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  “Mrs. Guryev said she pleaded with him to return with her to Russia, and escape the debt collectors once and for all.” Sophia added.

  “Why did he not do that? Why steal the blueprint and cause so much trouble?”

  “Money,” Sophia said simply. “He needed to sell it for passage back.”

  “Concordia!” Mrs. Wells called, gesturing to the bolt of white satin overlaid in Brussels lace that the dressmaker had spread on the counter. “You two can chat later. This is to be your dress. Should you not be the one to make decisions about it? Mrs. Feeney and I cannot do everything.”

  “Just a minute.” Concordia leaned closer to Sophia. “Does Capshaw think Guryev killed Oster?”

  Sophia’s eyes narrowed in a troubled expression. “Mrs. Guryev says she saw him that evening before he was to meet Oster. The plan was for him to give Oster the blueprint, take the money, and buy his steamer ticket. He was to meet her back at her hotel the next day. But she says she never saw or heard from him again.”

  “She could be lying.”

  Sophia shook her head. “Aaron believes her. That’s why he allowed her to return to Russia. After a thorough search of her belongings, of course. I trust his instincts. He thinks the debt collectors may have killed Oster and kidnapped Guryev, along with taking the money and blueprint.”

  Concordia felt a chill at the base of her spine. “Kidnapped? Then what happened to Guryev after that?”

  Sophia bit her lip. “Nothing good, I am sure.”

  “Perhaps he escaped when they killed Oster?” Concordia mused aloud. She frowned. “But that would mean he is still in hiding.”

  “Concordia!” Mrs. Wells called again.

  With a sigh, Concordia went over to the counter, her mind teeming with questions.

  They sifted through reams of fabric, spools of ribbon, and cards of lace. Concordia grimaced at the fabric heaped upon the counter. Why was white the standard for wedding gowns? It was the most unflattering color, if it could be called a color at all. Perhaps it would suffice for someone not as pale and freckled as she. Or as redheaded. Very few shades suited her.

  Mrs. Feeney crouched over another bin. “We have this lovely antique ivory.” She held it up to Concordia in front of the mirror. “And if we add a bit of chiffon, so the tint has depth and is not so flat…yes, yes, you see?”

  Mrs. Wells nodded. “That is just the thing. Excellent.”

  Concordia peered over her spectacles. “I suppose…very well.”

  Over the next hour she was prodded, pinned, and nagged into standing up taller. A futile task, as she was as tall as she was ever going to be. Finally, they were done. She groaned and flexed her back. “I’d forgotten how exhausting dress fittings can be.” On a teacher’s salary, ready-made clothing suited her well enough.

  Sophia smiled. “You are more fortunate than you realize. I was standing for nearly two hours during my fitting. Then the dress had to be taken in twice before the wedding.” She grimaced.

  Concordia doubted she would have that problem.

  “I for one would have preferred a grander style gown,” Mrs. Wells said to Sophia, “with a much longer train. But she wants a simple wedding.”

  Concordia choked back a laugh. “This is simple?”

  Sophia smiled at Mrs. Wells. “Careful, she may elope...or join the gypsies.”

  Letitia Wells chuckled. “Well, at least she is getting married. I had despaired of that for quite some time.”

  Concordia cleared her throat in mock sternness. “I am still standing here, you know. I suggest it is time to feed the bride-to-be.”

  “Ah, yes!” Mrs. Wells checked her watch. “We are just in time.”

  “In time?” Concordia asked, following her mother and Sophia down the stairs. Mmm...that aroma. Pastries, fresh from the oven. Perhaps just one lemon tart—?

  Her mother pulled her away. “None of that, now. You will eat something sensible. We must ensure you fit into that gown.”

  “Where are we going?” Concordia asked as they headed up Wethersfield Avenue, toward Main Street and the heart of the downtown district. The pavements bustled with office workers eager for lunch. The women dodged a line forming beside a sidewalk vendor selling sandwiches and ginger beer.

  “Dillon’s,” Mrs. Wells said.

  “Wonderful. I haven’t been there in ages.” Dillon’s had started as a bakery and over the decades had expanded to a dine-in tearoom. It was a popular spot, now serving hearty fare in addition to its renowned desserts.

