Beloved and Unseemly

by K. B. Owen

  “Yes. There is something I wanted to ask you.” Concordia closed the door behind her and hesitated. What was she accusing the bursar of, anyway? Eavesdropping in the hallway? Creeping into an unlocked office and peeking into an envelope? There was nothing nefarious about excessive curiosity overriding good manners. She had done so herself upon occasion.

  Now that she knew Mrs. Sanbourne, not Miss Kimble, was responsible for the gun prank and probably the fire, she was tempted to leave Miss Kimble be. On the other hand, nothing tainted a close-knit community worse than suspicion. It would be best to clear the air.

  “Of course, Miss Wells. I am entirely at your disposal.” Miss Kimble squinted at her in concern. “You seem unwell. Can I get you some water?” She reached for the carafe and a glass. “What is your question?”

  Concordia sat and smoothed her skirt. “Why have you been spying upon Randolph Maynard?” she blurted out.

  Miss Kimble’s hands stilled for a moment before she passed the glass. “Spying? What on earth do you mean?”

  “The night before the Halloween Ball,” Concordia said, clutching the tumbler with both hands, “Mr. Maynard and I had a heated discussion in his office. As I was leaving, I heard light footsteps hastily retreat down the stairwell. It was you, Miss Kimble. You had been eavesdropping.”

  Miss Kimble’s face reddened as she fiddled with a pencil. She did not meet Concordia’s eye. “A great many people use those stairs.”

  “I am not here to reprove you. I merely want to understand why you are so preoccupied with monitoring the dean. If I were at odds with the man as the two of you have been, I should not wish to spend any more time than is necessary thinking of him, let alone poking into his affairs.”

  Frances Kimble spoke through gritted teeth. “You have no idea.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me? While you are at it, explain why you went through Miss Pomeroy’s desk, in search of evidence from the gun prank.”

  The bursar froze, eyes wide. “You were behind that?” she whispered.

  Concordia nodded. “I had hoped to catch Alison Smedley. Imagine my surprise when you appeared.”

  In the silence that followed, Concordia added, “Please, tell me why. That’s all I want to know.”

  Miss Kimble sighed. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” She was quiet for a moment. “Very well. It was thanks to another conversation you and I had—remember when I helped you clean up the kitchen after your aborted attempt to make an apple pie?”

  Concordia grimaced. She was not likely to forget that.

  “It was then that I decided to learn as much as I could about the dean. I hoped to find a chink in his armor, so to speak. He appears so sanctimonious, so…so perfect. But beneath it all, he is…afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “He has a secret. And an enemy. Now I know what those are.”

  Concordia frowned in confusion. “You learned his secret from the envelope in Miss Pomeroy’s desk?”

  Miss Kimble waved an impatient hand. “Of course not. The envelope was useless. I found it out later.”

  “When? How were you planning to make use of the information?”

  Miss Kimble shook her head, a small smile on her lips.

  Concordia sat back and folded her arms. “You were prepared to blackmail Maynard, weren’t you?”

  The bursar’s smile faded. She cleared her throat. “I…I am not proud of it. I was tired of fighting for permission to do my own job.” She met Concordia’s eye and tossed her head in defiance. “Yes, I was prepared to use it against him. Fortunately, circumstances intervened.”

  “The circumstances themselves are most unfortunate,” Concordia said tartly. Anger constricted her chest. “You did not lose your home and nearly all of your possessions, Miss Kimble. You were not grievously injured, lying unconscious in a hospital bed.”

  Miss Kimble flushed. “I apologize.”

  When Concordia had taken a few breaths and recovered her temper, she asked, “What is it you discovered about Mr. Maynard? Did you learn who is behind the gun prank and the fire?” She was reluctant to offer Rachel Sanbourne’s name. The bursar might think she knew Maynard’s secret. She could be wrong.

  Miss Kimble took a breath, then hesitated. “I think it best that I keep my discovery to myself.”

  Concordia stood to leave. “There may be a time when you will be required to reveal it.” Such as a police inquiry.

  Miss Kimble’s lips twitched in a small smile. “Today is not that time.”

