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  Hannah Jenkins came over to her bed. “How do you feel?”

  Concordia winced as Miss Jenkins helped prop her up. “My head aches. And I’m a little sore. Otherwise I seem whole.” She surveyed the long, narrow aisle of empty beds. “Where are Charlotte and Mr. Maynard? Are they all right?”

  Miss Jenkins pointed to a screened-in bed at the other end of the room. “The doctor is with Miss Crandall now. Mr. Maynard only had a few scrapes. He’s resting back at Sycamore House.”

  “Why was I brought to the infirmary?”

  “It’s closer to the stables than Willow Cottage. Besides, you were unconscious for a good ten minutes. We were worried.” Miss Jenkins gently probed the right side of Concordia’s scalp. “I was able to get the bleeding to stop. I do not think you will need any stitches. No broken bones that I can tell, but the doctor will want to conduct his own examination.”

  “What about Charlotte?”

  “She will be fine, thanks to you. The dean told us how you pulled her out of the way before the horse could trample you both.”

  Concordia put a hand to her head. “I am never going near a stable or a horse again.”

  Miss Jenkins patted her arm. “Let me get you a headache powder.”

  Concordia leaned back and closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, she realized she must have dozed for a time. The sun was shining brightly in the upper windows. Her mother perched in a nearby chair, placidly knitting.

  Was she hallucinating? Concordia squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. There she was, a slim-figured lady with the heart-shaped face and graying blond hair. “Mother?”

  “Ah, you’re awake,” her mother said. “Would you like some water?” She reached a blue-veined hand for the pitcher.

  “How did you…?” Concordia’s voice trailed off in confusion.

  Her mother smiled. “Ever since your escapade last spring, I made Miss Jenkins promise that she would inform me whenever you were injured.”

  “How...enterprising of you,” Concordia said weakly. She sipped from the glass. “Were you told what happened?”

  Mrs. Wells’ lips thinned to a somber line. “Those girls have much to answer for. I still believe the police should be involved.”

  Concordia gingerly shook her aching head. Police? “I believe I’ve missed something. Tell me what you know.”

  Her mother hesitated. “I understand the young ladies are favorites of yours. I would rather not distress you.”

  Concordia pushed herself to sit up. “It would distress me more to be left in the dark. Please, Mother.”

  “You are right, I suppose.” She set her knitting in her lap. “A mechanism was discovered, affixed to the top frame of the stable door. I am unaware of the specifics, but somehow the door being pulled open caused a gun to fire. Miss Lovelace and her friends from the engineering department are suspected of having staged the stunt.”

  Concordia’s eyes widened as it came back to her. The loud bang and the ringing in her ears. The gun on the floor.

  “There must be another explanation. Miss Lovelace would never do such a thing,” Concordia declared, struggling to swing her legs over the side of the bed.

  Miss Jenkins hurried over. “Where do you think you are going?”

  “She insisted that I tell her about Miss Lovelace,” Mrs. Wells said apologetically.

  Miss Jenkins settled Concordia back in bed and smoothed the covers. “President Langdon is questioning the students now. I am sure it will take time to get the whole story. Besides, you have another visitor.” She pointed.

  Hovering in the doorway was David Bradley. The familiar sight of his trim form, dark curly hair and bright brown eyes made her chest feel lighter. “David,” she whispered, reaching out her hands as he crossed the room.

  He clasped them warmly. “Thank heaven you are safe. I could not believe it when I heard.” His eyes narrowed with worry. “You are all right?”

  Miss Jenkins made a notation on her clipboard and stuck the pencil back in her topknot. “She’ll be fine. The doctor checked in while she was sleeping. I’ll leave you now, but talk softly. I finally got Miss Crandall quieted down to sleep. She’s still quite upset about Ransom.”

  “Ransom?” Mrs. Wells asked, as Miss Jenkins headed for her office.

  “The school’s black Frisian,” David said.

  “What about him?” Concordia asked. “What is going on, David?”

  He hesitated. “In the animal’s panic to break free of the stall, he was grievously injured. He had to be put down.”