  “You had better tell her the rest,” Sophia said.

  Mrs. Wells gave an exasperated sigh. “You are right, of course.”

  The bell tinkled as they opened the door. “The rest of what?” Concordia asked. She hoped a table was free. Her stomach rumbled as she glanced down the crowded aisle.

  Georgeanna Bradley and Drusilla Fenmore, seated in a corner booth, gave a little wave.

  Concordia’s stomach did more than rumble.

  “Sorry,” Mrs. Wells whispered, pasting on a smile as they made their way over.

  “Indeed,” Sophia murmured, “it was all your mother could do to keep them from coming with us to the dressmaker’s.”

  Concordia grimaced.

  After greetings were exchanged and they were seated, Mrs. Bradley rummaged in her reticule. “Concordia, dear, here is the memento I told you about.” She passed over an ecru satin pouch. “Wear it in good health.”

  Concordia pulled out a gold brooch as large as a child’s fist, thickly crusted with aquamarines. It appeared to be a peacock, though the crown of the bird’s head had broken off. Perhaps Mrs. Bradley, in her younger days, had thrown it against a wall in a fit of pique? She hefted it. Or used it as a weapon. How could something covered in such lovely stones be so…ugly?

  She made a move to hand it back. “It is most generous of you, Mrs. Bradley, but I cannot accept something so—so valuable.”

  Mrs. Bradley held up a hand. “Nonsense, my dear. As I mentioned before, it seems fitting to pass it down to you. My mother-in-law had given it to me, so I am continuing the tradition. I have no daughter of my own. Is it not extraordinary?”

  As Mrs. Bradley looked at her expectantly, Concordia realized she would have to be polite about the hideous thing. “Indeed, I have never seen anything quite like it.” She glanced at Sophia, who was biting her lip to hold back a laugh. “Would you not agree?” she added, holding up the monstrosity.

  Sophia shot her a look. “Words fail me.”

  “Try it on,” Mrs. Bradley coaxed.

  Concordia was afraid she was going to say that. She glanced down at her linen shirtwaist. The stout pin would put holes in everything she owned.

  “I am afraid that Concordia’s attire at the moment is not suitable for such a...distinctive piece,” Mrs. Wells said smoothly.

  Concordia quickly tucked it back into the pouch and out of sight.

  “I had hoped you would wear it on your wedding day,” Mrs. Bradley said, voice rising in her distress. “After all, it is blue, and it is both old and new to you. It will be good luck.”

  The only good luck would be losing it. However, she did not want to offend her future mother-in-law. “Of course.” After all, it was only one day.

  “I believe I will have the sole,” Sophia said, in a change of subject.

  Concordia buried her face in the menu.

  Drusilla frowned. “One cannot trust it to be properly cooked in a place like this.”

  “What do you mean, a place like this?” Mrs. Wells said. “Dillon’s is one of the finest lunch establishments in Hartford.”

  “I was not going to say anything,” Drusilla said in a low voice, leaning forward with the self-importance of one with exclusive knowledge, “but as we were passing the kitchen, I distinctly heard what sounded like—oh, I don’t know, Russian? But not quite...I cannot tell those foreign languages apart.”

  Mrs. Wells nodded. “Portuguese, I believe. I heard that two Portuguese cooks were
hired. The restaurant had been short-staffed for quite some time.”

  Drusilla waved a dismissive hand. “Russian, Portuguese, whatever.” She nodded toward Sophia. “I would keep to simple fare, Mrs. Capshaw. Perhaps a soft-boiled egg.”

  Concordia rolled her eyes. “Just because they are foreigners does not mean they are half-witted.”

  “You cannot convince me that those of us born and raised in this country are not superior to foreigners in every respect,” Drusilla declared.

  “If we are talking about pedigree,” Concordia said, “the Portuguese have a long history as accomplished navigators and cartographers, stretching back centuries. I am sure the new cooks are up to the task of preparing a piece of fish.”

  “Suit yourselves,” Drusilla retorted, mouth turned downward in a sulk.

