Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare.
William Blake
It was a chilly, overcast start as the students and staff filed into the chapel for morning services. In honor of Founder’s Day, they sang the school anthem, “Forward, Woman, to Thy Calling,” and listened to President Langdon’s dramatic recitation of the winning student poem.
Thankfully, the sun broke through the cloud cover and warmed them up nicely as the girls hurried to the quadrangle. They tossed their gloves in a collective heap beside the fountain to work on the chrysanthemum chain that would adorn the dining hall’s balusters. Concordia offered to help Miss Pomeroy and Miss Jenkins group the students into teams and divide the flowers between them, but Hannah Jenkins waved her off. “No need. The staff has it well in hand.” She turned back to the clamoring girls. “Patience, ladies!” she snapped.
Concordia stepped back. Why am I here?
Still, she enjoyed watching the students laugh and chatter as they worked. No matter the class—freshman or sophomore, junior or senior—the pranks and rivalries were set aside on Founder’s Day. She closed her eyes and breathed in the mingling scents of fallen leaves and bruised chrysanthemum stems. It was a wonderful season to be at the college.
She stifled a sigh. Even if she wasn’t a full-fledged member of it anymore.
The Willow Cottage girls were grouped at the far end of the fountain, where Maisie Lovelace was showing an unenthusiastic Madeline Farraday how to bunch and wrap the stems along the rope. The girl seemed little improved in temperament from last night, as if the weight of the world was upon her shoulders.
“Mrs. Bradley?” a man’s voice murmured.
She turned to see George Lovelace, Maisie’s uncle, attired in his customary workman’s twill overalls and faded plaid shirt. He swept the cap from his head. “Do you have a bit of time? Miss Phillips was hoping she could ask you about the new exhibit.”
Concordia glanced back at the quadrangle. She wasn’t needed here, and she would love an early look at the display. “Of course.”
The college’s Gallery of Antiquities had opened only a few years ago, after a valuable seventeenth-century European bodice dagger turned up among the stage props. The discovery that the rhinestones at the base of the knife handle were in fact diamonds, and that the weapon was a rare artifact, prompted the idea of starting an antiquities collection. The gallery brochure, however, omitted the fact that the knife only came to light after Concordia had the misfortune to find it plunged in the chest of a staff member.
Pieces had trickled in from local donors over the years—most notably Colonel Adams’s entire collection of Egyptian artifacts, which was why Egyptologist Dorothy Phillips had been hired as curator. She also served as one of the history professors.
Isaiah Symond’s donation did not quite approach the scope of the colonel’s gift, but it was attracting attention nonetheless. Tomorrow’s exhibit opening promised to be quite the affair. There were sure to be tedious speeches aplenty and no room to sit down. Lucky David—he was going to miss all the fun, Concordia thought wryly. He was still in New Haven, having been invited to stay on after the symposium’s end for an additional week of talks with the organizers.
She followed George around to the side door of the stairwell to avoid passing through the library. The gallery occupied the remainder of the first floor, where one entered through a set of interior double doors trimmed in polished brass and mahogany. Inside, rows of tall, pointed Gothic windows that reached almost to the ceiling provided natural light. The original oak wainscoting lent the space a collegiate dignity. Rest assured, the wainscoting seemed to say to prospective donors, this place will remain for the century to come.
Dorothy Phillips came through the far door that led to her office beyond. She was of middling age and sturdily built, with barely a hint of gray in her unfashionably short brown hair. Her skin was also more spotted than fashion dictated, doubtless from repeated time in the sun.
“Ah, Concordia, so nice to see you, dear,” Miss Phillips said. “You’re looking well. Married life seems to be agreeing with you.”
Concordia blushed. “Thank you. It’s an adjustment. I do miss being here.”
The lady made a face. “I should like to ‘miss’ the place for a while.” She motioned toward the stack of envelopes she carried before passing them to the handyman. “Administrative tasks are the most tiresome of all. Can you send these out when you head home, George? My latest report to members of the funding committee.”
She turned back to Concordia, squinting from behind narrow, gold-rimmed spectacles. She either needed stronger lenses or, as Concordia fancifully preferred to believe, it was a habit acquired from years of peering into dark, long-forgotten tombs.
“Let us work on something far more interesting. Come see what we’ve set up.” She dodged an old leather bag of tools—George’s, no doubt—with the ease of practice and drew Concordia over to a small glass case. Beside the case, easels held mounted lithograph reproductions of William Blake’s better-known tempura and watercolor paintings. A sign upon a side table described his body of work as an artist and poet.
