Dangerous and Unseemly Page 10

  Margaret Banning was giving Concordia a more frank appraisal, as she rang for tea.

  “So, you’re the one who has charge of the senior play now, eh?” Miss Banning commented. She looked at Concordia intently, her eyes wide and distorted through her glasses. “I hope that Hamilton woman knows what she’s doing. You don’t look much older than a senior student yourself. How are you going to control that passel of young brats?”

  Concordia, still reeling from the lady principal being dubbed “that Hamilton woman,” and not at all certain she could handle the seniors, sat, silent. She flushed with irritation.

  Miss Banning moved on to another topic. “What do you think of our new Lady Principal, Miss Wells? I’ve been hearing interesting reports of her.”

  “I admire her, of course,” Concordia responded tentatively.

  Miss Banning was unimpressed. “Humph. ‘Admiration is the daughter of ignorance.’ Benjamin Franklin. I don’t want platitudes, girl. What do you really think?”

  Concordia considered her answer. She was not sure what she thought of Miss Hamilton. She felt rather intimidated by the lady principal.

  “She is undoubtedly strict, but seems to be fair,” she said finally.

  The old lady shot her a keen glance. “Know anything about her background? Where she comes from?” Her sly smile hinted at something more.

  The chair creaked as Concordia leaned forward. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Banning? Miss Hamilton has impeccable credentials. It is common knowledge that she was headmistress at Forsythe Academy, a most prestigious girls’ school.”

  Miss Banning snorted. “And how long has it been since she left that position? Seven years. Did you know that, my smart young miss? I think not. But she has led everyone to believe it was more recent than that.”

  “It is of no consequence,” Concordia said dismissively, although she would not admit to the old busybody that she was curious about it, too. “She has the necessary credentials, nonetheless.”

  “But no one knows anything about her life during these past seven years, before she came to the school,” Miss Banning persisted. “Do you not find that strange? What has she been doing? For all we know, she could have been in prison all that time.”

  Concordia knew it would be rude to laugh in her face, and restrained herself. “I don’t believe we have to worry about that,” she said mildly. “But we should respect Miss Hamilton’s privacy, don’t you think? She has dealt with some trying circumstances lately.” Concordia wasn’t sure how much Miss Banning knew of the incidents at the college, although word of Miss Lyman’s death had undoubtedly reached her.

  Miss Banning grunted. “Ah, yes, the bursar’s death. Most trying for her, I’m sure. And those pranks, too. Hardly surprising, however.”

  “What in heaven’s name do you mean by that?” Concordia said sharply.

  Margaret Banning, surprised, gave a long, yellow-toothed smile. “Nothing takes place in a vacuum, my dear young lady. How well do you know the history of the college, and of the people who run it? ‘When the past no longer illuminates the future, the spirit walks in darkness.’ de Tocqueville.”

  “But these were student pranks, Miss Banning,” Concordia protested. “The students have little ‘history’ at the college. And Miss Lyman, unfortunately, succumbed to melancholia and died by her own hand.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Banning countered, “but I doubt our sharp-eyed lady principal is convinced of the suicide, or thinks that mere student high-spirits are involved in the campus pranks. And you would be more naïve than I take you for to assume it, either.”

  The old lady waved her cane wildly in the air to emphasize her point. The cats scattered, then placidly resettled themselves.

  Miss Banning continued, warming to her theme. “’A man's affairs become diseased when he wishes to cure evils by evils.’ Sophocles. Ever read Sophocles, Miss Wells, hmmm? Or do you just read those moony English poets? No substance to them at all.”

  Concordia refused to rise to the bait, although the woman was certainly trying her patience. “Which man’s affairs, Miss Banning?” she pressed. “Do you know who is responsible for the problems at the college? Did Miss Lyman die at the hand of someone else?”

  Margaret Banning shook her head stubbornly. “I have no proof. One can damage a person’s character through ill-advised accusations. ‘It takes many good deeds to build a good reputation, and only one bad one to lose it.’ Franklin again. You would do well to read him.”