  Concordia sucked in a breath. “How horrible. Mr. Maynard must be taking it especially hard. Ransom was a favorite of his.”

  “Well, he is certainly calling for the heads of Miss Lovelace and her fellows,” David said grimly.

  “But we do not know they are responsible,” Concordia protested. “What possible motive could they have? It sounds like a fraternity prank to me. What about the Trinity boys? A number of them have been auditing the engineering classes.” She felt a guilty pang. She’d been blaming Trinity College students for a great many things lately.

  David pursed his lips. “Good point. I will mention that to Langdon.”

  “Are we to assume the dean was the target of the prank?” Concordia asked. “He’s customarily the first one at the stables on a Saturday morning.”

  “A rather deadly prank, if you ask me,” her mother said.

  “A blank cartridge was used, surely?” Concordia asked. “I am sure no real harm was intended.” Although the death of the poor horse was harm enough.

  “It was a bullet, not a blank,” David said. “Langdon found it embedded in the paddock post.”

  Concordia sat up straighter. “Someone tried to kill the dean?”

  “Or Miss Crandall, perhaps,” David said, glancing uneasily toward Charlotte’s bed. “She has been the more regular Saturday morning rider, though I’ve noticed lately that she and the dean often ride together.”

  Concordia, knowing Charlotte’s feelings for the dean, made no comment.

  “If that is the case, why have the police not been called?” Mrs. Wells asked with a frown.

  “I think we already know the answer to that,” David said.

  Concordia nodded. They did, indeed.

  Mrs. Wells’ brow cleared in understanding. “Ah. Notoriety.”

  “Heaven knows we have had enough of that these past few years,” David said. “It would not do for the college to be embroiled in further scandal. Oster’s death and Guryev’s disappearance have kept the newspapers busy enough as it is.”

  “Where on earth did the gun come from in the first place?” Mrs. Wells asked.

  David nodded toward the infirmarian, now stacking folded sheets in the closet. “It’s Miss Jenkins’ starter pistol. Someone must have taken it from the gymnasium equipment locker last night. She told Langdon she saw it in its case as recently as yesterday afternoon.”

  “I still don’t understand who would do such a vindictive thing,” Concordia said. Certainly not Miss Lovelace or her friends. She must speak with Edward Langdon, before a grievous injustice was done.

  Chapter 14

  Week 5, Instructor Calendar October 1898

  The duties of a chaperon are very hard and unremitting, and sometimes very disagreeable. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  “I told you yesterday, Mr. Langdon, we had nothing to do with it!” Miss Lovelace cried.

  They were all in the president’s office: Miss Lovelace and her friend Miss Gage, Randolph Maynard, Lady Principal Pomeroy, Charlotte, and Concordia. Although it was the largest staff office in Founder’s Hall, they were still crammed cheek-by-jowl in the space.

  Concordia glanced over at Charlotte. Her weariness was evident in the dark circles under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks. The high collar of her shirtwaist could not quite conceal the scrapes along her neck from her tumble.

  Randolph Maynard held up a pouch that Concordia recognized all too we
ll. “I believe this toolkit is yours, Miss Lovelace?”

  Maisie Lovelace’s mouth gaped. “I’ve been missing that for two days. Where did you find it?”

  “So you admit it belongs to you?” Maynard asked.

  Miss Gage shifted impatiently in her seat. “Of course it is hers. Everyone has seen her carrying that pouch. She always keeps it with her.”

  Concordia was familiar with the pouch, too. The tools within it, in fact, had been the saving of them last May. An uneasy grip in the pit of her stomach told her where Maynard was going with this.

  “Not always,” Maynard said between gritted teeth. “You have become careless with your tools, Miss Lovelace. I found the pouch behind a hay bale in the stable.”

  Concordia sighed. So much for the Trinity student theory. No college boy knew Miss Lovelace well enough to consider implicating her. It had to be someone closer to home. She clasped the girl’s icy hand. “Someone must have put it there.”