Miss Phillips opened the case and gently extracted a slim, light-brown octavo booklet propped upon the apricot-velvet-lined interior, then frowned. She turned it right side up. “George? Whyever would you put the book in the wrong way?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t touched it, miss.”
“Well, I know I didn’t set it like that.” She leaned closer, squinting into the case. “And the bulb is gone. Did you remove it?”
“Gone?” George came over. “It weren’t me. Maybe it fell out.” He dropped to his knees and started groping under the table.
“Who else has been in here?” Concordia asked.
The lady pursed her lips as she thought. “Several people stopped by for an early look. I couldn’t very well refuse President Langdon, Lady Principal Pomeroy, or Dean Maynard. Then the librarian and Miss Crandall wanted to see it, too.”
“I can’t imagine any of them making mischief,” Concordia said. Of course, the absent-minded Miss Pomeroy would likely replace a book upside down, but steal a light bulb? Hardly.
“The doors aren’t kept locked during the day,” George said. “Maybe a student slipped in. Someone pulling a prank?”
Miss Phillips nodded. “That’s more likely, especially after the chapel incident the other day.”
“Well, don’t you worry, miss,” George said. “I have a spare bulb in my shop.”
“Good. We’d better check the rest of the cases. And I suppose I should inform the dean next time I see him.” Miss Phillips passed the booklet to Concordia. “Here it is. The Descriptive Catalogue. I’ll be right back.”
Concordia had of course handled historical books and documents before, but the thrill never abated. The entire booklet was barely larger than the size of her hand and only sixty-six pages in total. On the cover was a brown woodcut print, faded now. It was one of the plates from Jerusalem, the Emanation of the Great Albion, with “W. Blake” inset in the middle.
Miss Phillips returned. “Everything else looks in order, thank goodness.” She squinted over Concordia’s shoulder. “What pages would you like open for display?”
“Oh, definitely the Canterbury Pilgrims.” Concordia turned the pages carefully—the paper itself was of cheap quality and rather fragile—until she found the spot.
Number III.
Sir Jeffery Chaucer and the Nine-and-Twenty Pilgrims on their journey to Canterbury.
Blake’s original purpose in creating the Catalogue was to advertise sixteen of his best temperas, watercolors, and sketches, describing them in the booklet in great detail. However, it was the artist-poet’s ensuing commentaries that attracted the most attention to the Catalogue, then and since—particularly his exposition on the Canterbury Pilgrims. Blake had devoted more than a third of the Catalogue pages to them. She skimmed a few more pages before looking up. “Charles Lamb, one of Blake’s own contemporaries, considered it the finest criticism of the poem he’d ever read.” She handed back the booklet.
“True,” Miss Phillips said, “though Blake’s contemporaries, generally speaking, dismissed him as a bitter, erratic genius. Possibly insane.”
Concordia lifted an eyebrow. “William Blake is a far cry from the tombs and monuments of Ancient Egypt.”
Dorothy Phillips flushed. “A dear friend of mine is an avid Blake scholar.” She gripped the Catalogue a bit more tightly than was perhaps prudent and looked down at the page, though Concordia suspected that wasn’t what she saw.
“Miss Phillips? Are you all right?”
“Hmm? Yes, yes, I’m fine.” The lady blew out a breath. “Well then, we shall have it open to the Pilgrims.” She settled the Catalogue inside the case and locked it.
George leaned over with his cleaning rag and polished the glass. “How do you like the cabinet, Mrs. Bradley? Made it m’self, all oak trim, not a nail-hole in sight.”
“Impressive. Did it take you long?”
“A bit of time, but Mr. Symond and that lawyer of his got me started on it right at the beginning of the semester. The hardest part was dealing with the problem of heat from the electric bulb. I’ve built in vents to allow it to dissipate.”
“Indeed?” Concordia leaned closer to see the smooth-cut, even slats near the top, on either side of the empty bulb socket.
“Even so,” Miss Phillips said, “we’ll have to keep the use of the bulb to a minimum to avoid fading the ink even further.”
“You’ve gone to so much trouble, Mr. Lovelace,” Concordia said.
He smiled. “Not at all, ma’am.”
“I’m grateful to you. And to Mr. Symond, of course. It’s an incredibly generous gesture.”
Miss Phillips sighed.
No doubt Concordia’s expression matched the puzzled look she noted on the handyman’s face. The lady was working too hard.
“If you’ll excuse me,” George said, “I should be getting home. I’ll be sure to mail those reports for you, Miss Phillips.” He rummaged in the pocket of his overalls. “Oh, and I brought you back some of that tea you like, the kind you said you had trouble finding?” He passed over a small linen sack.