  “However,” the woman continued, noting Concordia’s vexation, “there is nothing to prevent you from making your own discoveries. You seem to be a lively sort. Use that head of yours, girl. ‘The measure of a man is what he does with power.’ Plato. Who has power at Hartford Women’s College? The students? Hardly.” Miss Banning gave a wheezy laugh.

  Concordia shifted restlessly in her chair. She had come here to discuss the play, not parry with the old lady and her sly hints. And yet, Miss Banning was voicing questions that had been troubling Concordia. But how would she go about finding answers?

  Her musings were interrupted by the same maid bringing in the tea tray. It was elaborately laid and exceedingly feminine: embroidered tea cloths, a matching set of translucent bone china, thinly-sliced sandwiches, delicate pastries. Wordlessly, the maid set down the tray with a decided thump, turned and left them to their own devices.

  What an odd maid, Concordia thought. She poured the tea, spicy and fragrant, while Margaret Banning, in a pointed change of subject, began discussing the senior play.

  They discussed role assignments, costumes and sets. They also talked about Concordia’s greatest challenge: raising the quality of the students’ portrayals. Concordia had realized, in the few rehearsals she had conducted so far, that most of the students were giving rather wooden performances, especially the senior in the lead role of Macbeth. This was where she needed the most help.

  Miss Banning grunted in disapproval. “A sad want of imagination, Miss Wells,” she said. “They are still thinking of their parts as words on a page! You must get them to conceive of these people as real.”

  “Take Macbeth, for instance,” she continued, leaning forward, eyes gleaming, “people forget that he begins as a brave and noble man, and a trustworthy one, while others around him show their traitorous and cowardly natures. That is how he first finds favor with the king and becomes Thane of Cawdor. Yet, what happens to him?” she asked Concordia, much as a teacher would ask a student.

  Concordia responded promptly: “He is tempted, and succumbs to his desire for power. He chooses evil, which gradually consumes him, until he cannot turn back.”

  Miss Banning made a noise of approval, adding: “Yes! Our ‘hero’ becomes the play’s villain, quite quickly. Why? His weakness—ambition. ‘I have no spur/To prick the sides of my intent, but only/Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself,’ he says. Evil begets more evil.”

  Concordia understood all of this, and had already tried reviewing the themes and characters with the seniors. She didn’t see how this would help her.

  Margaret Banning thumped her cane for emphasis. “He is human, like the rest of us,” she said. “No matter how kind, well-intentioned, or amiable we may be, we are each equally capable of malice, under the right circumstances. Get your students to imagine that, and even better, to imagine a specific person, which reminds them of their characters.”

  She gave a mischievous grin. “I can think of a number of people, right under your nose, missy,” she said, belligerently pointing her cane at Concordia, “who would fit that description.”

  Chapter 21

  March 1896

  This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

  Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

  Unto our gentle senses.

  I.vi

  The next day, Sophia accompanied Concordia on her last obligation before she was to return to the college: a call upon Mr. Reynolds. He lived along Washington Street, amid the expanse of mansion
s dubbed “Governor’s Row.” As this section bordered the South Green neighborhood, it was close enough to Mrs. Wells’ house for the two of them to walk.

  Each was wearing her most flattering walking costume for the visit. Sophia looked quite stylish in a dark forest-green plaid suit, its skirt lined in rustling taffeta, and the jacket smoothly fitted at the waist to soften her angular frame. Concordia wore her favorite, a slate-gray Eaton suit. It was older and slightly out of fashion, but the tailored jacket created a slimming silhouette, while the wide and deeply-cut lapels, lined in black broadcloth to match the trim along the skirt’s edge, drew the eyes upward to one’s face.

  After considerable reflection, Concordia had decided not to wear mourning for Mary after the funeral. While the practice was customary for widows, there was no prescribed etiquette for other family members who were mourning a loss. She did not require an outward show of her grief to know how she felt, and such a display would only prompt unwanted questions and pitying looks, which she could not abide.

