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  Maynard’s features had taken on an anguished expression. She knew she was causing him distress, but she had no choice. “We must go to the police.”

  He shook his head. “Not sane….” His eyes narrowed. “What do you know about her sanity, Miss Wells?”

  Drat. She bit her lip. “I found the certificate.”

  Maynard made a choking sound. “You found—”

  “—I have not told anyone,” she interrupted. “Not yet. But the authorities must be contacted. Besides the fact that she is dangerous, the atmosphere of suspicion and blame on campus is tearing us apart. Even now, Capshaw suspects poor Miss Lovelace of setting the fire as revenge upon Miss Smedley. This cannot be allowed to continue.”

  “Please.” Maynard’s voice was thick with emotion. “Let me handle this...privately. If I can convince her to place herself under the care of doctors, somewhere she could...rest, it would be better for everyone.”

  Concordia’s frown made clear her doubt about that.

  “When she was discharged fourteen years ago,” Maynard hurried on, “the doctors told me the melancholia could recur. I believe that is the problem. The shock of seeing me after all this time must have caused a relapse.”

  “Then you do believe her mad,” Concordia said quietly.

  He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I do not know. But no one here is in immediate danger. She and Sanbourne are already in New York City for the Thanksgiving holiday.” His eyes were wide, pleading. “I need more time.”

  “You should at least tell Mr. Langdon what is going on.”

  He shook his head. “Langdon is a creature of duty. He would feel compelled to call the police.”

  She understood his point. A student prank was one thing, but the fire was something else entirely. Still, Maynard’s plan had significant flaws. “Are you saying we should leave this case permanently unsolved, with people fearing that an arsonist is on the loose?” She doubted Lieutenant Capshaw would leave it be.

  Maynard grimaced. “The talk and the worry will die down in time. It would be absurd for Capshaw to consider Miss Lovelace a suspect for long. And it is my intention to contribute funds to help rebuild the affected cottages.”

  She hesitated. “If Miss Lovelace is further harassed by the police about the fire, I will tell Capshaw what I know.”

  “Fair enough. But you’ll stay silent if that is not the case?”

  She didn’t want to. However, he had saved her life six months ago. She owed him that. She sighed. “Very well. But only until we have returned from Thanksgiving break.”

  She closed the door behind her quietly, leaving him staring out the window.

  She knocked on the doorjamb of Miss Banning’s office. “Shall we go visit Charlotte?” It was an effort to keep her voice bright.

  Miss Banning was scowling down at the book in her lap. Whether the reading material met with her disapproval or she was lost in thought, Concordia did not know. She rarely saw Margaret Banning smile, unless the lady had gotten the better of someone in an argument, or Charlotte was in the room.

  “Miss Banning?”

  “Hmm?” The lady roused herself. “Yes, yes, let us go,” she said impatiently. With a grunt, she pushed herself away from the desk and reached for her cane.

  President Langdon not only granted the use of his buggy, he offered to drive them to the hospital himself. With his help, Miss Banning was bundled comfortably beneath a carriage blanket, and they were on their way.

  “How is she?” Miss Banning asked Concordia.

  Concordia shrugged. “When I saw her several days ago, there had been little change. But she is young and strong. She may rally.” She prayed that would be the case.

  Langdon pulled up in front of Hartford Hospital and helped them alight. “I will be back for you in a little while.”

  They made their way through a maze of narrow corridors that smelled sharply of bleach and carbolic acid. Lady Dunwick’s money and influence had secured her niece a private room and a full-time nurse. Charlotte lay upon a narrow iron bed, asleep. She appeared to be well cared for, her hair neatly brushed, the sheets crisp and smooth. Concordia frowned at the large metal tank and rubber hosing that took up much of the space on the left side of her bed. A nurse sat in a chair on the other side, quietly knitting.

  Miss Banning staggered at the sight of the girl’s pale, still form. Concordia steadied her and eased her into a chair.

  The nurse jumped up and poured a glass of water. “Will you be all right, ma’am?”

