by K. B. Owen
“But—” Concordia sputtered, as Capshaw and Eli walked away. Drat, she wanted to know if Capshaw had found out anything about the fire.
Concordia’s mother embraced Sophia. “You are blooming, Sophia dear. I hear there is a baby on the way, is that right?”
Sophia blushed. “That is the rumor.”
“Oh!” Concordia exclaimed. “I am so happy for you.” At second glance, she could see that Sophia’s angular form had softened and become more rounded.
“How are you feeling?” Mrs. Wells asked.
“I’m fine. A bit tired.” Sophia made a face. “And my dresses are getting tight.”
Concordia’s glance wandered to the porch, as Capshaw and Eli joined the others working on the steps.
Sophia caught her look. “I know you are eager for news of the fire. He wants to wait until it is quieter.”
Mrs. Wells raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”
“You cannot tell us what he has learned?” Concordia asked.
But Sophia was already heading to the trestle tables set out on the front lawn, where Ruby and Miss Kimble were laying tablecloths. “Shall I help you unpack the hampers, Ruby?” she called.
Concordia sighed. She knew she would not get another word out of Sophia, but it was exasperating to wait. Patience was not one of her virtues.
She squared her shoulders. Ah well. In the meantime, there was work to be done.
The college provided a generous feast for the volunteers at the midday break. As the November day was fine and unusually warm, the meal took on a picnic-like quality, with chairs brought outside and large blankets spread upon the ground. They ate cold ham, chicken salad, apples, and fresh-baked rolls slathered with raspberry jam. Large jugs of cold-pressed cider were passed around. Concordia was grateful for a chance to sit down and catch her breath, with David beside her. They had been so busy that she had not seen him all morning.
As the assemblage lounged and chatted, Mr. Langdon made his way to the porch and cleared his throat for attention.
The crowd quieted.
“Thank you all, for the contributions of your time and goods,” he began, hooking his thumbs comfortably into the armholes of his pinstripe vest. “We could not have done this without you. As you no doubt heard, or read in the newspaper, our campus has suffered a major setback. Fortunately, it is only a matter of property and not of human lives, but it is still a blow.”
Concordia thought of her visit to Charlotte Crandall at the hospital yesterday. Lady Dunwick and Randolph Maynard were there by her bedside. She later learned from Miss Kimble—at last taking on her full duties without interference—that Maynard visited Charlotte as often as the family and propriety would permit. Not that Charlotte was aware of it. The young woman lay in her hospital bed, eyes open and blinking, yet not responding to questions. Carbon monoxide poisoning, the doctors said. We can only give her time. Concordia brushed her hand over her wet cheeks. David moved closer and handed her his kerchief.
“Yet we are resilient,” Langdon continued. “We have begun this tradition of Gown and Town Day so that in the years to come we can be of help to each other. We will dedicate this day to serving the needs of the people of Hartford, and vice versa. Whoever needs us. You see, we are inseparably intertwined. Our recent trials have reminded us of that.”
Smiling broadly, he gestured toward Concordia and David. “Speaking of inseparable, I want to extend my deepest thanks to Miss Wells and Mr. Bradley. We cannot tell you how grateful we are. To open your new home to the school, and postpone your wedding plans until we have rebuilt the cottages! We are indebted to you both. We wish you every happiness in your future together.” He raised his mug of cider in salute.
Concordia blushed profusely and David grinned during the general applause and cheers.
“Mercy,” she whispered under her breath.
Her mother sat down beside them, eyes gleaming. “I am eagerly awaiting a June wedding.”
Dusk gathered as the group packed up the last of the tools and neatly stacked the spare lumber in the barn. Most of the volunteers had gone home, except for Lieutenant Capshaw, who was helping David complete repairs to the back porch screens, and Miss Lovelace, who had just finished hanging wallpaper in the housekeeper’s quarters.
Miss Lovelace came out to sit beside Concordia on the porch swing. She pulled her shawl closer. “This will be a lovely view in the spring,” she said, gesturing to the gray-brown sweep of woods to the right and the grounds of the college below.
