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  Miss Hamilton, however, had other plans, and caught up to her before she could slip away.

  “Miss Wells, I know you must be tired, but we have much to discuss. Could you meet me at DeLacey House? I will be there shortly.”

  How could Concordia object?

  Chapter 14

  Week 5, Instructor Calendar, March 1896

  In the dark, DeLacey House looked massive and looming, but as Concordia approached to ring the bell, the fieldstone facade and deep front porch of the structure gave it a sort of homey-ness. She could imagine comfortable rockers set out in the milder weather, and pots of cheery geraniums along the railing.

  Concordia took a good look around as she followed the maid through the ground floor of the residence, past the open doors of the parlor and library. The décor seemed a mix of domestic practicality and stately style: ornate panelings and tall, medallioned ceilings cohabited with well-worn afghans draped across divans and sewing baskets tucked into out-of-the-way corners. Concordia cast a longing eye toward the library’s floor-to-ceiling bookshelves before following the maid upstairs to the lady principal’s quarters.

  Miss Hamilton’s sitting room had overstuffed chairs flanking a hearth and a cheery fire. Concordia saw more books—books stacked haphazardly on stools, books on tables, books in the corners of the room. Most importantly, Concordia spied a tray laden with tea and muffins. They smelled wonderful. In all of the excitement, Concordia hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

  She also hadn’t known that another visitor waited for Miss Hamilton. As she approached the fire, she found herself face to face with that remarkably handsome man she had noticed at the meeting. She paused awkwardly.

  The man straightened his cuffs, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  She was about to say something when Miss Hamilton walked in, still her silk dinner dress of china blue. Obviously, she was having a busy evening. “Ah, I see the tea tray has already come.” She gestured to Concordia. “Mr. Reynolds, may I present to you Miss Wells, whose classes you have been teaching these last few days. Miss Wells, Julian Reynolds.”

  The man made a quick bow. “Miss Wells, a pleasure.”

  Concordia recovered her voice. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Reynolds. I’m most grateful for your help.”

  Julian Reynolds extended a well-manicured hand, and clasped hers warmly—and just a shade longer than necessary—for an initial acquaintance. She felt a flush bloom across her cheeks.

  Up close, he looked older than she had initially thought, with fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He had one of those classical Grecian profiles, accented by straight sandy hair and deep blue eyes. The effect was breath-taking.

  Oh, stop it, she thought crossly. You’re not the type to go swooning over an attractive man like some silly schoolgirl. She was tired of craning her neck to look at him, anyway. She took a chair farthest from the fire. It was getting warm in here.

  “No doubt you and Mr. Reynolds will find a convenient time to discuss what went on in your absence, Miss Wells,” the lady principal said.

  “Any time would be fine with me,” he responded with a smile. His voice was as pleasant as the rest of him, but Concordia wasn’t sure she liked his smile—it had a self-satisfied, mocking quality that made her uncomfortable.

  Miss Hamilton continued briskly, “I have asked you both here in order to help uncover the identity of the mischief-makers. It’s even more urgent, now.” She looked around, and sighed. “But I left them in the other room. Excuse me.”

  Mr. Reynolds settled back and waited. Concordia, uneasy with the silence, asked conversationally, “Have you taught before, Mr. Reynolds?”

  Reynolds reached for a teacup, offering it to her. “I have, Miss Wells. I currently run the business of my late wife’s family, but before then, I had taught—here and there. Your classes were no trouble. In fact, your students were most cooperative.” He smiled again.

  Concordia didn’t doubt it. She remembered now where she had seen Mr. Reynolds. It was last fall, and he had been teaching Miss Banning’s classes during one of her rheumatic attacks. Concordia remembered the buzz among the girls, who dubbed him “Professor Dashing.” Her own students would fall right into line.

  Miss Hamilton returned, carrying the effigies from the Glove Night prank. The knife had been removed from the lady principal’s figurine.

  “I have examined these closely,” she said, handing each of them a doll. “Tell me what you observe.”

