Love on Assignment

by Cara Lynn James

  “May I help you?” the lady asked. “I’m Miss Gregory, the department secretary.” Her eyes squinted, and then a pleasant smile crossed her face. “You’re the Wilmonts’ governess, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m looking for the professor. Do you know his whereabouts?”

  Miss Gregory shook her head. “His last class ended half an hour ago, and he departed for the weekend.” The secretary touched her cheek. “Wait a moment. I do believe Professor Wilmont mentioned he was speaking at a young ladies’ meeting.”

  Charlotte’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness. I forgot all about the get-together. Do you know where it’s being held?”

  “No, I’m so sorry. I don’t have any idea.”

  Charlotte groaned. “Thank you all the same, Miss Gregory. Do you happen to know where Miss—oh my, I forgot her name.”

  Who was the woman originally slated to speak at the ladies’ retreat? Sykes? Simmons? Symington? That was it. “Can you tell me where Miss Symington’s office is located? I’m quite sure she’ll have the details.”

  “That I do know. Her office is at the end of the corridor, the last door on the right.”

  “Thank you so much.” With a wave toward Daniel’s secretary, Charlotte hastened down the hall.

  “May I come in?” she called from Miss Symington’s open doorway.

  A short, plump woman of about forty beckoned Charlotte inside the empty office. She transferred a pile of books from her desk to the glass bookcase behind her desk. “Do come in. I’m Miss Symington. May I be of assistance?” Her upturned mouth softened a sagging face surrounded by a mass of graying hair scraped back in a chignon.

  Relieved, Charlotte took a fortifying breath. “I hope so. I’m trying to find Professor Wilmont. I understand he’s taking your place as guest speaker at a retreat . . .”

  “Excuse me, but what retreat is that?” The professor wrinkled her forehead in a frown.

  “The one Miss LeBeau organized.” Charlotte moaned inwardly. She didn’t even know the name of the group sponsoring the event, so she couldn’t refresh Miss Symington’s memory. “She said you were scheduled to speak, but you withdrew because your father is ill.”

  Miss Symington shook her head and the creases in her forehead deepened. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you’re referring to. But, thank the good Lord, my father is in perfect health.”

  Panic shot through Charlotte. Something was very wrong. Or was her imagination running amok? “Maybe I’ve made a mistake. I apologize for bothering you.”

  “No bother at all,” the woman replied.

  Charlotte walked down the hall toward the front of the building. Missy had no reason to lie about Miss Symington unless she was playing some sort of trick. Stepping outside, Charlotte opened her umbrella. She had to find Daniel.

  But where was he? Perhaps Agnes Brownington, the student she’d met near the bandstand on Sunday, had information about the retreat. Charlotte glanced from one red brick building to the next until she spotted a sign saying Dean Hall, Women’s Dormitory. Once inside she asked a woman seated at the front desk for Miss Brownington. Charlotte tried not to fidget, but every second that ticked by seemed to take forever. Agnes finally arrived in the lobby and greeted her with a welcoming smile.

  Dressed in a navy blue skirt and tailored white shirtwaist with a cameo at the neck, she looked every inch a scholar. “It’s nice to see you again. Miss Hale, isn’t it?”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Brownington. I’m sorry to take you away from your studies, but I’m here on an urgent matter.”

  “That’s perfectly all right. And please call me Agnes. May I help you with something?”

  She led Charlotte to a sitting area tucked in a corner of the large room. They lowered onto stiff chairs upholstered in a plush bottle green that matched the heavy curtains topped with tassels. Charlotte quickly asked Agnes if she knew anything about the ladies’ get-together sponsored by the college prayer group.

  Agnes paled as her mouth drooped open. “Missy did mention she planned to meet the professor this weekend, but she didn’t give any details.” Agnes raised a brow. “If she’s caught she’ll be in a world of trouble.” Her face hardened as she stood up and paced in front of the window blurred with rain.

  Charlotte was taken aback. Agnes seemed angry—but at Missy, not the professor.

  “Unfortunately,” Charlotte said, “if their meeting becomes public knowledge, the professor will be hurt as much as Missy.”