  Maynard gave her a steely-eyed glare. “And what possible motive would anyone have for doing that, Miss Wells?”

  Concordia returned the glare. “And what possible motive would Miss Lovelace have for attempted murder, Mr. Maynard?”

  President Langdon cleared his throat. “Now, now, let us not talk of murder. This is not a penny-dreadful, Miss Wells.” He folded his garden-roughened hands across his capacious middle as he leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, Miss Lovelace, is it possible that you merely intended to play a prank you thought to be harmless and startle poor Mr. Maynard and Miss Crandall? Could you have confused a blank cartridge for a live bullet, my dear? It was still a reckless trick, considering how it caused the death of our best horse. I do not like to think you or anyone on this campus capable of malice.”

  Miss Lovelace’s voice quavered. “The difference between a bullet and a blank cartridge is quite obvious. A blank has a crimped end. I did not do this. Someone must have taken my kit and put it there.” She turned to Concordia and whispered. “And I think I know who.”

  Concordia gave Miss Lovelace’s hand a warning squeeze. “Not now,” she murmured.

  She knew whom Miss Lovelace meant.

  Alison Smedley.

  Could it be? There was no denying the animosity between them. But it would not do to accuse the girl in her absence. They needed time to investigate.

  Concordia turned to President Langdon, purposely avoiding Maynard’s eye. “The toolkit is poor proof for such a serious charge against her.”

  Maynard glowered. “It is sufficient for me. Particularly considering her past behavior—have you forgotten the episode of the buggy in the bursar’s office?”

  Langdon winced.

  “It is time to expel Miss Lovelace,” Maynard went on. “There is no proof against Miss Gage here—” he glanced at that young lady, who gave a defiant toss of her head “—though I am sure this was not accomplished alone. We should also dismantle the engineering program. Otherwise, we will continue to encourage this bold, dangerous, unwomanly behavior.” He glared at Langdon. “You do not want that, do you, Edward?”

  Concordia’s hands grew as cold as Miss Lovelace’s, and her chest constricted. She could not let this happen.

  Finally, she summoned the breath to speak. “If you decide to expel Miss Lovelace and end the engineering program on the basis of such flimsy evidence, I shall call the police about the incident. It will need to be investigated properly to justify such drastic action.”

  Everyone in the room stared at her, open-mouthed. Miss Pomeroy’s eyes widened, her wandering attention engaged at last.

  “You would not dare.” Maynard’s voice was cold.

  “Try me.” Concordia hoped the tremor in her voice would be taken for anger rather than fear. She had never threatened an administrator. “You are blaming a student without sufficient proof and are about to ruin her future, along with the future of other students if you end the program. It is inexcusable. I will go to Lieutenant Capshaw if I have to.”

  Maynard crossed his arms and gave her a scathing look. “It is obvious you care nothing for the well-being of this institution. Is it because you will no longer be a part of it after this semester? Why not go home now, and knit booties for your impending domestic bliss?”

  Concordia felt the air leave her lungs. She stood on rubbery legs, motioning for Miss Lovelace and Miss Gage to accompany her. Finally, at the door, she managed a few words. “Consider who wishes you harm, Mr. Maynard. Then you may find the true culprit.”

  She caught a glimpse of Charlotte’s pale face as she closed the door.

  “At least you believe us,” Miss Lovelace said, as they walked back to Willow Cottage in the dying light. “Thank you for coming to our defense.”

  Concordia nodded, her heart too full to speak. She loved this school, and would never wish harm upon it. She knew the death of Ransom was a blow to Maynard, but to sacrifice Miss Lovelace for the sake of revenge was beyond the pale. She thought of the words she had flung at him when leaving. Who would wish Maynard harm? As disagreeable as he was, she could not imagine someone setting out to kill him.

  There was the possibility that Miss Lovelace had raised. “We need to talk,” she said to Miss Lovelace and Miss Gage. “We’ll have tea in my sitting room.”

  Once they were settled and the door was closed, Concordia wasted no time. “You believe Miss Smedley had a hand in this?”

