file. "Just look at these grades."
He looked at the neatly printed course names and the letters after them. A in math. A in science. In French. In philosophy.
"Philosophy?"
"Certainly." Miss Foster smiled. "We are great believers in the benefits of a well-rounded, classical education."
Conor hoped his smile was at least the equal of hers. "As in Plato?"
"We teach all the greats, sir. Plato. Kant..."
"Santayana?"
"By all means."
Conor nodded. That was it, then. The girl had sent the note, just to get under Eva's skin. He'd stake his reputation on it. He'd fly back to D.C., tell Thurston to phone his pal, Winthrop, make sounds of reassurance to him and his wife, and consider the matter closed.
He sighed, pushed back his chair, got to his feet and told himself he was happy to be done with the mess.
"Thank you very much for your time, Miss Foster."
"I hope I've been helpful, Mr. O'Neil." The headmistress rose, too, and came around the desk towards him. "Please be assured that, unlike Miranda Beckman, most of our girls profit by their experience here and—"
Her hip brushed the file folder. It fell to the hardwood floor. Papers spilled in all directions, along with a small black and white photo.
Conor bent down, retrieved the papers and the folder and put them on Agnes Foster's desk. But he held on to the photograph, his eyes riveted to the grainy image.
It was a picture of Miranda.
She was seated in the grass, her back against a tree, her legs tucked gracefully beneath her. There was a book in her lap—he couldn't read the title but it seemed to be a slim volume—and from the startled look on her face, he knew the photographer must have surprised her. Her dark hair was wind-tossed; she had one hand raised as if to brush it back from her eyes. The other hand lay curled in her lap, clutching something white. A handkerchief, he thought, or a tissue. And she was smiling. Really smiling. Not mysteriously but happily, as if all of life's most wonderful secrets were about to become hers.
"...have to clean out these files!"
Conor pulled his gaze from the photo. Agnes Foster was glaring at it as if it were a personal insult.
"Sorry, Miss Foster. What did you say?"
"I said, I can see that I'm going to have to go through these old files and sort them out."
"When was this snapshot taken, do you know?"
The headmistress took the picture from him. "Well," she said, "in the early spring, I should think. That's a dogwood tree. Do you see how it's starting to bloom?"
He did, now that the woman had pointed it out. He saw, too, that what he'd taken for a tissue or a handkerchief in Miranda's hand was, in fact, a creamy dogwood blossom.
"That's the sort of girl she was," Miss Foster said coldly. "Sitting on the grass when she knew it was forbidden, thoughtlessly plucking blossoms from the tree. I assure you, she would have been reprimanded for that."
"This was taken just before she ran away with the Count de Lasserre, then."
"Yes. In fact, I suspect he must have taken it." The headmistress's mouth tightened. "It was found in Miranda's closet, along with a few other things."
"Such as?"
"I don't recall, exactly. Some candy, I think, and a trashy book. Things she surely knew were forbidden. We pride ourselves on teaching self-discipline, Mr. O'Neil." Agnes Foster's nostrils flared. "Not that it did Miranda any good."
"Oh, I can see that," Conor said evenly. "A girl who'd walk on the grass, sneak chocolate into the dormitory..."
"They may seem minor infractions to you, sir, but our girls come to us with problems. They need a stern hand to guide them and I assure you, we attempted to offer that to Miranda. But it was too late. She was set in her ways, just as her mother and stepfather had warned us. She was self-centered. Selfish. A liar and a cheat." The headmistress's mouth twisted. "And promiscuous, to boot. I'm sorry to speak ill of a former student but I see no point in lying."
Conor took the photo from the woman's bony
He looked at the neatly printed course names and the letters after them. A in math. A in science. In French. In philosophy.
"Philosophy?"
"Certainly." Miss Foster smiled. "We are great believers in the benefits of a well-rounded, classical education."
Conor hoped his smile was at least the equal of hers. "As in Plato?"
"We teach all the greats, sir. Plato. Kant..."
"Santayana?"
"By all means."
Conor nodded. That was it, then. The girl had sent the note, just to get under Eva's skin. He'd stake his reputation on it. He'd fly back to D.C., tell Thurston to phone his pal, Winthrop, make sounds of reassurance to him and his wife, and consider the matter closed.
He sighed, pushed back his chair, got to his feet and told himself he was happy to be done with the mess.
"Thank you very much for your time, Miss Foster."
"I hope I've been helpful, Mr. O'Neil." The headmistress rose, too, and came around the desk towards him. "Please be assured that, unlike Miranda Beckman, most of our girls profit by their experience here and—"
Her hip brushed the file folder. It fell to the hardwood floor. Papers spilled in all directions, along with a small black and white photo.
Conor bent down, retrieved the papers and the folder and put them on Agnes Foster's desk. But he held on to the photograph, his eyes riveted to the grainy image.
It was a picture of Miranda.
She was seated in the grass, her back against a tree, her legs tucked gracefully beneath her. There was a book in her lap—he couldn't read the title but it seemed to be a slim volume—and from the startled look on her face, he knew the photographer must have surprised her. Her dark hair was wind-tossed; she had one hand raised as if to brush it back from her eyes. The other hand lay curled in her lap, clutching something white. A handkerchief, he thought, or a tissue. And she was smiling. Really smiling. Not mysteriously but happily, as if all of life's most wonderful secrets were about to become hers.
"...have to clean out these files!"
Conor pulled his gaze from the photo. Agnes Foster was glaring at it as if it were a personal insult.
"Sorry, Miss Foster. What did you say?"
"I said, I can see that I'm going to have to go through these old files and sort them out."
"When was this snapshot taken, do you know?"
The headmistress took the picture from him. "Well," she said, "in the early spring, I should think. That's a dogwood tree. Do you see how it's starting to bloom?"
He did, now that the woman had pointed it out. He saw, too, that what he'd taken for a tissue or a handkerchief in Miranda's hand was, in fact, a creamy dogwood blossom.
"That's the sort of girl she was," Miss Foster said coldly. "Sitting on the grass when she knew it was forbidden, thoughtlessly plucking blossoms from the tree. I assure you, she would have been reprimanded for that."
"This was taken just before she ran away with the Count de Lasserre, then."
"Yes. In fact, I suspect he must have taken it." The headmistress's mouth tightened. "It was found in Miranda's closet, along with a few other things."
"Such as?"
"I don't recall, exactly. Some candy, I think, and a trashy book. Things she surely knew were forbidden. We pride ourselves on teaching self-discipline, Mr. O'Neil." Agnes Foster's nostrils flared. "Not that it did Miranda any good."
"Oh, I can see that," Conor said evenly. "A girl who'd walk on the grass, sneak chocolate into the dormitory..."
"They may seem minor infractions to you, sir, but our girls come to us with problems. They need a stern hand to guide them and I assure you, we attempted to offer that to Miranda. But it was too late. She was set in her ways, just as her mother and stepfather had warned us. She was self-centered. Selfish. A liar and a cheat." The headmistress's mouth twisted. "And promiscuous, to boot. I'm sorry to speak ill of a former student but I see no point in lying."
Conor took the photo from the woman's bony
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