  “What are we looking for?” Reynolds asked impatiently, holding the effigy of Arthur Richter with some distaste, “I’m hardly a dollar-a-day private detective.”

  Although Concordia could understand Mr. Reynolds’ aversion to being associated with detectives—they were an unsavory lot, after all, and ready subjects in lurid novels and yellow journalism—she thought he was being unduly fussy about the matter.

  A look of annoyance crossed the lady principal’s face. “Anything unusual about the fabric or decorative parts. Whatever will narrow our search for the perpetrators.”

  “Can we truly assume that the two incidents are connected?” Concordia asked. “Perhaps someone took advantage of the first incident and sought something in President Richter’s office.”

  Miss Hamilton nodded her approval. “An excellent point, Miss Wells. It would indeed be a mistake to make such an assumption until we have more facts. However, if it is not a mere student prank, then it is even more imperative that we find the culprits.”

  Miss Hamilton had a point. Someone bold enough to target the president’s office must be desperate indeed. But desperate for what?

  Concordia turned her attention to the figure in her lap, of Miss Bellini. The basic body of the doll was constructed of white muslin—someone had sacrificed an old nightshift, she guessed—and was dressed in navy-colored sateen with a lavender floral print. It would have made a pretty shirtwaist, she thought, fingering the cloth. Certainly, it wasn’t cheap material. The doll was also dressed in cut-up lace antimacassars, no doubt to represent the shawls Miss Bellini liked to wear. The maker had used ordinary black yarn for hair. The facial features were crudely drawn in ink, and the stuffing looked to be old quilt batting.

  “Most of these materials could have come from anywhere, Miss Hamilton,” Concordia said, looking up. She pointed to the sateen. “Except, perhaps, this. But I haven’t seen anyone wearing a dress or shirtwaist of this fabric. How could we find it?”

  “Your seniors will be making their costumes soon for the play, will they not?” Miss Hamilton countered.

  “You mean that when material for the costumes is collected, we may find this fabric, and connect it to the guilty party?” Concordia asked. It was an intriguing idea.

  Reynolds glanced up in interest. “Are there other distinctive fabrics here?” “I have to plead ignorance about the subject, ladies.”

  Miss Hamilton turned to the other effigies on the table. Concordia’s doll was dressed in gingham of a light pink tint. As if she would ever wear such a color, Concordia thought scornfully. She wondered if the fabric was chosen deliberately, so as to make the doll’s red hair even more atrocious. Any lady cursed with hair of that particular shade knows that she cannot wear pink. Unfortunately, gingham was an all-too-common fabric.

  The others--wool, percale, serge—were also widely used. Miss Hamilton held up her own effigy. It was dressed in black taffeta, the fabric embroidered with a pattern of tiny black leaves. “Here is another possibility,” she said, passing it to Concordia.

  She tried to ignore the large gash in the upper body of the figure as she examined it.

  “Where is the knife?” she asked. She looked at Miss Hamilton, hoping she hadn’t distressed her by the question.

  Mr. Reynolds shifted uneasily in his chair, probably concerned, too, with Miss Hamilton’s reaction.

  But if Miss Hamilton was bothered by the query, she gave no sign. “I returned it; it was one of the college’s
kitchen knives,” she answered, taking back the figure and giving it an absent-minded pat as she set it aside.

  Checking his pocket watch, Reynolds stood. “If you will excuse me, I will say good night. Ladies, this has been a most instructive evening.”

  Miss Hamilton chuckled after he left. “Poor man. He wouldn’t know a bolt of French lawn if it flattened him on the street.”

  “Then why involve him?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Hamilton offered Concordia the muffin plate. “I want another set of keen eyes looking for these fabrics. We will be seeing more of Mr. Reynolds on campus this semester,” she explained. “I have prevailed upon him to take over your literature club, to free you for play rehearsals.”

  Concordia thought it likely that literature club meetings would be well-attended in the future, if “Professor Dashing” was going to preside over them.

  “Doesn’t he have other matters to attend to? He mentioned running a family business,” she said, helping herself to a muffin.

