to accept that she might not ever discover what happened to her sister. And that she was going to need to come to terms with the very real possibility that Miranda was dead.

Dead. It was such a stark, final word. But she needed that descriptor. She needed to accept it.

At last, she picked up the heavy tray and exited the room. Almost immediately, she saw Reid.

“Rosalind, I was just coming to check on you both. How did your visit with my father go?”

“Just fine. He fell asleep about an hour ago.”

As he had just noticed the tray in her hands, he reached for it. “This is too heavy for you. Please allow me—”

“Certainly not, Mr. Armstrong.” She stepped backward just enough to get it out of his reach. “I can carry this just fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“I carried trays like this for the Sloane family many a time, sir.”

He frowned. Stared at her a long moment, then took a step backward himself. “I see. Well, I won’t keep you then. Unless you’d like my help finding the kitchens?”