by K. B. Owen
David set the washtub on a stool. “Well, I am certainly in agreement with him, though I’d say we are already involved. We are simply trying to extricate ourselves from this mess and get on with our lives. What if I went with you?”
She fought back the pride-filled refusal that threatened to bubble out of her. After all, what did it matter how they arrived at the truth? The important thing was to clear the specter that stood between them and the home that could make them happy. “Yes. Perhaps he would listen then.”
After a quick glance over his shoulder, he reached for her hand and drew her close. “I love you.”
She rested her head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart and his strong arms encircling her. She was content.
David reluctantly let her go, listening. “We had better start dunking those apples. It sounds as if we are about to be bombarded.”
Over the babble of approaching students, she heard the distinctive thump, bump of Miss Banning’s cane and Charlotte’s voice in the kitchen. “Perhaps some are heading for the tea-leaf reading rather than the dunking.”
He shrugged. “One can only hope.”
The apple dunking proved a popular pastime. Young ladies in every sort of costume imaginable—from Alibaba to Zulu chieftain—lined up to be blindfolded, hands behind backs, in order to plunge their faces in the chilly water and grope for the slippery, floating apples. Much squealing ensued.
Concordia’s apron kept most of her gown dry, but her hem was soon sopping. “I should get more kitchen towels,” she said, after failed attempts to wring it out.
The kitchen was blessedly warm. Charlotte and Miss Banning sat alone at the rough-wood table, drinking tea. Saucers of wet tea leaves littered the surface.
“The two of you have the more congenial assignment,” Concordia said, rummaging in the drawers.
Charlotte smiled. “We were busy for a while.” She gestured toward the old lady, slurping her tea and ignoring them.
“How are you this evening, Miss Banning?” Concordia asked. Whether it was out of politeness or because she wanted a few more moments in the warmth of the kitchen, she could not say.
“Humph,” was all she got in reply. She appeared to be nodding off.
“It is a tiring evening for her,” Charlotte said, adjusting the shawl over the old lady’s shoulders. The corners of Miss Banning’s thin lips turned up just a bit. Concordia wondered if a wide smile would crack the woman’s face.
When Concordia returned to the porch, the students were gone and David was putting away the equipment.
She grimaced. “Oh dear, I was gone much longer than I planned. I am sorry to have abandoned you.”
“You needed a bit of warming up.” He smiled and checked his watch. “It is nearly time for supper.” He held out his arm. “Shall we look in on the nut-burning along the way?”
“An excellent idea,” Concordia said, taking his arm.
Furniture in the library had been pushed back to make room for the eager young ladies. Concordia noticed a pair of large wicker picnic hampers behind the wingback chairs, a blanket thrown over them. The girls must have raided an entire forest. They would not need that many nuts.
A perspiring, red-faced, and exceedingly grumpy Randolph Maynard stood by the fire, wearily scooping nuts from the bowl beside him and handing them out to the girls. Like David, he was in evening dress attire rather than a costume. Concordia wondered what costume such a man would adopt, should he be possessed of sudden whimsicality. Robespierre? The Marquis de Sade? The corners of her mouth twitched.
“Not too close!” Maynard roared, startling a tentative freshman into nearly doing that very thing, as she stumbled toward the hearth. Another girl caught her in time.
Concordia stepped forward. “Shall I take over, Mr. Maynard?” She reached out a hand for the bowl, which he wordlessly relinquished.
After he left, David helped her keep the girls in order. “He could have thanked you,” he murmured.
She shrugged. “Our conversation yesterday was not a cordial one.” At his frown, she added, “I’ll tell you later.” She glanced at the clock. “We only have time for a few more students,” she called. “The supper bell will ring soon.”
Chapter 19
Week 6, Instructor Calendar Halloween 1898
Nothing should be said which can hurt anyone’s feelings…nor should one talk about that which everybody knows, for such small-talk is impertinent and irritating. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
The bell came even sooner than expected, to Concordia’s immense relief. It had grown quite warm by the fire. Strands of damp hair clung to her neck, but at least her hem was dry.