  Miss Banning waved her cane in Charlotte’s direction. “She looks...terrible.”

  The nurse straightened. “Take heart. She is actually improving. She said a few words earlier today, though she’s still disoriented about what happened.”

  “Do you think she will wake soon? We were hoping to talk with her,” Concordia said.

  The nurse shook her head. “The doctor gave her something to help her sleep. She was quite agitated. It was as if she had something important to say, but was frustrated that she could not remember it. Poor thing.” She clucked her tongue. “However, you are welcome to sit with her for a while. Lady Dunwick just left.” She pulled over another chair.

  “What is all…that?” Concordia asked, gesturing to the equipment.

  “It’s an experimental oxygen therapy. They’ve brought in a lung specialist, Dr. Von Seymour. He only employs it for the most extreme cases, but it seems to be helping.” She straightened the covers over her patient, checked her watch, and headed for the door. “You cannot stay long. In fifteen minutes, she is due for another treatment. I’ll be just down the hall if you need me.”

  Miss Banning’s color had returned. She gazed steadily at Charlotte, her bottle-glass spectacles getting misty. “She is the daughter I could never have,” she whispered. “She must pull through.” She didn’t look in Concordia’s direction. Perhaps she wasn’t talking to her at all.

  Concordia sat quietly, pretending not to notice the old lady drying her lenses and dabbing her nose with a kerchief.

  All too soon, the nurse returned. “Could you wait outside, please?” She pulled out what looked like a mask of black rubber and began turning the valve on top of the tank.

  Concordia glanced at her watch. “We should be going. Mr. Langdon will be returning for us soon.”

  Miss Banning did not resist, but passively allowed Concordia to help her up and make their way to the street.

  Chapter 30

  Week 11, Instructor Calendar December 1898

  Yet we must remember that not all the black sheep are killed yet. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  Students and staff returned to campus after the Thanksgiving break in brighter spirits, including Alison Smedley, who had made a full recovery.

  Concordia had been wondering what to do about a room for the young lady. Would it be better for her to live completely away from her fellows, in one of the other cottages, or stay with her friends—and enemies—in the farmhouse? Both arrangements were cramped for sleeping and privacy, though the common areas of the farmhouse provided more space to relax. She decided to summon Miss Smedley to her office and allow her to decide her own fate.

  “Oh, I want to be with you and all of my friends, Miss Wells,” was her prompt answer.

  “Really? You do realize that the farmhouse does not have the same…amenities as the cottages. And we have the occasional unwelcome visitor.” Bats, mice, raccoons, straying chickens…. She grimaced.

  Miss Smedley laughed. “The girls have been telling me of their adventures. It sounds rather fun.”

  Concordia hoped it would remain so, at least for the rest of the semester. The installation of steam heating was scheduled for the winter recess, although electricity would take longer. “You would be living under the same roof as Miss Lovelace,” she warned.

  Miss Smedley waved a dismissive hand. “Maisie and I are fast friends now.”

  Concordia stared. If Alison Smedley had said she was planning to
ride the trolley to the moon and be back in time for supper, she could not be more surprised. She realized her mouth had dropped open. She shut it.

  Miss Smedley grinned. “No, really. She and I have been corresponding these past two weeks. She offered to copy notes from our European History and Rhetoric classes to send me, so that I would not fall behind. I wrote back, and soon we had a daily correspondence going. She is quite a nice girl.”

  Concordia shook her head in disbelief.

  “I know, we have both admitted that we were being absolutely silly this whole while. Especially me.” The young lady straightened. “And I want to go to Mr. Langdon, confess to the prank, and offer a sincere apology.” Her tone grew subdued. “I hope I am not expelled.”

  Concordia pursed her lips. President Langdon, still ignorant of Maynard and Rachel Sanbourne, should not learn about any of this sordid business from a student. The story should come from Maynard himself. She had not seen him or the Sanbournes since her return. Had Maynard been successful in getting Mrs. Sanbourne to retire to a quiet facility for treatment? No, the scuttlebutt would be brisk if the lady was gone.