  The walk was a pleasant one. Typically, March in Hartford does not let go of winter easily; yet today was a rare day of early warmth, when the ground is coaxed into shrugging off its shroud of brown and gray. Bright patches of green were more abundant in the front yards they passed, and the trees were dotted with buds. Concordia, however, walked by it all in preoccupied silence. Between Miss Banning’s remarks, the doubts she felt about Miss Lyman’s death, and the secrets the Armstrongs were keeping from her, there seemed to be a great number of things she did not understand. What was her next step?

  Sophia ducked to avoid a low-hanging tree branch, which threatened to snag the ribboned edging from her hat. “I know that Mary’s death is troubling you,” she began hesitantly, stealing a sideways glance at her friend.

  Concordia felt a now-familiar twist in her stomach as she tried to explain her feelings. “I know I’m not the only one to lose a loved one in the blush of her youth,” she answered, “but Mary’s death doesn’t make sense to me. I just wish I understood it. Perhaps then I could be reconciled to losing her? I don’t know.”

  “It’s regrettable that you and Mary didn’t have more time together, to grow closer,” Sophia said. She hesitated, as if to add something more, but by then they had reached Julian Reynolds’ house.

  The Reynolds mansion was one of the largest of the row. And one of the most dramatic, in Concordia’s eyes. It was in the Italianate style, with ornamental cornices under wide, overhanging eaves, windows and doors topped with Roman arches, and balconies symmetrically flanking the sides of the house. Crowning the whole was an elaborate cupola.

  Sophia and Concordia exchanged looks. “A bit intimidating, isn’t it?” Concordia observed.

  Sophia gave her a scornful glance. “Nonsense,” she said, stepping forward to ring the bell. Concordia, however, noticed that Sophia straightened her jacket as they waited.

  Concordia was just beginning to wonder if they should ring again when the door was opened by a petite young parlor maid. She was blonde, and pretty, though clad simply in a gray dress and white apron.

  “Please to come in?” the girl said in heavily accented English. She collected their calling cards and gestured toward the front parlor.

  “I tell Mister Reynolds,” she declared, hurrying down the hallway and leaving them to find their own way.

  Concordia saw the same puzzled look on Sophia’s face that must have been on her own. She had expected Reynolds’ parlor maid to match the grandeur of the house: experienced, polished in manners, dressed in a lacy cap and apron rather than a plain uniform. This girl was obviously a recent immigrant, German or Swedish to guess by her accent.

  Through the doorway of the parlor, Concordia looked around the room, noting how different it was from Miss Banning’s establishment. It was unquestionably modern and elegant in taste, much like its owner. A delicate vine pattern, with muted tints of olive and cream, papered the walls; India fabrics and inlaid lacquer tables added an exotic note to the room. There was very little bric-a-brac. A grouping of framed photographs held pride of place on top of the piano.

  Julian Reynolds came down the hallway to greet them. Attired as he was in black morning coat, patterned tweed trousers, and a beautiful waistcoat of Prussian blue, he exuded a stylish air of at-home informality. Concordia felt a little catch in her throat.

  “Ladies, welcome,” he said. “Please, be comfortable!” He tutted over the sight of Concordia and Sophia hovering uncertainly in the parlor doorway, and ushered them into the room.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, “Olga is still learning her duties. My former maid abruptly decided to quit and get married, flighty girl! This new girl was the best I could do on short notice. My wife used to hire the servants,” he explained.

  It must be quite difficult to adjust to a widower’s life, Concordia thought. She wondered why he had not yet remarried.

  “Were you and your wife married for very long, Mr. Reynolds?” Sophia politely inquired.

  “Five years, Miss Adams,” he replied. “Alas, she died before we had any children. I do have one nephew, whom I get to see on occasion. I manage his trust fund for him. Delightful boy.”

  He took a frame from the piano and handed it to them. It was a side profile of a youth, with longish wavy hair and sparkling eyes, his mouth crooked into a hint of a smile.