  Concordia checked her watch as she left Founder’s Hall. Nearly time to dress for dinner. Perhaps Mr. Maynard had returned to change by now. She could at least check on her way to the farmhouse. She hurried down the path and rang the bell of Sycamore House. After some delay, the maid answered.

  “Is Mr. Maynard in?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Wells.”

  “Will he return for dinner?”

  The girl pursed her lips. “He didn’t say. He was in an awful hurry to leave.”

  “I see.” Concordia hesitated. What should she do now? Did she dare talk to Mrs. Sanbourne alone? No, perhaps she should tell someone. But who? President Langdon? Capshaw?

  Echoing in her mind was the anguished voice of Randolph Maynard. Newspapermen, peering into my private life? Writing about it in the scandal sheets? We would bring ignominy upon the school…. The college has had enough of that.

  He was right. There would be plenty of ignominy to go around, she had no doubt of that. The dean of Hartford Women’s College, hiding a dark secret involving the wife of the man in charge of the new engineering department? A woman bent on revenge, no matter who else suffered in the process?

  “Are you all right, miss?” the maid asked, brows drawn in a puzzled frown.

  Concordia realized she had been standing in the doorway all this time. “I beg your pardon. May I leave a note?”

  “Of course.” The girl stepped aside and pointed to the side parlor door. “You’ll find stationery and pens in the writing desk. Would you excuse me? The housekeeper needs my help.”

  Concordia sat at the small writing desk and pulled out pen and paper. After collecting her thoughts—how does one broach such a subject?—she decided to keep it brief and cryptic. It would not do if it were mislaid.

  Mr. Maynard,

  It is urgent that I speak with you about a certain person of your past acquaintance. Kindly send me a message as soon as you have returned this evening.

  Yours,

  Concordia Wells

  That should do it. She sealed the envelope and wrote his name across it. She glanced at the large oak desk beside the French doors. Miss Jenkins had said Maynard used this room as his study. That must be his desk. He’d be more likely to come upon the note if she put it there.

  She approached the desk and laid the envelope on its surface, bare of anything beyond a blotter and letter opener. Her hand strayed, almost of its own accord, toward the center drawer. She froze, straightening. No. One does not search a man’s desk! Such snooping was beneath reproach. It was probably locked, anyway.

  Well, she could give it a little tug, to make sure.

  The drawer slid out easily. The dean must have forgotten to lock it in his haste. She released a breath and crouched to look inside.

  With an ear for steps in the hall, she quickly scanned bundles of correspondence—bank statements, department store bills, letters from a brother in Albany.

  The deep bottom drawer was dedicated to file folders, sorted by years. What an exceedingly methodical man. She skimmed to the tab marked 1888, deciding to work backward from there. Whatever had happened occurred more than ten years ago, likely before the Sanbournes were married.

  Farther along, in the section marked 1883, Concordia noticed a folder slightly out of place, as if someone had recently pulled it out and then hastily pushed it back again. With trembling fingers, she slid it out and opened it.

  The first page that met her eyes had her
groping the chair back for support.

  Mrs. Rachel Maynard

  CERTIFICATE OF COMMITMENT

  Concordia took a breath. The woman was Maynard’s wife?

  And…she was mad. Bigamous and insane? Oh no, this could not be good for anyone.

  Concordia scanned the page, glancing past the names of the admitting doctors and the address of the asylum in Massachusetts. She was searching for a diagnosis.

  She finally found it: post-partum dysplasia, resulting in infanticide.

  She closed her eyes and took deep gulps of air, struggling to quiet her pounding heart.

  Footsteps outside sent her into a panic. She shoved the folder back into its slot and pushed the drawer closed. As she heard the knob turn, she ran to the bookshelves and began perusing them. She clenched her hands tightly to keep them from shaking and blew out a long, steadying breath.

  It was the maid, a brass scuttle over her arm. She stopped short. “Miss Wells! I thought you’d gone long ago.” Her tone was slightly reproachful. Her glance strayed to Maynard’s desk.

  Concordia jumped, as if startled out of a reverie. “Oh! I beg your pardon. I was admiring your impressive collection of Spenser.” Mercy, she’d told a great many falsehoods lately.