“Come on,” David urged, as she straightened chairs. “I am starving.”
“You are always starving,” she teased. “It may be worse after we marry.”
He grinned. “If you make it, I will eat it.”
The buffet in the dining hall ran the entire back length of the room. The offerings were so numerous it was hard to decide where to start. She felt a surge of gratitude that Frances Kimble, rather than Randolph Maynard, was now in charge of such expenditures.
“Here.” David took her plate. “Allow me.”
Concordia pointed, and David filled her plate: cold salmon mayonnaise, garlic mashed turnips, and crab puffs, one of her favorites. Concordia eyed the dessert end of the table. She would have to save room for the pumpkin crème brûlée. Such luscious sweets did not come her way often.
They found seats at a large table with the Sanbournes, Miss Pomeroy, Mr. Maynard, Miss Kimble, Charlotte Crandall, and Miss Banning. Concordia sat between Mrs. Sanbourne and Charlotte, with Miss Banning on the girl’s other side.
“The cooks have outdone themselves,” David said between mouthfuls.
“It is a shame that Mr. Langdon had to miss all this,” Concordia said. She nodded across the table at Maynard. “Any word from him?”
“He returns tomorrow,” Maynard said gruffly.
The lady principal roused herself. “Oh? Mr. Langdon has been out of town? Whatever for?”
“I told you yesterday, Miss Pomeroy,” Maynard said, barely concealing his impatience. “He went to visit his niece, who just lost her baby and nearly died herself.”
Concordia felt a jolt to her abdomen. Such a tragedy was no longer so remote. Mrs. Sanbourne and Charlotte on each side of her shifted uneasily.
“How awful,” Charlotte whispered.
Maynard flushed a mottled red as he glanced at the women. “I apologize. I should not have mentioned it.”
Groping for a change of subject, Concordia turned to Mrs. Sanbourne. “I hear you were sketching caricatures in the side parlor this evening. Your talents were undoubtedly in high demand.”
Mrs. Sanbourne had been gazing into her water glass. “Hmm? Oh yes, the drawings. I am quite pleased with them.” She swept a hand in the direction of the far windows. “I have lined them up over there, should anyone care to see. The young ladies may take them home tonight. I also sketched from memory several subjects who did not sit for me. I thought it would be amusing.”
“We shall certainly take a look,” David said. “So, Mr. Sanbourne, how goes your work? Have you been able to reconstruct your missing blueprint?”
Peter Sanbourne grimaced. “I have not had time to finish. I am at work on a knotty problem with the depth sensors. Fluctuations in temperature keep throwing them off. Once I have resolved that issue, I will return to the diagram.”
David leaned forward in interest. “I take it you are working on an improved torpedo guidance system?”
Maynard leaned forward, gray eyes glittering with interest. “Ah yes. Blue Arrow.”
Sanbourne dropped his fork with a clatter. “How did you learn of it?” He turned accusing eyes from one gentleman to the other.
“My dear fellow,” Maynard said scathingly, “you cannot expect to labor in obscurity when your blueprint is stolen, your assistant is missing, your rival’s assistant is murder
ed, and the dead man’s employer has resigned from Boston Tech in disgrace. There has been a break in the case. I just read about it in this evening’s late edition.”
Marynard had everyone’s attention now, including Miss Banning and Miss Pomeroy.
“Well?” Sanbourne said impatiently, holding his fork in a white-knuckled grip. “What has happened?”
“The body of Ivan Guryev has been found.”
“What?” Concordia exclaimed. “Where?”
“In the river. Not far from the State Street dock.”
Sanbourne’s lips grew pale. “Ivan’s…body.”
Rachel Sanbourne reached for the water pitcher and quickly poured him a glass.
“We assumed he’d fled to Russia,” she said, her voice subdued.
“Well, he never made it there,” Maynard said grimly.
“Was it suicide?” Miss Kimble asked. “After he killed Mr. Oster, perhaps he could not live with what he had done.”
