Love on Assignment (35 page)

Charlotte stood before the woman, scarcely breathing. Mrs. Wilmont leaned into the tall back of the settee.

“I'll come straight to the point. My son informed me he proposed marriage and you refused. I have to admit, your answer shocked me. I'm certain he'll get over his distress in short order and get on with his life without skipping a beat. You bewitched him temporarily, but that kind of fascination can't last long. He'll be free of you in no time.”

“And I'll be free of you as well,” Charlotte muttered under her breath, surprised by her own rudeness, though not as repentant as she ought to be.

“I think it would be best if you left this house without delay.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. She should've known dismissal was inevitable. “I'm planning to, but I'd like to talk to the professor first.” She headed for the French doors. “I shall look for him at once.”

Mrs. Wilmont gave her a short nod and returned to the book on her lap.

Charlotte hurried up the servant's staircase, gathered her hat and umbrella, and then hurried outside. A stiffening breeze slapped her face and whistled past her ears. Full-skirted tree branches dipped and swayed and threatened to break. Not a grand day for strolling out of doors. Overhead, the leaden sky thickened like layers of dirty cotton batting as a single raindrop splashed her nose. Charlotte increased her pace, hoping to arrive at the theology building before the sky split apart. Her booted feet barely touched the dirt road as she sprinted across the wide lawn and down Cove Road toward the campus. Once she entered the building, she paused to catch her breath and rest her pounding heart. Then she folded her umbrella, took a deep breath, and strode down the empty corridor to Daniel's office. The door stood ajar. Charlotte peeked inside. The middle-aged woman seated behind a typewriter looked up and nodded politely.

“May I help you?” the lady asked. “I'm Miss Gregory, the department secretary.” Her eyes squinted, and then a pleasant smile crossed her face. “You're the Wilmonts' governess, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am. I'm looking for the professor. Do you know his whereabouts?”

Miss Gregory shook her head. “His last class ended half an hour ago, and he departed for the weekend.” The secretary touched her cheek. “Wait a moment. I do believe Professor Wilmont mentioned he was speaking at a young ladies' meeting.”

Charlotte's hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness. I forgot all about the get-together. Do you know where it's being held?”

“No, I'm so sorry. I don't have any idea.”

Charlotte groaned. “Thank you all the same, Miss Gregory. Do you happen to know where Miss—oh my, I forgot her name.”

Who
was
the woman originally slated to speak at the ladies' retreat? Sykes? Simmons? Symington? That was it. “Can you tell me where Miss Symington's office is located? I'm quite sure she'll have the details.”

“That I do know. Her office is at the end of the corridor, the last door on the right.”

“Thank you so much.” With a wave toward Daniel's secretary, Charlotte hastened down the hall.

“May I come in?” she called from Miss Symington's open doorway.

A short, plump woman of about forty beckoned Charlotte inside the empty office. She transferred a pile of books from her desk to the glass bookcase behind her desk. “Do come in. I'm Miss Symington. May I be of assistance?” Her upturned mouth softened a sagging face surrounded by a mass of graying hair scraped back in a chignon.

Relieved, Charlotte took a fortifying breath. “I hope so. I'm trying to find Professor Wilmont. I understand he's taking your place as guest speaker at a retreat . . .”

“Excuse me, but what retreat is that?” The professor wrinkled her forehead in a frown.

“The one Miss LeBeau organized.” Charlotte moaned inwardly. She didn't even know the name of the group sponsoring the event, so she couldn't refresh Miss Symington's memory. “She said you were scheduled to speak, but you withdrew because your father is ill.”

Miss Symington shook her head and the creases in her forehead deepened. “I'm so sorry. I don't know what you're referring to. But, thank the good Lord, my father is in perfect health.”

Panic shot through Charlotte. Something was very wrong. Or was her imagination running amok? “Maybe I've made a mistake. I apologize for bothering you.”

“No bother at all,” the woman replied.

Charlotte walked down the hall toward the front of the building. Missy had no reason to lie about Miss Symington unless she was playing some sort of trick. Stepping outside, Charlotte opened her umbrella. She had to find Daniel.

But where was he? Perhaps Agnes Brownington, the student she'd met near the bandstand on Sunday, had information about the retreat. Charlotte glanced from one red brick building to the next until she spotted a sign saying Dean Hall, Women's Dormitory. Once inside she asked a woman seated at the front desk for Miss Brownington. Charlotte tried not to fidget, but every second that ticked by seemed to take forever. Agnes finally arrived in the lobby and greeted her with a welcoming smile.

Dressed in a navy blue skirt and tailored white shirtwaist with a cameo at the neck, she looked every inch a scholar. “It's nice to see you again. Miss Hale, isn't it?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Brownington. I'm sorry to take you away from your studies, but I'm here on an urgent matter.”

“That's perfectly all right. And please call me Agnes. May I help you with something?”

She led Charlotte to a sitting area tucked in a corner of the large room. They lowered onto stiff chairs upholstered in a plush bottle green that matched the heavy curtains topped with tassels. Charlotte quickly asked Agnes if she knew anything about the ladies' get-together sponsored by the college prayer group.

Agnes paled as her mouth drooped open. “Missy did mention she planned to meet the professor this weekend, but she didn't give any details.” Agnes raised a brow. “If she's caught she'll be in a world of trouble.” Her face hardened as she stood up and paced in front of the window blurred with rain.

Charlotte was taken aback. Agnes seemed angry—but at Missy, not the professor.

“Unfortunately,” Charlotte said, “if their meeting becomes public knowledge, the professor will be hurt as much as Missy.”

Startled, Agnes looked skeptical. “Whatever do you mean?”

“People will misconstrue the meeting and believe the professor is to blame and Missy is the innocent victim of an older man with immoral intensions.”