  The maid gave her a curious look as she moved to the hearth. “It’s growing chilly. I must get this fire burning proper.”

  Concordia headed for the door, breathing a quiet sigh. “I will get out of your way. Good night.”

  She hurried along the path up Rook’s Hill. She did not want to be late for supper. Now that she and the students from Willow Cottage were living at the old Armstrong house, they had to allow ten minutes of additional walking to get to the dining hall on time. She was sure that under the circumstances she, Ruby, and the students would be excused if they were late, but she wanted to show Langdon that they could make it work, without any special accommodations.

  The bell tower clock of Memorial Chapel had just struck the hour when they entered the dining hall. The girls eagerly greeted their friends from the other cottages, regaling them with stories of the chicken accidentally trapped in the food pantry and the raccoons in the attic bedroom.

  “I was just stepping into my room to change, and a flash of eyes in the dark made me jump in fright!” Miss Gage said with a laugh. “Ruby had to get a broom and shoo it out the window.”

  Concordia smiled. At least they were taking it in stride. Youth was happily resilient in that regard.

  Miss Banning was sitting by herself at a table, scowling at her water glass. Concordia picked up her plate and joined her.

  “How are you today? Doing well, I hope?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Banning glanced up. “Huh, what? Fine. Any news of Charlotte?”

  The old lady tried to make the question sound casual, but the way she curled her fingers around the stem of her glass spoke volumes.

  “Well, her eyes are open, but she remains insensible to her surroundings. I am sorry to distress you so,” she added, alarmed at Miss Banning’s sudden pallor. “Have you been able to visit her in the hospital?”

  Miss Banning’s lips thinned in an angry line. She shook her head.

  “I plan to stop by tomorrow, after my morning classes,” Concordia said. “Would you like to accompany me? I will ask Mr. Langdon if we can borrow the buggy.”

  Miss Banning’s face brightened, and she plucked a roll from the basket. “Hmph, I suppose that will be all right. I will be in my office when you are ready.”

  Concordia slept poorly. It was only the third night of living in the farmhouse, and she was unaccustomed to the noises: the soughing of the trees, the wind rattling the shutters, the creaking of old wood. Then, of course, she shared her bedroom—formerly the housekeeper’s quarters—with Ruby. A roommate who snored like a lumberjack took some getting used to. Nonetheless, it was an improvement over camping in the infirmary or gymnasium.

  She put on robe and slippers and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. She shivered as she felt the chill air brush over her ankles. She had to admit, Aunt Drusilla was right about the drafts. They would need heavier curtains before winter set in.

  She turned up the hurricane lamp and sat down at the heavy oak table with her glass. More than the noises of the house kept her awake. She did not know what to do about Mrs. Sanbourne. Maynard had not been at dinner, nor had he sent her a message this evening.

  She did not honestly think they were in immediate danger from the woman—both Miss Smedley and Charlotte Crandall were away from campus, if either truly was the target—but something had to be done. Alison and Maisie had already promised to say nothing about their conversation. Quite generous on Maisie’s part, as Capshaw claimed to suspect her of setting the fire. Concordia hoped the quick-witted policeman would not stick to that theory for very long. At least he had not returned with more questions.

  No one else knew about the commitment papers she had found today. Did she dare hope this could be settled quietly? Certainly the gun prank could be swept under the rug. Although Capshaw was aware of the incident, the police had not been officially called in for that.

  However, the fire that destroyed Willow Cottage and put Charlotte in the hospital was a different matter entirely. She knew Capshaw would work tirelessly on the case until it was resolved. One could not stuff that genie back in the bottle.

  If Mrs. Sanbourne were exposed as the culprit, the rest of the scandal would quickly come to light: her previous asylum commitment and the reason why. Unless there was a divorce decree in Maynard’s papers that Concordia had not seen—could one even divorce a madwoman?—Mrs. Sanbourne would also be exposed as a bigamist.