Miss Phillips’s eyes brightened as she reached for it. “Why, thank you, George. How thoughtful. What would I do without you?”
He cleared his throat awkwardly and left.
“Bless the man, his timing is perfect. I could do with a cup of tea,” Miss Phillips said. “Would you care to join me, Concordia? I’m sure I can scavenge another cup.”
Concordia realized she’d appreciate a chance to sit down for a bit. And of course, she’d never turned down a cup of tea in her life. “Excellent idea.”
Dorothy Phillips’s office always made Concordia smile. It had a comfortable, crammed orderliness that she’d come to associate with faculty spaces—bookshelves so overloaded with meticulously sorted volumes that they sagged in the middle, stacks of scholarly papers neatly corralled into crates set in the corner, open shelves lined with expedition artifacts from the lady’s collection.
As the history professor rummaged the desk drawers for a second cup, Concordia’s eyes strayed to the windowsill. Miss Phillips kept her favorite artifacts in that spot, including a little stone figurine of a black cat that Concordia especially liked. It was only six inches high, but there was a delicacy to the carving she found appealing.
It wasn’t there, though the other pieces remained.
“Where’s your cat statuette?”
“Hmm?”
Concordia repeated her question, adding, “You usually keep it there.” She pointed.
Miss Phillips glanced over at the sill. “Oh dear, I never noticed. The cleaning staff insisted upon coming in here to dust yesterday. I’d been putting them off long enough as it was. I’ll have to ask them.” She set a clean mug in front of Concordia, then blew into a gaudy floral cup with a chip in the handle. “Apparently they didn’t dust everything, but it will do. Shall I pour?”
“Yes, please. Perhaps whoever put the Catalogue in upside down and took the bulb also made off with your figurine?”
“I’m reluctant to suspect a student of outright theft. Besides, my office door is locked when I’m out. Don’t worry about it, dear. It will turn up, I’m sure.”
After a few moments of quiet sipping—the tea was more of a tisane, infused with citrus peel and quite good—Miss Phillips set her cup aside. “I’m glad you could come by. I have a project in mind to go along with the new display, something that might draw more visitors and perhaps future donors. I believe we can expand the Blake exhibit in the future, but it would be wise to not rely upon a single patron for that. Mr. Symond has been most generous, of course, but who knows when he would tire of the endeavor?”
Concordia smiled behind her cup. Miss Phillips was perceptive to have recognized the dilettante nature of Isaiah Symond’s pursuits. The man’s own home was evidence of that. He grew easily bored.
“What sort of project?”
“A series of lectures open to the public, upon the subject of William Blake’s works. Perhaps you could start with the Canterbury Pilgrims entry.” Miss Phillips paused. “If you’re available, of course. I know so little about married life and how busy you might already be….”
Concordia leaned forward. “That’s a wonderful idea. As far as academic responsibilities, I have only the one seminar in October. To be perfectly honest, I’ve been feeling distinctly underutilized.”
Dorothy Phillips smiled. “Well, we cannot have that. We would have to settle the details quickly, however. For maximum effect, we should announce the series at tomorrow night’s exhibit opening.”
“Perhaps we could start small—say, a two-part series, the first in a few weeks’ time, and the second prior to Thanksgiving, before things get really busy at the end of the semester.”
“Excellent,” Miss Phillips said. “Can you write out lecture titles and brief descriptions right away? I’d need it by tomorrow morning. Then I’ll have a student who’s skilled at calligraphy put together a small sign.”
“Of course.”
“Wonderful! We’ll announce it at the opening. The mayor and his wife will be attending, along with the trustees, and if I know Edward Langdon, he’ll ask a reporter from the Courant to cover the event.”
Concordia couldn’t decide if the tingling sensation along her spine was nervousness or excitement. “I’ll have it to you first thing tomorrow, if not sooner.”
By the time she stepped out of Founder’s Hall, the picnic was well underway. The quadrangle and the grounds beyond were dotted with blankets, hamper baskets, young ladies in bright dresses, and college boys in jaunty straw boaters.
One of the girls stood and waved in her direction. Maisie Lovelace. Madeline scrambled to her feet beside her, turning aside and briefly putting a handkerchief to her face.
Concordia made her way over, dodging sprawled legs and sandwich wrappers. She had just reached them when Lawrence, dressed in a pale gray seersucker jacket, approached quickly from the other side.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said breathlessly. “Richardson kept me past the lunch hour with a box of filing.” He tipped his cap to Concordia.
“There, you see?” Maisie said, prodding Madeline. “I told you he’d come.”
Madeline sniffed. “I don’t know if I feel like a picnic anymore.”
