battered metal file cabinet. "Beckman," she muttered, as she leafed through the contents, "Beckman... Yes, here is the girl's record." She tossed a file folder on the desk in front of Conor and sat down opposite him again. "Not that I've forgotten anything in that file, sir. One does not forget the Mirandas of this world."
"Was she a problem student, Miss Foster?"
The headmistress smiled pityingly. "All our girls," she said, making it sound like gels, "are behaviorally challenged, Mr. O'Neil."
He nodded and concentrated on keeping his expression neutral.
"Do you recall in what particular way Miranda was, ah, behaviorally challenged?"
Miss Foster pursed her lips. "It would be simpler to tell you in what ways she was not." She reached across her desk, opened the file, and pulled out the top page. "By the time she came to us, she had been expelled from three other boarding schools for everything from being intoxicated to inappropriate sexual behavior."
"Inappropriate sexual... Could you be more specific, Miss Foster?"
Agnes Foster fixed him with a cold eye. "I see no reason to, Mr. O'Neil. I think the term speaks for itself."
It probably did. And it didn't really matter if the phrase meant Miranda had been caught behind a dorm with a local lad or if she'd been found in bed with the entire football team from a neighboring boys' school. He didn't need the information.
Not officially.
Conor frowned and shifted in the uncomfortable chair.
"I understand she ran away from here," he said. "Is that right?"
"Indeed. It was a terrible scandal, for us and for her poor mother."
"Who did she run off with, Miss Foster? Do you recall?"
"Distinctly. Count Edouard de Lasserre, the cousin of Miranda's roommate, Amalie." The headmistress's nostrils flared delicately. "To think that members of such a fine old French family should have been compromised by that girl... oh, it still makes my hackles rise!"
"It was Miranda's doing, then?"
"Of course it was! Amalie was beside herself, and her parents were furious. They removed her from our school at once and she returned to France. As for the Count—I must say, I felt pity for him."
"You don't hold him responsible for what happened?"
"I do not. Miranda was a corrupting influence, even at her tender age. She lured him into the situation. I am sorry, Mr. O'Neil, but I must be blunt. The Count de Lasserre should have been wiser but he had every man's appetites and weaknesses and Miranda played upon them."
Conor looked up from the file. Agnes Foster's wrinkled cheeks were flushed. She wasn't sorry, she was simply delivering the gospel she lived by. He thought of telling her that men who let their gonads lead them around were no longer considered helpless creatures—but then he thought of the portrait of Miranda, and his embarrassing reaction to it, and changed his mind. Besides, arguing with this old battleaxe would get him nowhere.
"How did her mother and stepfather react to the elopement, Miss Foster?"
"How would you expect them to react, sir? They were beside themselves with worry. Why, Mrs. Winthrop chartered a plane and flew right to Paris."
"And?"
"And, that's all I know. I explained to Mrs. Winthrop, before she left, that we could not possibly re-admit her daughter. She asked me to recommend another school and I did, a very fine academy in Chilton known to have excellent results with difficult students."
Conor frowned and thought back on his talk with Eva Winthrop. "She wasn't going to take Miranda home to live, then?"
"No, certainly not."
He nodded. Perhaps he'd misunderstood Eva. "So, you recommended a school, and...?"
Miss Foster's bony shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug. "The girl never put in an appearance."
"You've no idea what happened to her?"
"None."
Conor pushed back his chair. "Well, Miss Foster, thank you for your time."
"It's just a pity, really. Miranda was really quite bright." The headmistress stabbed her index finger against the records
"Was she a problem student, Miss Foster?"
The headmistress smiled pityingly. "All our girls," she said, making it sound like gels, "are behaviorally challenged, Mr. O'Neil."
He nodded and concentrated on keeping his expression neutral.
"Do you recall in what particular way Miranda was, ah, behaviorally challenged?"
Miss Foster pursed her lips. "It would be simpler to tell you in what ways she was not." She reached across her desk, opened the file, and pulled out the top page. "By the time she came to us, she had been expelled from three other boarding schools for everything from being intoxicated to inappropriate sexual behavior."
"Inappropriate sexual... Could you be more specific, Miss Foster?"
Agnes Foster fixed him with a cold eye. "I see no reason to, Mr. O'Neil. I think the term speaks for itself."
It probably did. And it didn't really matter if the phrase meant Miranda had been caught behind a dorm with a local lad or if she'd been found in bed with the entire football team from a neighboring boys' school. He didn't need the information.
Not officially.
Conor frowned and shifted in the uncomfortable chair.
"I understand she ran away from here," he said. "Is that right?"
"Indeed. It was a terrible scandal, for us and for her poor mother."
"Who did she run off with, Miss Foster? Do you recall?"
"Distinctly. Count Edouard de Lasserre, the cousin of Miranda's roommate, Amalie." The headmistress's nostrils flared delicately. "To think that members of such a fine old French family should have been compromised by that girl... oh, it still makes my hackles rise!"
"It was Miranda's doing, then?"
"Of course it was! Amalie was beside herself, and her parents were furious. They removed her from our school at once and she returned to France. As for the Count—I must say, I felt pity for him."
"You don't hold him responsible for what happened?"
"I do not. Miranda was a corrupting influence, even at her tender age. She lured him into the situation. I am sorry, Mr. O'Neil, but I must be blunt. The Count de Lasserre should have been wiser but he had every man's appetites and weaknesses and Miranda played upon them."
Conor looked up from the file. Agnes Foster's wrinkled cheeks were flushed. She wasn't sorry, she was simply delivering the gospel she lived by. He thought of telling her that men who let their gonads lead them around were no longer considered helpless creatures—but then he thought of the portrait of Miranda, and his embarrassing reaction to it, and changed his mind. Besides, arguing with this old battleaxe would get him nowhere.
"How did her mother and stepfather react to the elopement, Miss Foster?"
"How would you expect them to react, sir? They were beside themselves with worry. Why, Mrs. Winthrop chartered a plane and flew right to Paris."
"And?"
"And, that's all I know. I explained to Mrs. Winthrop, before she left, that we could not possibly re-admit her daughter. She asked me to recommend another school and I did, a very fine academy in Chilton known to have excellent results with difficult students."
Conor frowned and thought back on his talk with Eva Winthrop. "She wasn't going to take Miranda home to live, then?"
"No, certainly not."
He nodded. Perhaps he'd misunderstood Eva. "So, you recommended a school, and...?"
Miss Foster's bony shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug. "The girl never put in an appearance."
"You've no idea what happened to her?"
"None."
Conor pushed back his chair. "Well, Miss Foster, thank you for your time."
"It's just a pity, really. Miranda was really quite bright." The headmistress stabbed her index finger against the records
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