  Startled, Agnes looked skeptical. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “People will misconstrue the meeting and believe the professor is to blame and Missy is the innocent victim of an older man with immoral intensions.”

  Agnes’s hands flew to her mouth. “No, you must be mistaken. He is the most honorable person I’ve ever met.”

  “I agree, but others might not. I happen to know the Rhode Island Reporter is trying to discredit him. If they learn of this meeting, they’ll be there to catch them together.”

  Agnes’s skin blanched to grayish-white. “The Rhode Island Reporter wants to hurt Professor Wilmont? But why?”

  “It’s a long story. But suffice it to say, the editor of that paper wants to destroy Professor Wilmont. And he’s not above conjuring up a story about Missy LeBeau in order to do it.”

  Agnes stopped pacing. “I didn’t realize they were feuding.” She crumpled into a chair opposite Charlotte, her face a picture of despair.

  “Do you know where they’ll meet?” Charlotte pressed. She didn’t really have time to coddle the young woman.

  “I think she’s going to meet him at the LeBeau’s cottage. I wrote down the name somewhere. Wait just a minute. I’ll get it from my bedroom.”

  Agnes hurried off and returned quickly. With a trembling hand, she gave a scrap of paper to Charlotte. Spring Creek Lodge was written in bold, block letters—just like the message Mr. Phifer had received from his anonymous source.

  Charlotte expelled a gasp. “You’re the one who gave the false tip to the newspaper. Shame on you, Agnes. Whatever were you thinking?”

  Agnes pulled her to the far end of the room where no one passing by could overhear. “I know I was wrong, but I wanted Miss LeBeau to leave the professor alone. I thought if she were caught in some sort of compromising situation, she’d be tossed out of the college.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you the professor would most likely be blamed?”

  Agnes covered her mouth and sniffed. “No, never. I thought everyone would know she was the one chasing after him.”

  “Well, you made a horrible mistake.”

  “Yes, I see that I did.” Agnes’s voice choked with sobs.

  Charlotte felt a twinge of sympathy for the jealous young woman. “Where is Spring Creek Lodge located?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I must find the professor before Mr. Phifer does.”

  Agnes took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “Do you think the professor will ever forgive me?” Agnes asked, hope giving strength to her voice.

  Charlotte shook her head. “Knowing him, I think it’s entirely possible.” Charlotte swept out of the dormitory into the wet afternoon. She shivered. Big drops of rain pelted her as she leapt over puddles all along Cove Road. Her boots kicked up mud that soiled her cotton stockings and the hem of her skirt. Huffing and puffing from her tight corset, Charlotte ran to Summerhill until her lungs threatened to burst right through her bodice. When she finally reached the cottage, she rushed inside.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Charlotte found the elderly lovebirds sitting side by side on the drawing room settee, a discreet distance apart. She cleared her throat to attract their attention. Mrs. Wilmont turned her head sideways, glaring at the interruption, then looked back at her beau, Mr. McClintock. “Pardon me for a moment, Horace.” She turned to her. “What is it, Charlotte? And do be quick about it.”

  “Excuse me, please, but do you know where Spring Creek Lod
ge is located?”

  Daniel’s mother jerked her chin upward in a regal pose worthy of Mrs. Astor. “I thought you’d have spoken to my son and would’ve departed by now.”

  Charlotte recoiled at the chill in the woman’s voice. “No ma’am, as you can clearly see, I’m still here. I must speak to the professor first.”

  Mr. McClintock looked from one to the other as he wrung his hands. He grabbed an open box of bonbons from the marble end table and thrust it under his ladylove’s nose even though it was only mid-morning. “Do have one, Vivian.”

  Mrs. Wilmont took two pieces and sent him a gracious smile. “Horace, Charlotte has decided to leave now that I’m feeling somewhat better. I thought she’d already be on her way home.” Mrs. Wilmont twitched a smirk. “Charlotte, why don’t you just leave him a note?”

  “I may do that. But first, I must find that lodge.”