What a contrary girl. Not satisfied with the rules about restricting young men visiting and yet not happy when the young man did visit. Perhaps Madeline had not the inner character she thought.
One thing Concordia knew for sure. All this drama was making her head hurt.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Bradley?” Maisie asked.
“A bit of a headache, that’s all.” Mercifully, as she was not a chaperone, she was free to come and go. Perhaps the married life did have its advantages. “I’ll catch up with you later. Have fun.”
After a cheese sandwich and an apple at the staff buffet, she felt considerably better. She headed to the library. Why not start on the project for Miss Phillips?
The interior was orderly and mercifully quiet. Only a few students lingered.
She browsed the Chaucer section, pulled out a couple of books, and made her way to the scholars’ alcoves, a space designated for upperclassmen and visiting teachers. The librarian, Jane Cowles, had set aside an alcove for her this semester.
She waved to the librarian as she passed the circulation desk but didn’t stop to chat. Miss Cowles, a fixture at the school for the past twenty years, was a wiry, intense woman, with a habit of regarding the world along the end of a narrow nose that often quivered over some imagined slight. Concordia found her more than a bit intimidating.
The alcove, though small, was equipped with a small mahogany writing desk, comfortable chair, a shelf, and writing implements.
She plunked her books on the desk and groped for her seat. Abruptly, the rear legs of the chair buckled and she fell backward with a crash.
“Heavens!” Miss Cowles exclaimed, hurrying over to rescue the flailing Concordia, whose knees were tipped in the air, her skirts in her face. “Are you all right, Mrs. Bradley?”
Concordia heard a young lady giggle somewhere behind her, but she and the librarian were too busy getting her upright to see who it was.
“What happened?” Concordia winced and rubbed the shoulder she’d fallen upon.
Miss Cowles clucked her tongue. “This is the second chair to collapse in as many days.” She crouched down to examine the pieces. “I think I see the problem. Several screws have been taken out, where the legs join with the seat.”
“It was deliberate, then?”
“I’m afraid so. I regret that I didn’t look carefully at the one that broke yesterday. I thought it was simply an old chair that had finally reached the end of its utility. But of course, it’s obvious now. Someone sabotaged them.” She led Concordia over to a sturdy, upholstered chair. “Sit and catch your breath while I check the other chairs. I’ll bring you a reliable one.” She hurried away.
Concordia sighed. There were most certainly pranksters on the loose this semester.
Once she was re-settled upon another chair, Concordia spent the rest of the afternoon perusing books, compiling notes, and writing up topic descriptions for Miss Phillips. She looked up from her work finally when Miss Cowles approached and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but we have to lock up. I’m needed to help supervise the students around the bonfire.”
Mercy, it was already dark outside. “Of course,” Concordia said. “I remember how nerve-wracking the bonfire can be.” Darkness, flames, and long skirts were not a good combination, but the tradition was stubbornly entrenched.
Miss Cowles’s thin nose quivered. “The conflagration grows bigger every year. Count yourself lucky you don’t have to worry about such things anymore.”
Concordia gave a rueful smile and tucked away the sheet she’d prepared for Miss Phillips. “Just give me a moment while I put the books away.”
“No need.” Miss Cowles waved a hand. “I’ll have a student clean up in the morning.”
Concordia took the staff cut-through in back of the library. It was supposed to be a fire exit, really, though teachers regularly used it to get from the library to the Hall stairwell that led up to their offices. The librarian had long ago given up trying to get people to leave through the front doors and go around to the outside staff entrance.
It should only take a minute to drop off her notes to Miss Phillips. And a good thing, too. Her rumbling stomach reminded her she was overdue for supper at home.
She crossed the stairwell and went through the other door to reach the little corridor leading to Miss Phillips’s office.
The door was locked. No one was within. Concordia slid the paper under the door in case she returned tonight.
Miss Phillips might be at the bonfire. Once outside, Concordia followed the sounds of laughter and the scent of wood smoke to the pond.
The girls were standing back from the flames, tossing the wood collected from the Bradley farm onto the pile, along with old school papers, stray sticks...anything that would burn. She squinted through the play of firelight. No sign of Dorothy Phillips, though she did see Miss Jenkins, who paced along the perimeter waving a long stick. She headed toward her.
Miss Jenkins had been put in charge of overseeing the bonfire ever since the Singed Skirt Incident of ’96. If ever there was a time when the lady’s basketball coaching skills were needed to keep the students in line, it was now.
“Not so close!” she called out sharply.
Concordia jumped back instinctively, but she wasn’t the object of the reprimand.