Concordia nodded. “It is a shame that it took the destruction of Willow Cottage before we realized this should be our home.” She paused. “Have you called upon Miss Smedley and the other girls still in the infirmary?”
Miss Lovelace plucked at her skirt and did not meet Concordia’s eye. “No.”
“No matter what your personal differences, or what she may have done in the past, it would be the charitable thing to do. Everyone else has been to visit.”
“She would not want me to come, anyway.”
“The day after tomorrow her parents will be taking her home to finish recuperating. Can you not put aside your personal animosity and see her just once, before she leaves?”
Miss Lovelace looked up in astonishment. “After what she has done to me, you want me to sit by her bedside and hold her hand?”
“The hand-holding is optional,” Concordia snapped. “She has been through a tremendous ordeal. Besides, we do not know exactly what she has done. Suspecting and knowing are two very different things.”
“Indeed they are.” Lieutenant Capshaw stood in the doorway. He pulled over a chair and sat across from them. David came out of the house and sat on a step.
“Is this a good time to talk about your investigation of the fire?” Concordia asked.
Capshaw nodded and glanced over at Miss Lovelace.
“Do you wish me to leave?” Miss Lovelace said, getting up from her seat.
Capshaw waved her back. “Actually, I have some questions for you as well.”
She frowned. “For me?”
“Yes, miss. The fire chief has determined that the fire was deliberate. His best estimate is two o’clock that morning. The arsonist chose the corridor immediately outside of two bedroom doors: the room occupied by Miss Crandall, and the room shared by Miss Smedley and Miss Tate. I have made inquiries, and I understand that you and Miss Smedley have a history of ill-feeling toward one another.” He turned toward Concordia. “Something about a prank that had gone awry.”
Concordia stiffened. “Miss Lovelace would not be so depraved as to set fire to Willow Cottage in order to settle a grudge against Miss Smedley. She lives there herself. That is absurd.” Nevertheless, she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. I will not wait long, Maisie had said. She gave her an uneasy glance.
“I wish that were the case, but when we went through the rubble we found a half-empty box of kitchen matches, along with a rag shoved under a bed in what had been Miss Lovelace’s room. The cloth still smelled of accelerant.”
Miss Lovelace shifted in her seat. “The matches are certainly mine—we are required to light the gas burners in the laboratory, and the matches were always getting misplaced. I kept them in my room for safekeeping. But any rags you may have found are not mine, sir. Someone must have put them there to blame me.”
Capshaw raised a skeptical brow. “There seems to be a great deal of that happening to you, Miss Lovelace. I’ve heard about the gun prank that resulted in the death of one of the school’s horses. Mr. Maynard found your pouch of tools in the stable. You were held accountable for that?”
“But she was eventually cleared of blame,” Concordia interjected.
Capshaw pulled out his wadded notepad and flipped through several pages. “Yes, so I see. And who was the responsible party, then?”
“Alison Smedley, I’m sure of it,” Miss Lovelace said promptly, before Concordia could stop her.
Capshaw sat back in satisfaction. “But you ha
ve not yet been able to prove it, have you?”
Miss Lovelace shot an exasperated look in Concordia’s direction. “Not yet.”
Concordia groaned inwardly. Miss Lovelace was playing right into Capshaw’s hands.
“I would imagine there to be a great deal of resentment toward Miss Smedley. Understandable, of course. It would not be so far-fetched for you to want revenge upon her, is that not correct?”
All too late, Miss Lovelace realized the trap. “I would not do such a thing! I promise you, I had nothing to do with the fire.”
Capshaw stood, brushing off the knees of his trousers. “Time will tell, Miss Lovelace. I will have more questions for you later, I’m sure.”
Chapter 27
Week 8, Instructor Calendar November 1898
The first joy of convalescence is of gratitude, and the second that we have created an interest and a compassion among our friends. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Concordia finally coaxed Miss Lovelace to visit Miss Smedley in the infirmary the morning before she was due to leave. “I will accompany you.”