Agnes's hands flew to her mouth. “No, you must be mistaken. He is the most honorable person I've ever met.”

“I agree, but others might not. I happen to know the
Rhode Island Reporter
is trying to discredit him. If they learn of this meeting, they'll be there to catch them together.”

Agnes's skin blanched to grayish-white. “The
Rhode Island Reporter
wants to hurt Professor Wilmont? But why?”

“It's a long story. But suffice it to say, the editor of that paper wants to destroy Professor Wilmont. And he's not above conjuring up a story about Missy LeBeau in order to do it.”

Agnes stopped pacing. “I didn't realize they were feuding.” She crumpled into a chair opposite Charlotte, her face a picture of despair.

“Do you know where they'll meet?” Charlotte pressed. She didn't really have time to coddle the young woman.

“I think she's going to meet him at the LeBeau's cottage. I wrote down the name somewhere. Wait just a minute. I'll get it from my bedroom.”

Agnes hurried off and returned quickly. With a trembling hand, she gave a scrap of paper to Charlotte. Spring Creek Lodge was written in bold, block letters—just like the message Mr. Phifer had received from his anonymous source.

Charlotte expelled a gasp. “You're the one who gave the false tip to the newspaper. Shame on you, Agnes. Whatever were you thinking?”

Agnes pulled her to the far end of the room where no one passing by could overhear. “I know I was wrong, but I wanted Miss LeBeau to leave the professor alone. I thought if she were caught in some sort of compromising situation, she'd be tossed out of the college.”

“Didn't it occur to you the professor would most likely be blamed?”

Agnes covered her mouth and sniffed. “No, never. I thought everyone would know she was the one chasing after him.”

“Well, you made a horrible mistake.”

“Yes, I see that I did.” Agnes's voice choked with sobs.

Charlotte felt a twinge of sympathy for the jealous young woman. “Where is Spring Creek Lodge located?”

“I don't know.”

“I must find the professor before Mr. Phifer does.”

Agnes took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “Do you think the professor will ever forgive me?” Agnes asked, hope giving strength to her voice.

Charlotte shook her head. “Knowing him, I think it's entirely possible.” Charlotte swept out of the dormitory into the wet afternoon. She shivered. Big drops of rain pelted her as she leapt over puddles all along Cove Road. Her boots kicked up mud that soiled her cotton stockings and the hem of her skirt. Huffing and puffing from her tight corset, Charlotte ran to Summerhill until her lungs threatened to burst right through her bodice. When she finally reached the cottage, she rushed inside.

TWENTY-TWO

C
harlotte found the elderly lovebirds sitting side by side on the drawing room settee, a discreet distance apart. She cleared her throat to attract their attention. Mrs. Wilmont turned her head sideways, glaring at the interruption, then looked back at her beau, Mr. McClintock. “Pardon me for a moment, Horace.” She turned to her. “What is it, Charlotte? And do be quick about it.”

“Excuse me, please, but do you know where Spring Creek Lodge is located?”

Daniel's mother jerked her chin upward in a regal pose worthy of Mrs. Astor. “I thought you'd have spoken to my son and would've departed by now.”

Charlotte recoiled at the chill in the woman's voice. “No ma'am, as you can clearly see, I'm still here. I must speak to the professor first.”

Mr. McClintock looked from one to the other as he wrung his hands. He grabbed an open box of bonbons from the marble end table and thrust it under his ladylove's nose even though it was only mid-morning. “Do have one, Vivian.”

Mrs. Wilmont took two pieces and sent him a gracious smile. “Horace, Charlotte has decided to leave now that I'm feeling somewhat better. I thought she'd already be on her way home.” Mrs. Wilmont twitched a smirk. “Charlotte, why don't you just leave him a note?”

“I may do that. But first, I must find that lodge.”

“Well, I don't know where Spring Creek Lodge is located.” She turned back to Mr. McClintock, ignoring Charlotte after one last glare.

Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. “Then I'm afraid I'll have to stay right here until Daniel returns.”

Mrs. Wilmont's smirk changed to a grimace. “That surely isn't necessary. He might have left the address on his desk. You may look on your way out.” Honey laced with arsenic flowed from her mouth.

“Thank you.”

“By the way,” she called, her reedy voice wrapping around Charlotte and bringing her to a halt, “Mr. McClintock discovered something about one of your references. Mr. Henry Stapleton. No wonder my son couldn't locate him. The man passed away three years ago. Now tell me, how could a dead man write a recommendation?”

Charlotte felt the heat of humiliation burn her face. She knew those references would come back to haunt her. “I'm afraid I'm in too big of a hurry to explain,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“I'll be sure to tell my son.” Mrs. Wilmont's malicious laugh followed Charlotte down the hall as she strode to Daniel's office.
Oh Lord, I pray he left the information
.
I hope he's not walking right into Missy's trap. And maybe Mr. Phifer's as well. Please protect Daniel, Lord
.

Charlotte paged through a stack of test papers and student essays scattered across his desk, her hands shaky. Then on a note hidden beneath a glass paperweight, she found a few scribbled words:
Spring Creek Lodge, Bolling Hill Road—Student gathering.

Thank You, Lord
. Her relief escaped in a long sigh. Maybe she still had a chance to catch Daniel before Missy got her hands on him. Literally.

Grasping her umbrella, Charlotte rushed out the front door and onto the veranda. Rain slanted beneath the porch roof and wet the hydrangea and cedar bushes poking through the spindles.

“Hello, Miss Hale.” Ruthie's girlish voice sounded thin against the splatter of raindrops on the veranda roof and the whine of the wind. “Where are you going?” Pushing back and forth on the porch glider, Ruthie held
An Old Fashioned Girl
on her lap.