“Miss Bonner!” Miss Jenkins clarified, giving Concordia a sideways glance.
The young lady in question dutifully stepped away after tossing a clump of leaves onto the fire.
Miss Jenkins rolled her eyes. “Why must you girls add leaf litter? It is invariably damp and creates far too much smoke. Have you never built a wood fire before?”
All that was missing was the coach’s whistle around her neck.
The girl sheepishly dropped the rest.
Concordia hid a smile from the sharp-eyed matron. “Good evening, Miss Jenkins. Have you seen Miss Phillips?”
Hannah Jenkins snorted. “I haven’t the leisure to look away from this inferno, believe me.” She turned to an older girl who was employing a stout branch to push the glowing bits back into the pile. “Go around to the far side and make sure the freshies are keeping their distance.”
The girl hurried off.
“The stack is so large this year I can’t see the other side.” Miss Jenkins brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. “Now, what was it you asked?”
“Miss Phillips,” Concordia prompted.
“Ah. She’s busy with preparations for the exhibit opening tomorrow. Asked to be excused from the bonfire festivities.”
Concordia watched the dancing flames. There seemed little point in finding Dorothy Phillips tonight. She may as well go home.
As she left the pond and took the lighted path toward Rook’s Hill, Concordia noticed movement in the shadow of the gazebo off to her right. Two figures, male and female.
Oh-ho-ho, that would not do at all. She changed direction toward the gazebo path. Even though she wasn’t a teacher anymore, she certainly wasn’t going to allow some dalliance to take place in the shadows.
As she approached the gazebo, she slowed, caution overriding her initial impulse. What if it was a confidential talk between staff members? She’d been too far away to see if the figures were students or teachers. She should first make sure.
As she sidled closer, shielded by the ivy-covered lattice screen, she heard a male voice.
“I’m telling you, it cannot be true. He’s playing at some kind of game.”
Concordia frowned. Lawrence. Which meant the lady must be—
“He has no reason to lie.”
Concordia nodded to herself. Yes—Madeline.
“Well, I don’t believe it for a minute,” he retorted. “I’m going to talk to him again. We’ll settle this once and for all.”
The young lady’s answer was indistinguishable.
Concordia drew closer, no longer interested in playing glowering matron to a lovers’ tryst. Besides, she reasoned, they could not be kissing if they were talking. But what distressed them so? What “he” did they mean?
“I really do care for you, you know.” Madeline’s voice was tight with anguish. “I’m sorry.”
“I will not allow some malicious old man to come between us,” Lawrence said. “I’d kill him first.”
Concordia sucked in a quiet breath at the ferocity of his tone.
Madeline was weeping now. “Don’t talk like that, please. Can’t you see it’s no use? We cannot change the facts. There is nothing more to be done.”
“Maddy. Maddy, don’t cry.” Lawrence’s voice was muffled.
Concordia risked a peek through the vines and saw that he’d embraced the girl.
But she quickly pushed him away. “We can never see each other a—again.”
Concordia flattened herself against the vegetation as Madeline ran out. Lawrence did not follow. Curious, she squinted through the gap to see him collapsed on the bench, head in his hands.
Unsure what to do, she left him, quietly resuming her path toward home. The “old man” Lawrence referred to must be Isaiah Symond. She remembered Madeline saying that Symond seemed distant when they’d first met, possibly disapproving of an affaire de coeur just as Lawrence was embarking upon his career.
Had Symond interfered more forcefully? How had he persuaded Madeline to break off the relationship? Had he told her about the young man’s profligate past?
Even so, Madeline had no living parents to object to the courtship, and Concordia doubted the girl would break off the romance based upon Lawrence’s history. By all appearances, he was a reformed man.
But a man with a temper, she reminded herself.
I’d kill him first.
She shivered.
Perhaps she could get Madeline to confide in her. Or David could speak with Lawrence when he returned. How she wished David were here now, so she could hash it over with him.
Ah, but if David were here, what would he say about her interference?
Step two—the young lady finds herself in trouble. Step three—you intervene. Then…boom!
She wrinkled her nose. Maybe it was better for him to be away at the moment.
Mrs. Houston had left a lamp burning in the kitchen beside a covered plate of cold ham and leftover biscuits. Bless the woman. They’d all be spoiled if this kept up much longer.
After Concordia had eaten, she climbed the stairs to Madeline’s room. The door was closed. No light shone underneath.
In the quiet, she thought she heard… She leaned closer. Yes, snuffling sounds. Madeline was crying. Should she knock? Better not. The girl would not appreciate being disturbed. There would be time tomorrow for a talk.