  Soon the waiter poured the tea and took their orders.

  “Have you and David resumed your house hunting since that dreadful business at the Armstrong farmhouse?” her mother asked, when he had left.

  Mrs. Bradley set down her teacup with a clatter. “Angels preserve us, I heard about that. A sordid discovery!”

  Drusilla sniffed. “At least David had not yet purchased the house. Quite a near escape.”

  “I pity the Armstrong relations,” Mrs. Bradley said. “Who will buy the house, now that a man has been found—” she dropped her voice “—murdered in it?” She shuddered.

  “I hear they have dropped the price again,” Sophia said.

  “No doubt,” Drusilla said with a satisfied grunt. “It will not help them any.”

  Mrs. Wells set aside her menu. “Fortunately, that does not concern Concordia and David. But you must find a house soon,” she added, glancing in her direction.

  Concordia sighed. The Armstrong place had been ideal. If only Mr. Oster had not died there.

  Her cheeks flushed. What was she thinking? The man should not have died anywhere.

  Bu what if the murder was solved? Would the shadow over the house lift? Of course, discovering the murderer was a big if to begin with. A number of other ifs stood in the way: if Guryev was the killer and had fled to Russia, there was no way of catching him. If a debt collector had killed them both, then where was Guryev’s body? If Guryev had escaped Oster’s fate, where was he now? If a debt collector had been keeping an eye on Guryev on campus, how did he go unnoticed? An unknown man would stand out a mile on a women’s college. If she asked the engineering students whether they had observed a man trailing Guryev, would she be putting them at risk?

  She squared her shoulders. Only one thing was certain. She had to try.

  Chapter 10

  Week 4, Instructor Calendar October 1898

  Too much haste in making new acquaintances, however—”pushing,” as it is called—cannot be too much deprecated. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  Long shadows stretched across the gardens beside Sycamore House as Concordia made her way to Willow Cottage. A movement in the shadows caught her eye.

  “Oh!” She let out a breath. Rachel Sanbourne emerged, juggling easel, canvas, and a box of paints as she fumbled with the latch of the garden’s wicket gate. Concordia hurried over to hold it open.

  Mrs. Sanbourne, a smudge of paint alongside her thin, patrician nose, blonde hair escaping her painter’s beret, let out a breath. “Thank you, Miss Wells.”

  “Do you need a hand carrying your supplies back to the studio?”

  Mrs. Sanbourne looked over her shoulder as Maynard approached from Sycamore House. “The dean has offered to do so.”

  Judging by Maynard’s wrinkled brow and narrowed eyes, he was none too pleased at the prospect.

  “Touch only the edges,” Mrs. Sanbourne instructed, passing over the canvas. “It is still wet.”

  He complied with an aggrieved sigh and gave Concordia barely a nod. “Miss Wells.”

  “I saw you this morning, heading toward Rook’s Hill,” Concordia said to Mrs. Sanbourne as they walked the path. Maynard trailed behind.

  Mrs. Sanbourne shrugged. “I started there, but the light changed. The gardens are a congenial spot. Your president, I believe, tends to them?” She glanced back at a bed of chrysanthemums against the house, only now starting to die off before winter. “He has quite the green thumb.”

  Concordia nodded. It was propitious that she had run into Mrs. Sanbourne. The lady may know something of the debt collectors who had trailed Guryev. But there was little time. They had nearly reached the path to Willow Cottage.

  Concordia kept her voice low, hoping the dean would not overhear. “Tell me, has Lieutenant Capshaw asked you about anyone who may have threatened Mr. Guryev, or was following him?” She hoped the question was not too abrupt. How does one broach such a subject delicately?

  Mrs. Sanbourne stopped short and arched an eyebrow. “I would not have believed it of you, Miss Wells. Although I suppose a spinster living an unexciting, sheltered life would find something as unseemly as murder titillating. The rest of us, however, do not.”

  Concordia felt the flush creep up her neck and heat her cheeks. “I am merely interested in seeing justice done. My students are fond of Mr. Guryev and are distressed by his disappearance and the implication that he is a murderer.”