  “He is my wife’s nephew, actually. I was an only child,” Reynolds said, passing another photograph over to them. The woman had a candy-box sort of prettiness: a soft, oval-shaped face, framed by wisps of the same wavy pale hair. Her self-assured smile suggested a life that was very much what she had expected it to be.

  “They are very like,” Concordia said. She gave them back to Mr. Reynolds, who carefully placed them on the piano, picking up another to show them.

  “And these are my parents, taken shortly before their deaths. I am sorry to say that I’m the only one of my family left.”

  “That must be very difficult for you,” Concordia murmured sympathetically. She looked closely at the photograph, noticing how the slant of light played across eyes and cheekbones. She could see the son’s features in the father.

  “Who was the photographer?” she asked, passing it to Sophia. “The lighting is skillfully done.”

  Reynolds beamed with pleasure. “I took those photographs, Miss Wells,” he answered. “Photography has long been a hobby of mine.”

  Sophia shifted in her chair, and Concordia was reminded of the purpose of her visit.

  “I regret that we cannot stay long, Mr. Reynolds,” she began, “perhaps we should discuss the classes…”

  “But I must show you more of my photograph collection!” Mr. Reynolds exclaimed. “It would not take long. We can do both in a short time: I will get my albums, as well as the list of assignments and grades that I have compiled for your classes.”

  He jumped up and left the room before Concordia could protest.

  Sophia groaned. “’Albums?’ Is this necessary?” she asked impatiently.

  Concordia made a conciliatory gesture. “I don’t want to be rude to the man. He has done so much for me, Sophie.”

  Sophia, resigning herself to the inevitable, settled herself more comfortably in her chair.

  A quarter of an hour went by, without Mr. Reynolds reappearing. Concordia, feeling restless herself, decided to go looking for him.

  “Unorthodox behavior, Concordia, to be sure,” Sophia said with a grin.

  “How much longer do you want to wait here?” Concordia said peevishly. She opened the door and glanced down the hallway. It was empty.

  She walked along corridors, calling tentatively, “Mr. Reynolds?” It was such a large house, Concordia soon realized, that it was useless to call to him.

  There were more doors than she could keep track of. She began opening them at random, losing her caution as she proceeded through the first floor. The air became chill toward the back of the house; why were there no fires in any of these rooms?


  The state of the back rooms was quite different from the front parlor; here the furnishings were older, the carpets more threadbare, a thin layer of dust accumulating on the surfaces. Concordia ran her finger absent-mindedly along a bookshelf in what was probably the study, frowning at the smear on her glove. How to account for the neglect taking place here?

  She heard footfalls overhead. She should not be here; Mr. Reynolds would be embarrassed to know that she had seen the condition of these rooms.

  “Looking for something, my dear?” came an amused voice. Heart in her mouth, Concordia turned to see Mr. Reynolds, his arms full of bound volumes. Obviously, the footsteps she had heard overhead had not been his. Carefully, Reynolds set down the books and crossed the room in swift strides. Concordia backed up a few steps, where she was stopped by a wing chair.

  “I…I’m s…sorry, Mr. Reynolds,” she stammered. He stopped in front of her, close in front of her. She could feel his breath on the top of her head. Was he angry with her? She couldn’t tell.

  Julian Reynolds reached out and gently brushed back a loose strand of her hair. Like a trapped rabbit, Concordia froze, her heart beating wildly.

  “Miss Wells…” he hesitated as footsteps approached. Sighing, he dropped his hand and took a few steps back.

  “Mister Reynolds, sir, I make tea for your company?” The parlormaid had appeared at the door, and gave the two of them a quizzical look.

  “Yes, Olga, that would be fine,” he answered, turning around.

  “Where is the sugar, please?” Olga asked.

  “I’ll wait in the parlor,” Concordia said quickly, as Reynolds went with Olga in search of the sugar.

  “Ugh! Look at the dust on the back of your skirt,” Sophia commented, when Concordia returned.

  “I’ll explain later,” Concordia said. She swatted at her skirts, and settled herself back in her chair as Julian opened the door.