  “Mr. Reynolds’ wife passed away last year,” Miss Hamilton explained. “He wants to stay occupied, and I understand that his business concerns are not very time-consuming. He’s one of the college’s trustees, and good friends with President Richter. It seemed a beneficial arrangement.”

  Miss Hamilton poured tea for both of them and took a muffin herself. They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the play of the firelight on the polished hearth, until Miss Hamilton asked, “You have certainly had a difficult week, Miss Wells. How is your sister?”

  Concordia felt a lump rising in her throat, and first took a sip of her tea. “No better, I’m afraid. Her husband is consulting a specialist.”

  Miss Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Another specialist? It must be a difficult malady.” Concordia’s sister had been ill for some time; naturally, the lady principal assumed a specialist had already been consulted.

  Carefully keeping the anger out of her voice, Concordia tried to explain the delay without voicing her own doubts.

  But Miss Hamilton was quick. “So you believe that something more deliberate is going on in connection with your sister’s illness. Do you suspect… poison?”

  Having taken that inopportune moment to drink her tea, Concordia nearly choked over Miss Hamilton’s blunt question. How could Miss Hamilton calmly talk of such things? Yet it was clear by Miss Hamilton’s face that she was quite serious.

  “That can’t be!” Concordia protested, when she managed to find her voice again. “This is not some three-decker sensation novel; it is my sister’s life. She certainly did not marry into a family of murderers.”

  Miss Hamilton was silent for a moment.

  “I realize I spoke rather frankly, my dear,” she said finally, “nevertheless, you have a mystery on your hands. Perhaps we should arrange for more time away so you can better oversee your sister’s care. Mr. Reynolds can take over your classes again.”

  “But I have just returned!” Concordia said in dismay. She could not bear facing the Armstrongs again so soon, especially after her last row with the

  judge.

  “Our mother is with her now,” Concordia continued. “She can care for her better than I could. I would prefer to wait, Miss Hamilton.”

  The lady principal gave Concordia a long look.

  “Very well,” Miss Hamilton said, “but keep in mind things aren’t always what they appear.”

  “What about Miss Lyman’s death?” Concordia asked. “Is that what it seems? Do you believe she died by her own hand?” The question had been bothering her, especially with this latest incident. Could the bursar’s death be connected to the pranks and threats?

  Miss Hamilton pressed her lips together thoughtfully before answering. “The coroner has ruled the death a suicide, but still, I find it troubling. I simply don’t know what to think.”

  * * *

  Concordia left shortly thereafter, pleading fatigue.

  She walked along the lighted path back to Willow Cottage, all too aware of how quiet and lonely the grounds were at night. The ten o’clock curfew had long passed, and the campus was dark, save for the paths and an occasional glow coming from a window in the faculty residences. Frost rimming the stones along the walkway sparkled like tiny shards of glass. She shivered from more than the cold. What if someone was out here now, planning more than mischief?

  Feeling foolish, she quickened her pace nonetheless, and was relieved to reach the front porch of Willow Cottage. She was fumbling for her latchkey when a voice breathed close to her ear, “Miss Wells.”

  With a yelp, Concordia leapt back from the door and into the arms of Julian Reynolds, as he stepped from the porch shadows. His arms tightened to steady her.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Wells!” he cried, his face a picture of concern. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Well, you did, Mr. Reynolds,” Concordia replied crossly, righting her spectacles and trying to calm the wild thumping in her chest. “You may let go of me now, if you please.”

  “What is it you want?” she asked shakily, after he had released her.

  Before Reynolds could answer, a light came on inside the hallway, a bolt was shot back, and Ruby opened the door.

  “Miss Wells, and Mr. Reynolds!” she exclaimed. “Good heavens, what is going on?” She gave them each a stern glance. Even clad in dressing gown and homely felt slippers, her hair in a long graying braid, the squat-figured Ruby was a formidable presence.

  “Mr. Reynolds was simply seeing me safely to the door,” Concordia said, attempting to make her grimace pass for a stiff-lipped smile. “Good night, sir.”