Miss Jenkins had just finished helping Alison change into a borrowed traveling dress and had settled her in a chair. The girl had lost weight during her ordeal. Her brown eyes were glassy above sunken cheekbones, her pale hair dull, her thin hands resting limply atop the blanket laid over her lap. She barely acknowledged Concordia’s greeting.
Miss Lovelace was nearly as pale as Miss Smedley. She perched awkwardly on the bed. “How are you feeling, Alison?”
She shrugged. “I am improving, I suppose. How is everyone settling into the new house?”
“Oh, we are comfortable enough, but the big place takes a bit of getting used to,” Miss Lovelace said.
The awkward silence that followed was punctuated by a ticking clock and Miss Jenkins’s footsteps in her office.
At least they were not shrieking at each other.
Concordia elbowed Miss Lovelace.
The girl blew out a breath. “I…I am sorry you were so injured in the fire. Heaven knows we’ve had our differences, but I would never wish you any harm. I hope that we can…mend our fences?”
Miss Smedley stared at her for so long that Concordia wondered if she was having some sort of fit. Finally, she spoke. “There is a rumor that you set the fire.”
Miss Lovelace started to speak, but Alison Smedley held up a hand. “But I know you did not.”
Concordia’s eyes widened. “How do you know that, Miss Smedley?”
Tears streaked down Alison Smedley’s cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away.
“Do you know who is responsible for the fire?”
Miss Smedley gave a slow nod. “But I’m…afraid,” she whispered.
“Afraid? Of what? Or of whom?” Concordia persisted.
Miss Smedley stared at some distant point beyond them, absorbed in her own thoughts. “I did not mean for the horse to die.”
Concordia gently clasped the girl’s hands. “Alison, what if I were to tell you that I had set up a false envelope of evidence in the lady principal’s office the night of the Halloween ball?”
Miss Smedley started.
“I am sorry to play such a trick on you, dear, but I wanted proof that you were involved. I waited for you to come for it. You did not. Do you know who I saw instead?”
Miss Smedley whispered, “Mrs. Sanbourne.”
Miss Lovelace covered her mouth in a suppressed shriek.
Concordia sat back, gaping. Mrs. Sanbourne?
She had been sure Miss Smedley would name Miss Kimble as her co-conspirator. What other reason would the bursar have for snooping through Miss Pomeroy’s desk?
She would have to leave that question for the moment. The bigger question now was, why Mrs. Sanbourne?
“I told her what you had said at the ball,” Miss Smedley went on. “She promised to take care of it.”
Mercy, how many people had trooped through Miss Pomeroy’s office that night? It must have been after she and David had left.
“She said there was no envelope, that you must have been bluffing,” Miss Smedley added. “But you say there was?”
Concordia shook her head. “Never mind that now. Why did you tell Mrs. Sanbourne about the envelope?”
“Because she helped me…set up the gun mechanism.” Alison’s tears were falling fast now, dropping upon her hands that still clasped Concordia’s.
“Why would she do that?” Miss Lovelace said impatiently. “Why would she be involved in such an underhanded, malicious prank?”
Miss Smedley flinched.
Concordia shot Miss Lovelace a warning frown before turning back to the quivering girl. “How did Mrs. Sanbourne come to be involved?” She pulled a clean handkerchief from her sleeve and passed it over.
Miss Smedley wiped her eyes. “I spent a lot of time in her studio, and she said I had real talent. We became friends. I confided in her.” She looked over at Miss Lovelace. “I admit I was jealous of you, Maisie. You seemed able to do as you please and get exactly what you wanted. Mrs. Sanbourne knew how I felt. She came up with the idea of the prank, to blame you. I took your tools and hid them in the stable. She showed me how to wire everything into place.”
“How would Mrs. Sanbourne possess such knowledge?” Concordia asked.
Miss Smedley shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“She helps her husband in the laboratory when he’s short-handed,” Miss Lovelace said. “It’s possible.” She glared at Miss Smedley. “But why would you do something so—so cruel, and dangerous?”