“The police don’t yet know, at least according to the Courant.”
Some of the color had returned to Sanbourne’s face. He shook his head. “What a waste. Ivan was so talented, so full of life.” He turned to his wife. “He was practically a son to us. How could he have betrayed us so?” The agony in his voice was painful to hear.
Mrs. Sanbourne patted his arm. “We must be more vigilant.” Her voice hardened. “Betrayal can come from anywhere, even one’s own doorstep.”
Miss Kimble clenched her jaw and glanced at Maynard. “It can indeed.”
Maynard abruptly stood. “If you will excuse me.”
Concordia glanced at David, who shrugged. He obviously didn’t understand the interchange, either.
Charlotte also stood. “I believe Miss Jenkins needs me.”
Margaret Banning started to get up.
“No, no, Miss Banning, you stay here,” Charlotte said. “I will not be long. Shall I bring you a slice of pound cake when I return?”
Miss Banning nodded. “Thank you, dear.”
It was David who fetched the cake for Miss Banning, as Charlotte did not return. Curious, Concordia excused herself. The band was starting up and the tables cleared in preparation for the dancing.
David helped her out of her chair. He leaned in to murmur, “Will you be back soon? I want at least one dance with you.”
Concordia smiled. “My good sir, more than two dances in one evening with the same partner would be scandalous. But you may count upon one.”
Concordia noticed the caricature boards lined up along the chair rail and decided to take a quick look on her way out. She smiled as she surveyed them, recognizing Miss Smedley, Miss Gage, and Lady Principal Pomeroy. Mrs. Sanbourne had skillfully captured a single distinctive feature, playfully distorting it so that one could not help but laugh. Concordia lingered over the sketch of Miss Pomeroy, noting how perfectly Mrs. Sanbourne had portrayed the lady’s look of wide-eyed distraction behind the spectacles dangling from her skinny nose.
Another board was turned to the wall. Curious, she flipped it over. It was a caricature of Maynard, Charlotte, and Miss Kimble. She knew they had not posed for it. Mrs. Sanbourne must have sketched them from memory. Unlike the others, these faces had been distorted in an unflattering manner. Maynard’s scowl dominated his features, making him appear predatory, and Charlotte’s broad forehead and strong jaw were exaggerated to the point of masculinity. Miss Kimble’s face seemed terrier-like as she stood behind the pair, clutching a fist full of dollar bills and shaking it at Maynard.
She turned it back to the wall. Mrs. Sanbourne had obviously observed the budding courtship between Charlotte and Maynard. Somewhat poor taste to call attention to it. And what was Miss Kimble doing in the sketch?
Students were beginning to crowd the ballroom floor as the band struck up a merry polka. She saw Miss Jenkins near the door, clipboard in hand, directing staff to remove additional furniture to make room. Miss Kimble was pitching in to help. No sign of Charlotte.
Concordia passed Alison Smedley, regally dressed as Marie Antoinette, and stopped to greet her. “Are you enjoying the party?”
Miss Smedley started in surprise. “Indeed, yes, Miss Wells.” She smiled. “It is a shame that Miss Lovelace was not able to come.”
Concordia wanted dearly to wipe that smug expression from the girl’s face. Her idea was beginning to solidify. “Have you heard of the evidence found that might clear her? Miss Pomeroy has it safely in her office.”
Miss Smedley bit her lip. “I heard Mr. Maynard had it.”
“Oh, he did at first, but the lady principal asked to see it. I do not believe she has given the envelope back to the dean yet. When Mr. Langdon returns tomorrow he will resolve the matter, and Miss Lovelace’s ordeal will be at an end. Perhaps the items in question will indicate who the real prankster is.” Concordia shook her head. “I would not want to be in that person’s shoes.”
She walked away from the pale-faced Alison Smedley.
There would be work to do about that tonight. Perhaps she could recruit David to help.
In the meantime, where was Charlotte? Had she stepped out for a breath of air…or to speak privately with a certain person?