  Mrs. Sanbourne gave an unbecoming snort. “Ivan is not the victim here. He betrayed my husband and stole his work. Then he tricked Oster, killing him and taking the money. I am sure he is in Russia by now, selling my husband’s blueprint yet again. For all the good it does him. He will probably gamble away the money within a month.”

  The lines on the lady’s face were sharp and harsh in her bitterness. Concordia opened her mouth to try to undo the damage, but could think of nothing that would not make it worse.

  “My husband is the one to be pitied,” Rachel Sanbourne continued. “He has responsibilities at the college and deadlines to meet, all while reconstructing his design from memory.”

  “From memory?” Concordia repeated. “He does not yet have the original back from the Navy?”

  Mrs. Sanbourne let out an exasperated sigh. “It has been misplaced. Mr. Roosevelt first had possession of it, but claims he turned it over to his successor months ago. No one can find it.”

  “I am sorry,” Concordia said. Maynard, standing behind them, shifted the bulky canvas with barely concealed impatience. “I imagine it is a painstaking task for him.”

  “Save your pity,” she snapped. “You have no idea what you are talking about. Your kind occupies itself with mooning over the scribblings of dead poets, while men like my husband do the real work of this nation.” She turned on her heel and stalked off without a backward glance.

  Concordia gaped after Rachel Sanbourne’s retreating figure as Maynard approached. His upper lip curled. “You never learn, Miss Wells. Sleuthing is unsuitable for a lady. No one cares for an amateur poking her nose into weighty matters.” He shifted his grip again. “Though she was unkind.”

  That was uncharacteristic of him. She glanced up in surprise. “Thank you for that.”

  He chuckled. “After all, you are not a spinster.” He walked away before she could think of a suitable retort.

  As she turned down the path to Willow Cottage, she noticed Charlotte Crandall sitting on one of the porch rockers. “You heard?”

  Charlotte grimaced. “I was taking in the sunset. I must say, Mrs. Sanbourne’s attitude surprises me. For someone who is a painter, she does not have a favorable view of the arts and letters.”

  Concordia sat on the bench next to her. The sunset was indeed striking, foregrounded by the sun-tinged oranges and reds from the sugar maples that lined the path. “I was not exactly delicate with my question. She has a right to be angry.”

  “I wonder how she managed to get Ran—Mr. Maynard—to carry her things.”

  Concordia gave Charlotte a long look. “You and Mr. Maynard—there is something between you?”

  Charlotte blushed to the roots of her dark brown hair. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  C
oncordia smirked. “I am an engaged woman, you know. There are signs.”

  Charlotte put her head in her hands. “I am so embarrassed.”

  “What have you to be embarrassed about? You have not behaved in an inappropriate manner, have you?” Not that she really thought so, though there was a certain young man’s attentions during Charlotte’s senior year at the school. The less said on that subject the better.

  Charlotte sat up, indignant. “Certainly not!”

  “Well then, you are fine. Does Mr. Maynard return the feeling?”

  Charlotte plucked at her skirt. “I am not sure. Some days, he is warm and open. We laugh and talk about all sorts of things. But on other occasions, he is distant. On his guard.”

  Concordia remembered when Maynard and Charlotte had rescued her from a very dangerous predicament last May. He had seemed approachable then. It did not last long.

  “If you could only see how he is, when we ride on Saturday mornings.”

  Concordia did not mention the fact that she had seen them today, from a distance. “A common interest is helpful.”

  “Riding is wonderful exercise. You should try it.”

  Concordia laughed. “You know how I feel about horses. No doubt the beasts feel the same way about me.”

  “Nonsense! We have the perfect horse for you—a gelding. His name is Joseph and he’s very placid. Come join us next Saturday.”

  Concordia snorted. “Joseph? What sort of name is that for a horse?”

  “He has a dappled coat, so he was named for Joseph in the Bible. You know—a coat of many colors. He is not terribly good-looking, but a child could ride him.”

  “I will confine my exercise to the bicycle, thanks. Is Miss Lovelace inside? I need to speak with her.”

  Charlotte nodded. “She is dressing for supper.”

  Concordia put a hand to the door. “I’m going in. Enjoy your quiet while you can.”