“I didn’t realize how cruel and dangerous it was...until after.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wasn’t thinking about how the horses would react. I’m sorry.” She turned to Concordia. “Please believe me. Yes, I wanted to get Maisie in trouble, but she was never in trouble for very long. I thought this time would be no different. I wanted to do something as daring as her buggy stunt last year.”
Maisie Lovelace winced.
“How could you believe it wasn’t dangerous? A live bullet had fired,” Concordia said.
Miss Smedley clenched her hands. “I put a blank in the gun, not a bullet.”
“Then how did a bullet get in there?” Miss Lovelace asked.
“Mrs. Sanbourne must have gone back and replaced it. I don’t understand it, but she was the only other person who knew it was there.”
“Did you ask her?” Concordia asked.
Miss Smedley nodded. “She laughed and said it was her business and to keep my mouth shut.”
Her business. Business with whom? Charlotte, or Maynard? Concordia remembered how Maynard froze when he first caught sight of the Sanbournes at the reception. Was it Mrs. Sanbourne he was shocked to see?
And at the Halloween ball, he had abruptly left the table in response to something the woman had said.
Betrayal can come from anywhere, even one’s own doorstep.
What had he done? Had he courted her years ago, then jilted her? To hold such a bitter grudge after all these years...it had to be something more.
Jealousy? The unflattering caricature of Charlotte and Maynard came to mind. Concordia shook her head. Miss Kimble had been in the sketch as well. It was all so confusing.
Miss Smedley shivered. “Her expression...was frightening.”
“Do you think Mrs. Sanbourne capable of setting fire to the corridor in front of your bedroom to keep you from revealing what you knew?” Concordia asked.
“I…I don’t know.”
Miss Lovelace’s eyes were wide. “What do we do?”
Chapter 28
Week 8, Instructor Calendar November 1898
The person who can write a graceful note is always spoken of with phrases of commendation. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
It was time to talk to Maynard about this woman from his past, someone who obviously had no intention of remaining there. What deep-seated grudge did Rachel Sanbourne carry? Why risk all she had—marriage to a successful inventor, financial secu
rity, the freedom to follow her own pursuits, and the esteem of Hartford society—in order to harm Maynard? If it was revenge for some unknown wrong, why had there been no further attempts? She visited campus nearly every day, painting in her studio or out on the grounds. Opportunities abounded.
During her brisk walk from the infirmary to the Hall and up to the stairs, Concordia realized she hadn’t fully recovered from the effects of the fire. She wheezed as she reached the second floor.
Drat. Maynard’s light was out, his door closed. He must have gone to the hospital to visit Charlotte.
Visit Charlotte.
If Mrs. Sanbourne were indeed responsible for the fire in Willow Cottage, Miss Smedley as a target barely made sense. Who would believe the girl’s account?
Maynard wasn’t a target, either—at least, not directly.
Only one person had been harmed in each incident. An unconscious woman who might never regain her senses. A woman beloved by Maynard. Charlotte.
Had Mrs. Sanbourne achieved her objective? Was that why nothing more had happened?
As she leaned against the bannister to rest for a moment, she heard the high-pitched tones of Gertrude Pomeroy and the lower timbre of Frances Kimble. Concordia very much wanted to speak with the bursar.
Miss Pomeroy had her hand on the knob of Miss Kimble’s door as Concordia came around the corner. “Concordia! How are you feeling, dear?” She frowned and cocked her head, listening. “I do not like that rasp. You should not over-exert yourself. Miss Jenkins says your lungs need time to heal.”
The woman’s ear for languages served her well in more ways than one. Concordia grimaced. “I will try.”
Miss Pomeroy patted her hand. “Do keep that in mind. Well, I must be going.”
Miss Kimble came to the door. She was dressed simply in a café au lait-colored skirt and violet-sprigged shirtwaist that made her deep-brown eyes appear bottomless. “Miss Wells, a pleasure. Did you wish to see me?” She opened the door wide and gestured toward a chair.