  Alison Smedley looked at her expectantly.

  “That is commendable, dear,” Concordia said. “I would suggest that you speak with Mr. Maynard, and let him take it from there. It was his favorite horse that died, after all.”

  The young lady paled.

  “I will stay with you the entire time,” she added, her voice gentle. “I believe the dean will understand how you were influenced—sabotaged, actually—by Mrs. Sanbourne. That will be a mitigating factor, and I will emphasize that fact.”

  Miss Smedley’s blue eyes widened. “You would do that...for me? You were hurt as well.”

  Concordia gave a wan smile. “Not seriously.”

  The girl plucked at her skirt. “I thought you would hate me,” she whispered.

  “Absolutely not,” Concordia declared. “Now then, shall we get you settled in at the farmhouse? I will arrange the meeting with Mr. Maynard, and let you know. And remember—we must keep this confidential in the meantime.”

  Miss Smedley nodded. “I know. We don’t want the college to suffer a scandal.”

  Concordia sighed. “Let us hope that can be avoided.” She had the uneasy feeling that more trouble was to come.

  Once Miss Smedley was happily unpacking and chatting with her fellows—Miss Lovelace now, astonishingly, counted among them—Concordia started back down Rook’s Hill to search out Maynard in earnest. Really, this arrangement provided her quite a bit of exercise. She still missed her bicycle, of course. Perhaps in the spring she could afford a second-hand one. She paused to catch her breath and admire the sunset. Even in early December, the expanse of pinks and violets that splashed across the sky and reflected off the buildings was breathtaking.

  She jumped when a tall, slim figure came out of the gloom behind her. It was Mrs. Sanbourne, awkwardly carrying canvas, easel, and a wooden box.

  “Ah, Miss Wells, how propitious.” She tapped on her box with a paint-stained finger. “Would you mind?”

  Silently, Concordia took the box from her grip. Be calm. She does not know what I have learned.

  Still, it was difficult to keep her steps steady. She was walking beside a woman who had murdered her own baby and had been shut in an asylum. A woman who had tried to kill Maynard or Charlotte, or both. Who may have set fire to Willow Cottage to finish the job and thrown one of the rags into Miss Lovelace’s room to shift the blame.

  Concordia gave the woman a covert glance in the growing dusk. What little light there was reflected in the blond wisps that had escaped the confines of her dark wool beret and brushed her gracefully arched brows. The effect was delicate, piquant, and utterly charming. Even with all Concordia knew or could conjecture, her eyes were telling her otherwise.

  “I understand we are to have Christmas Revels this evening?” Mrs. Sanbourne asked.

  Concordia nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  “I look forward to it. I hope to convince Peter to set aside his work for once and accompany me.”

  The silence stretched awkwardly between them.

  Concordia cleared her dry throat. She must keep up the pretense. “Have you had a good painting day? I would think it too cold to work outdoors.”

  The woman waved a dismissive hand. “I was quite comfortable in the sun, but now—” she shivered “—yes, it grows cold quickly in the evening.”

  Concordia shifted the case from one hand to the other. “What a heavy box. How did you manage to carry all of this up the hill yourself?”

  “Oh my dear,” she said with a laugh. “Why do something oneself when one has a man to do it? Randolph carried my supplies today.”

  “Randolph?” Concordia repeated.

  Mrs. Sanbourne gave her a shrewd glance. “Why pretend? He told me you know. We had quite the interesting chat.”

  Concordia’s breath caught. “Oh?” They were approaching the quadrangle. Thank heaven their conversation was taking place outdoors. She would not have felt safe otherwise.

  Mrs. Sanbourne gave a pout. “But for you to suspect me of such terrible deeds! I certainly hold no ill will toward Randolph. I must admit, it was quite disconcerting when I first saw him here. He promised to keep our secret.” She hesitated. “But if I am to believe that, how did you find out?”

  “He did not tell me,” Concordia said. “I found the commitment certificate.”