  How Maynard kept his composure in Rachel Sanbourne’s company was incomprehensible, with such a painful past between them. Mrs. Sanbourne, likewise, seemed to have nerves of steel when presenting a public face to the world. The woman had even sought out Maynard’s company on occasion, such as the time Concordia encountered them coming from the garden of Sycamore House. Perhaps she had wanted to extract a promise that he would not reveal her secret. But she must have known he never would. It would pull him down in the mire along with her.

  Mrs. Sanbourne did not always present an unruffled façade, of course. There had been her unease at the Halloween dinner, when Maynard had blurted out the news of Langdon’s niece losing her baby, and the bitter edge to her voice when she’d spoken of betrayal. Concordia had misunderstood it at the time. It was not Guryev’s betrayal, but Maynard’s. To the rest of the world, consigning the woman to an asylum would appear a prudent and merciful act, after what she had done. However, an insane person likely wouldn’t view it that way.

  Concordia shook her head. How could she have thought Miss Kimble was to blame? Although her intention to blackmail Maynard was certainly disturbing, the bursar’s antagonism toward Maynard was quick to flare and open for all to see. She had confused things greatly by searching Miss Pomeroy’s desk for the envelope and eavesdropping on Concordia’s conversation with Maynard. Concordia recalled the caricature of Maynard and Charlotte, with Miss Kimble peeking over his shoulder, shaking money in a clenched fist. Had Mrs. Sanbourne been aware of Miss Kimble’s prying?

  Concordia set her glass in the sink, using both hands to awkwardly work the pump. The faucet shuddered as she rinsed the glass.

  Mrs. Sanbourne. The woman appeared to be everything Miss Kimble was not: cool, serene, amiable. Concordia understood now that pain and anger smoldered unseen, beneath the ashes of a tragedy few knew about. Yet despite the face she presented to the world, the conflagration had come at last. Perhaps literally.

  Charlotte suffered the most in the aftermath, though no one at the school would escape the pain of the scandal. Including Peter Sanbourne, upon whom the entire engineering program rested. Did he know? Surely not. What a blow that would be. First a treacherous assistant, then a treacherous wife.

  She dried the glass and put it back. She could not see a way out.

  Chapter 2
9

  Week 8, Instructor Calendar November 1898

  Command of temper, delicacy of feeling, and elegance of manner—all these are demanded of the persons who become leaders of society. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  At last, Concordia caught up with Maynard after her morning classes. She tapped on his partly open door.

  “I am on my way to retrieve Miss Banning, and visit Miss Crandall,” Concordia began conversationally, as she came in and closed the door behind her. Miss Banning’s office was right beside the dean’s, and she did not wish to be overheard. The old lady had the ears of a bat.

  Maynard waved an impatient hand. “Fine. Give Lady Dunwick my regards if you see her. Leave the door open on your way out, if you please. I am expecting a student.”

  She gritted her teeth. The man could tax the patience of a saint. “I will leave it closed for now. There is something confidential I wish to speak to you about. Did you get my note?”

  Resigned, Maynard set down his pen. “Note? No.”

  She frowned. What had happened to it? The nosy maid, most likely.

  He did not offer her a chair, but she sat down anyway. “It is about Mrs. Sanbourne. Something must be done.”

  Maynard’s face paled, but he continued with his usual bluster. “And what, pray, am I to do with Mrs. Sanbourne? Should that not be Mr. Sanbourne’s province?”

  “Only if you are no longer married to her,” she snapped.

  Maynard stared, open-mouthed.

  She pressed her advantage. “Alison Smedley told me Mrs. Sanbourne helped her rig the pistol mechanism, then switched out the blank cartridge for a live bullet without the girl’s knowledge. I believe her. Mrs. Sanbourne was trying to kill you, Mr. Maynard. Or was it Charlotte she hoped to harm?”

  The dean dropped his head in his hands. She waited. Finally, he met her eye. “How did you find out?”

  “Never mind that now.” She was reluctant to admit snooping through his private papers. “The woman is a menace. I am convinced she is also responsible for the fire, which makes it her second attempt upon Charlotte’s life, not to mention putting the rest of us in harm’s way. She seeks to cause you pain by hurting Charlotte, no matter what the cost. She is not sane.”