  “Well, I don’t know where Spring Creek Lodge is located.” She turned back to Mr. McClintock, ignoring Charlotte after one last glare.

  Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to stay right here until Daniel returns.”

  Mrs. Wilmont’s smirk changed to a grimace. “That surely isn’t necessary. He might have left the address on his desk. You may look on your way out.” Honey laced with arsenic flowed from her mouth.

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way,” she called, her reedy voice wrapping around Charlotte and bringing her to a halt, “Mr. McClintock discovered something about one of your references. Mr. Henry Stapleton. No wonder my son couldn’t locate him. The man passed away three years ago. Now tell me, how could a dead man write a recommendation?”

  Charlotte felt the heat of humiliation burn her face. She knew those references would come back to haunt her. “I’m afraid I’m in too big of a hurry to explain,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be sure to tell my son.” Mrs. Wilmont’s malicious laugh followed Charlotte down the hall as she strode to Daniel’s office. Oh Lord, I pray he left the information. I hope he’s not walking right into Missy’s trap. And maybe Mr. Phifer’s as well. Please protect Daniel, Lord.

  Charlotte paged through a stack of test papers and student essays scattered across his desk, her hands shaky. Then on a note hidden beneath a glass paperweight, she found a few scribbled words: Spring Creek Lodge, Bolling Hill Road—Student gathering.

  Thank You, Lord. Her relief escaped in a long sigh. Maybe she still had a chance to catch Daniel before Missy got her hands on him. Literally.

  Grasping her umbrella, Charlotte rushed out the front door and onto the veranda. Rain slanted beneath the porch roof and wet the hydrangea and cedar bushes poking through the spindles.

  “Hello, Miss Hale.” Ruthie’s girlish voice sounded thin against the splatter of raindrops on the veranda roof and the whine of the wind. “Where are you going?” Pushing back and forth on the porch glider, Ruthie held An Old Fashioned Girl on her lap.

  Sadness washed through Charlotte. She’d sorely miss the Wilmont children. They’d grown close during their recitation of multiplication tables, piano practice, sketching, reading books, and playing croquet on the back lawn and down along the beach.

  “Where are you going, Miss Hale?”

  “To find your papa. And I’m in a big hurry.” But she refused to be brusque with the little girl who’d befriended her. Sweetness and sass, winning qualities that defined the child.

  Ruthie broke into a grin. “Whew! I was afraid you were angry at my papa.”

  “No, of course not. Why did you think that?”

  Ruthie tilted her head, frowning. “Because you won’t marry him. Last night I heard him arguing with Grandmother. Maybe I was snooping, but I wanted to know if you had a grand time at dinner.” Her face clouded. “Papa said he asked you to marry him, but you turned him down.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I did say no, but for a very good reason.”

  “Which was what?” The little girl looked sly. “Am I being too impertinent?”

  Charlotte bent down and squeezed Ruthie’s hand. How do you explain a complicated situation in a few simple words? “Because we’re not meant to be together.” Every muscle and fiber in her body screamed her words were untrue. “I wish it was otherwise, but it isn’t.”

  Ruthie jutted her lower lip. “Well, I’ve been praying about it and God told me you and Papa should marry. I asked Him directly and He said yes in my heart. You can’t go against the Lord’s will, can you? That would be sinful.”

  Charlotte didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I promise I’ll pray about it some more, but I’m afraid you misunderstood the Lord’s message.”

  Could Daniel possibly forgive her for her deception? That seemed too much to ask. No one was that saintly, not even Daniel.

  Ruthie clasped her hands. “Please, Miss Hale, pray until you hear God telling you what He told me.” Ruthie’s face flickered with hope. “I know Papa will make you happy. And I shall too. So will Tim if you remember he’s just a little boy who says and does a lot of silly things he doesn’t really mean. Even Grandmother will be nice to you.”

  Most definitely wishful thinking. “Sometimes we can’t have what we want.” Charlotte’s voice choked. She cleared her throat and blinked back hot, stinging tears.

  As Ruthie leaned forward the glider squeaked. “But sometimes we can. Please don’t say no. Just get on your knees so God will know you’re serious.”