Concordia peeked in the library. Empty. She cocked her head at a soft whisper of sound. She waited, but didn’t hear it again. Impossible, she decided. There was nowhere in here for a person to hide.
She was sure of the voices coming from the nearby side parlor, however. The door was closed. She quietly leaned close to the keyhole.
Drat, the music from the ballroom made it difficult to hear. Concordia covered her other ear.
“…didn’t you tell me before?” It was the anguished voice of Charlotte Crandall.
“It was so long ago. That’s where I want the matter to stay. In the past.” Maynard’s voice was rough with emotion.
Concordia expelled a breath. As she had suspected. Charlotte had sought out the dean for a private word.
What was Maynard trying to keep quiet?
In her preoccupation, she had taken her hand away from her ear. The next words were inaudible. She quickly put her hand back.
“…she will try again? Bitterness of that sort does not subside.” Concordia could hear the anxiety in Charlotte’s voice.
“Not to worry,” Maynard said. “A week has gone by, and nothing untoward has happened.”
“Thank heaven for that, but you cannot allow Maisie to be punished unjustly,” Charlotte said, her voice stronger.
“I regret that,” Maynard said. “I wanted to believe it was a foolish student prank rather than something…else. I still think a student is involved. We will clear Miss Lovelace tomorrow, when Langdon returns.”
Concordia nodded to herself as she listened. She too suspected a student was involved, and hoped to catch her tonight. But who was this woman from Maynard’s past? Was she trying to kill him or simply frighten him? And why?
She was so preoccupied that she nearly missed Charlotte’s next words.
“…should say something. No one can blame you for what happened. It was not your fault. Expose this woman for who she is.”
“No!” came Maynard’s sharp answer. “It cannot be made public. I cannot bear to tell even you the entire story. To have newspapermen peering into my past private life and hers? Writing about it in the scandal sheets? We would bring ignominy upon the school as well. The college has had enough of that. Look at what has appeared in the papers after the death of Oster. And now Guryev is dead.”
Charlotte’s sobs were muffled, as if Maynard had pulled her close. Concordia strained to hear her next words. “I do not care about any of that. I could not bear it if you came to harm.”
The sound of brisk heels on the parquet made Concordia spring back from the door. She ducked into the library.
She startled four sophomores, dragging the pair of wicker baskets she had noticed earlier. Given how the girls dropped them as if touching live coals, something was up.
“Whate
ver are you doing here?” she demanded, hands on hips. She heard the soft sounds again. Rustling. Coming from the hampers clearly now. “What is inside those?”
The girls merely gaped at something behind her. Dean Maynard stood in the doorway, his expression black as thunder. No sign of Charlotte.
“Yes, ladies,” Maynard said, crossing the room in quick strides, “what is inside the baskets?”
“No, wait!” one of the girls said frantically, putting her hand to the lid, but Maynard impatiently brushed her aside.
Perhaps if he had not flung back both hamper lids at once, Concordia thought later, they would not have had the degree of pandemonium that ensued. For, freed at long last, four-dozen birds of varying species—sparrows, swallows, wrens, and it appeared the girls had raided the dovecote above the stables as well—flapped and flew around the room in a panic. The girls shrieked, covering their heads.
“Get those doors closed!” Concordia yelled, as she grabbed an afghan from the back of a chair to trap some of them. Maynard struggled to open the window to shoo out others.
Before the girls could tug on the double doors that stood wide, the birds, drawn by the brighter light of the hall that led to the ballroom, had swooped out of the room. A few of the more sedate doves remained, settling themselves on bookshelves and other perches in the library. Guano and floating feathers littered the room.
“I blame your lax discipline, Miss Wells,” Maynard said through gritted teeth, dashing out of the room toward the sounds of fresh shrieking. Concordia closed the library doors and reluctantly followed. She suspected that David would not get his dance tonight.
Chapter 20
Week 6, Instructor Calendar November 1898
It is impossible to be too careful of the reputation of a young lady. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Lady Principal Pomeroy and Dean Maynard supervised the tricksters’ rounding up of the birds, much to the entertainment of the onlookers.