  Reynolds took her hand in a gallant farewell gesture. “Shall we meet then, during your free period tomorrow?”

  Ruby frowned. Concordia freed her hand. “Eleven o’clock. Classroom three,” she said curtly.

  With Reynolds gone and the door firmly latched behind him, Concordia apologized to the matron for waking her. “The lady principal wanted to see me.”

  Ruby’s face softened. “It’s all right, miss. I don’t think any of them hoydens upstairs were woke up. You’d best go to bed,” she said, as Concordia covered a yawn. “You’ve had a long day, for sure.”

  Judging from the soft footfalls and whispers above Concordia’s head as she settled down to sleep, Ruby was wrong about the girls not being awakened. She wondered drowsily what the students would make of her being seen in the company of the handsome “Professor Dashing” so late at night. For now, she was too tired to care.

  Chapter 15

  Weeks 5 and 6, Instructor Calendar, March 1896

  What’s done cannot be undone.

  V.i

  Concordia awoke to the thunder of twenty pairs of feet clattering down the wood steps. As she hurriedly dressed to join them for breakfast and morning chapel—drat these boots!—Ruby called to her, tapping on her door.

  “Coming!” Concordia called.

  Concordia couldn’t hear the muffled response, so she yanked the door open, still clutching boot and button hook.

  “Ah, miss,” the matron said, eyes straying to Concordia’ stockinged foot, “the lady principal sent word that you be allowed to sleep.”

  Several of the students filing past Concordia’s door gave her coy smiles. Undoubtedly, last night’s porch scene with Mr. Reynolds would provide fodder for several days’ worth of student gossip.

  “I’ll get ‘em to their breakfasts. That won’t take no doing, to be sure,” Ruby said with a grin, and closed the door behind her.

  The week that followed brought a hectic routine that Concordia found oddly soothing. There were a few crestfallen faces her first day back to class when “Professor Dashing” failed to make a reappearance, but there was plenty of excitement when she announced that he would be conducting future literature club meetings.

  As promised, Mr. Reynolds did meet with her to discuss her classes.

  “My, Mr. Reynolds, you have covered an impressive amount of mater
ial in such a short time,” she said in surprise, looking over the lesson plans he had copied out for her. “They are nearly finished with the Romantic poets in the Masters class, and the Milton class will soon be ready to start on Paradise Lost. However did you manage it?”

  He smiled, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling. “You have such charming girls, Miss Wells. Do you know how hard they work? And without complaint, too. I was absolutely besieged during my office hours: students coming for tutoring, or questions, or simply seeking more intellectual depth to the topic. Quite impressive.”

  “Ah,” was all that Concordia could trust herself to say. She doubted that such diligence, nay, enthusiasm, was the result of Milton’s or Wordsworth’s appeal. She hadn’t the heart to disillusion him, though.

  “But I have kept you talking for much too long!” Reynolds exclaimed. “You must allow me to take you to the faculty lounge for some tea. Shall we?” He held out his arm.

  She was about to protest that, no, she did not require any tea. Yet she found herself blushing as she took his arm and accompanied him to the lounge.

  During the next week, she encountered Mr. Reynolds on several other occasions: in the classics reading room, in the student dining hall, and once, to her annoyance, in the midst of play rehearsal. Since a scant nine weeks now remained until the performance, it was her custom to meet in the evenings with the cast members, to determine what the major players had done with their lines thus far, and work out assignments for the remaining minor roles.

  The night Mr. Reynolds visited—to “see what our brilliant senior class would be performing this year,” he said—the girls made squealing fools of themselves and competed for attention.

  There was no doubt about it, the man was a distraction. Little progress was made that evening. While she couldn’t deny feeling flattered by his interest, she found it perplexing. Concordia had looked in the mirror often enough to know that she did not fit any classical standard of beauty. She had neither the height nor the flawless complexion--her mother had promised her freckles would fade—and red hair was certainly not in fashion this year, nor likely to be in the near future. So why was Mr. Reynolds being so attentive? Was he lonely after the death of his wife, or did he merely suffer from excessive gallantry?