  “I shall. But right now I must go.” Overflowing with love for the little girl—and her father—Charlotte gave the youngster a tight hug and then clattered down the porch steps into the rain. She and Ruthie shared the same childish dreams and the same inability to make them come true, but the little girl clung to hope. Charlotte wished she could be as foolish.

  Ruthie’s voice rang out. “I’ll pray for you, Miss Hale. And remember how much Papa loves you!”

  Yes, Charlotte knew he did, but for how much longer?

  RAIN PUMMELED HIS buggy as Daniel headed at a fast clip toward Spring Creek Lodge. He pulled his derby forward to keep the light rain from his face, and squinted through spectacles rapidly fogging over. With a flick of the reins, he urged his horse to lengthen her stride down Ocean Drive. It shouldn’t take long to locate the inn once he’d turned down Bolling Hill.

  If only he’d declined Missy’s invitation to conduct the retreat, he’d be home right now, dry and reading by a blazing fire. Or even better, convincing Charlotte to reconsider his proposal. Once she understood he’d forgive her for any indiscretion, large or small, she’d soften. Why did she want to admit every detail? He didn’t wish to intrude on her privacy and embarrass her. Sometimes it was best to keep indiscretions private without alleviating some of the guilt by voicing them to another.

  If only Sarah had kept her misdeeds to herself and not written a journal, he’d never had known she’d turned from him, even after their reconciliation. Of course he’d known their relationship hadn’t improved as he prayed it would, but he’d never suspected she’d stopped caring altogether.

  He never wanted to experience that kind of intense pain again—not that he thought Charlotte’s transgressions would wound as deeply as Sarah’s.

  But, instead of staying at Summerhill and calming Charlotte’s apprehension, he was driving down a deserted, muddy road toward a retreat he didn’t want to conduct for a young lady he didn’t wish to see. Yet in good conscience, he couldn’t refuse anyone in spiritual need, even Missy LeBeau. If her relationship with the Lord strengthened because of something he might say, then this retreat was well worth his effort. He sighed. It was just that after last night’s dinner with Charlotte, he was in no mood to present solid spiritual truths to a group of giggling college students led by the giddy Missy.

  Perhaps he should’ve spoken to Charlotte before he departed for Spring Creek Lodge. To his regret, she didn’t appear at breakfast, so he lingered until the last possible moment before leaving for his only class of the day
. He’d speak to her as soon as he returned this evening. Despite the weather, he urged the horse into a fast trot. What was the matter with him? He never took his frustrations out on his driving, endangering himself and others—if there actually were others on this deserted stretch of country road. But he hadn’t seen another cart or carriage. Fortunately the rain let up as he approached Bolling Hill Road, a winding lane edged with stone walls and leafy elms that arched overhead. Behind the low fences rolled green lawns and pastures veiled in mist. Hazy outlines of mansions rose behind the drizzle. Negotiating the potholes and pools of standing water, his carriage bumped along. Ten minutes later he came to a clearing with a vista of rolling meadows. A sign announced Spring Creek Lodge.

  He turned down the narrow road that cut through an open field and drove until he came to a rambling cottage. It resembled an Adirondack hunting lodge with a wide porch and smoke curling from the chimney. He halted the buggy and jumped down.

  Where was everyone? No other carriages parked along the muddy drive and no stable boy appeared to help with his horse. Strange. Maybe he’d arrived too early, although Miss LeBeau had said the retreat started at eleven thirty on Friday. His pocket watch read eleven forty-five. No sign of life anywhere.

  As he climbed the steps to the porch, unease crawled up his back like an army of spiders. He opened the door expecting to find the innkeeper behind the front desk. Instead, he saw an enormous room paneled in rustic pine and surrounded on three sides by a balcony. No front desk and no desk clerk to welcome him. A fire roared in the fieldstone fireplace, brightening the lobby and giving off the strong wood aroma. He passed through the small vestibule into what must be the lobby, placed his book bag and valise on the floor by one of the leather sofas, and wondered what to do next.