  Mrs. Sanbourne stopped dead on the path. Her dark eyes narrowed. “So. You know that, too.” Her expression cleared and she moved on. “How enterprising of you,” she said evenly.

  Concordia winced. She had said too much. As there was no going back, she may as well go forward. She took a breath for courage. “The folder it was in looked as if someone had hastily shoved it back in place. As I recall, you sketched caricatures in the side parlor on Halloween night. Was there a lull, giving you a chance to break into Maynard’s desk?”

  Mrs. Sanbourne shrugged. “The lock was laughable. Yes, I found the commitment paper. That did not worry me. Randolph knows better than to show anyone that. But I was never alone long enough to find what I really wanted.”

  Concordia shook her head in confusion. “What were you looking for, then?”

  “The divorce decree. When I learned that Randolph was here at the school, I told Peter. I had never named my first husband when I told him my story. To give him credit, he took it calmly enough. However, he wants to be reassured that our marriage is not a bigamous one.”

  At least it was a relief that Maynard was no longer married to this troubled woman, particularly since he was courting Charlotte. “He will not give it to you?”

  Mrs. Sanbourne’s eyes narrowed. “Not unless I leave the school. Which I have no intention of doing. He will come around eventually.”

  The sight of Founder’s Hall and the surrounding buildings gave Concordia the courage to speak her mind at last.

  “But you must leave, Mrs. Sanbourne. It is not good for any of us if you stay. You say you had nothing to do with rigging the gun to go off, but Miss Smedley says otherwise. She has no reason to lie.” Her stomach fluttered. Mrs. Sanbourne had been on the path near the farmhouse just now. “We will be keeping a close eye on the girl from now on. For her safety,” she added sharply.

  Mrs. Sanbourne gave a small smile that Concordia could barely see in the growing dusk.

  Concordia continued. “When the gun prank failed, you started a fire in front of Charlotte’s door—conveniently opposite Alison Smedley’s room—and threw a soaked rag into Miss Lovelace’s room to implicate her.”

  Mrs. Sanbourne laughed. “You have no proof, my dear.”

  “Perhaps not. You use solvents in your painting, is that not so? I imagine they are quite…flammable.”

  Mrs. Sanbourne stiffened. “Yes, one must be extraordinarily careful. There are dangers everywhere.” She gestured toward the box Concordia carried. “Thi
s case, for example. It is a strange irony of nature that, to create certain colors of paint, the addition of poison is necessary. At this very moment, you are carrying Paris green—also used as a rat poison, arsenic that produces yellow pigment, lead that makes white, and cobalt that makes blue. So you see, if it suited me to do away with someone, I would not require such crude methods as propping guns and setting fires. A simple tea reception would provide ample opportunities.”

  Her smile made Concordia shiver.

  “But it is absurd to even speak of this,” she went on. “I have no quarrel with Miss Crandall.”

  “Perhaps not,” Concordia said, “but Maynard is too much on his guard to be vulnerable to you. Charlotte was an easier target. It caused him great pain to see her come to harm. The perfect revenge. And it is revenge you are after, is it not? You have never forgiven him for shutting you up in an asylum for killing your child.”

  Mrs. Sanbourne flinched. “I did not kill my baby.” Her voice had dropped to a strained whisper.

  Concordia hesitated. She did not want to be cruel. The woman was obviously unbalanced. They were at the quadrangle now, just outside Founder’s Hall. She set down the box with a thump. “I am sorry to say that I have grown fatigued. You will need to find someone else to help you.” She turned and left, hurrying past the open windows of the ground floor library. It was not until much later—too late—that she would wonder who might be in there to overhear.

  Chapter 31

  Week 11, Instructor Calendar December 1898

  Far more often does discouragement paralyze than does hope exalt. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  A short while later, Concordia found Randolph Maynard at the stables. He was uncharacteristically clad in dusty black overalls and a gray plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled back, hard at work giving Chestnut a rubdown by the light of a sputtering lantern. Above the glow, she could see the breath from the horse’s nostrils in the chilly air.