  Miss Gage and Miss Lovelace exchanged a glance.

  “Even I find it hard to believe,” Miss Lovelace said slowly, “and you know I do not hold her in high regard.”

  “If she did it, she had to have help,” Miss Gage said. “She is not very mechanically minded.”

  Concordia was not concerned about the practicality of the prank. Not yet. “Does Miss Smedley hate you so much?”

  Miss Lovelace shrugged. “I know she resents the new program. She sees it as special treatment.”

  “And if Mr. Langdon follows Mr. Maynard’s recommendation, the program will be over, and Alison will have what she wants,” Miss Gage said miserably.

  “I will explore the possibility,” Concordia said. “In the meantime, do not make any accusations. After all, you know firsthand how it feels to be blamed for something you did not do.”

  “But that will take time,” Miss Lovelace protested. “What if I’m expelled in the meanwhile?”

  “President Langdon is a fair-minded man,” Concordia said. “He will want more proof before doing that, no matter what Mr. Maynard says. However, you must admit last semester’s stunt with his buggy has not endeared you to him.”

  Both girls dropped their heads.

  “What will happen next?” Miss Lovelace asked.

  “I do not know,” Concordia said. “But be prepared for unpleasantness.”

  Chapter 15

  Week 6, Instructor Calendar October 1898

  No doubt a vivacious American girl, with all her inherited hatred of authority, is a troublesome charge. All young people are rebels. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  Concordia was right about the unpleasant aftermath of the gun prank. Miss Lovelace was placed on restriction for an indefinite period. That meant she could attend classes and chapel services but nothing else. She ate her meals in the kitchen of Willow Cottage instead of the dining hall with the other girls. Concordia and Ruby kept her company as much as they could, and tried to boost her spirits.

  It also meant that Miss Lovelace would not attend the Halloween ball. As the girls chattered excitedly and made their plans for the upcoming event, the girl became quiet and left more food on her plate.

  Alison Smedley’s exuberance, on the other hand, grew with each passing day. She often lingered in the hallway outside Miss Lovelace’s door, discussing costume plans and the decisions of the decorating committee. Concordia had shooed her and her friends out of earshot more than once.

  The factions within the cottage had become further entrenched. The engineering students expressed outrage over Miss Lovelace’s restrictio
n, while Miss Smedley and her cohorts blamed Maisie and her friends for the heinous prank. The other young ladies—neutral up to this point—were horrified that a beloved horse had died. They too turned accusing eyes to Miss Lovelace.

  Even Charlotte Crandall, supposedly above the fray as a faculty member, kept her distance from Miss Lovelace.

  “She thinks I did it,” Maisie said to Concordia, sobbing on her shoulder.

  Concordia sighed. There was no denying that Charlotte had been fond of the horse. “Miss Crandall simply has a lot on her mind lately,” she lied, gently prying the girl off her shoulder and passing her a handkerchief. Miss Lovelace was getting herself terribly worked up about this business. She was sure to make herself sick.

  Over the next few days, Concordia waited for an opportunity to speak with Charlotte alone. Her chance came when they both left their offices to dress for supper.

  Charlotte had not been looking like herself since the incident. Her clothes hung upon her loosely, her cheeks were pale, her expression distant.

  “Could I have a word?” Concordia asked.

  Charlotte nodded, and they fell into step together.

  Concordia got right to the point. “You believe Miss Lovelace is responsible for rigging the gun, don’t you?”

  Charlotte stopped abruptly, and a student hurrying by bumped into her. “I beg your pardon,” she said absently, to the girl’s retreating back. She met Concordia’s eyes. “I do.” She gestured toward the path to the stable. “Come, I will show you.”

  Curiosity aroused, Concordia followed her. “It has been a week since the incident. Everything has been cleaned up, surely?”

  “I had the chance to see it all beforehand,” Charlotte said. “I want to show you how complex—” She broke off as they saw an unfamiliar workman of middle age, standing on a wooden crate and running his hand along the top of the stable doorway.

  “Excuse me, sir. May I help you?” Concordia called out.