Dangerous and Unseemly Page 12

  “Without the bicycle this time,” he said teasingly. She found herself agreeing to go.

  Mr. Bradley possessed a warmth and sense of humor that Concordia found endearing. She felt at ease in his company. He certainly did not make her heart beat faster or her breath catch in her throat the way Julian Reynolds’ presence did, but she did not need that additional complication. In fact, Concordia had not seen Mr. Reynolds since her return to campus. She wondered if the gentleman was avoiding her.

  She was quickly disabused of that notion, however, when she approached the door to her quarters. Propped carefully beside the lintel, for all the world to see, was a single red rose. A note lay beside it. The seal was broken.

  With trembling fingers, Concordia picked up the note. As she read, she felt her face grow hot with embarrassment.

  Your beauty makes this rose blush in shame. I am just returned from business, and I long to see you again.

  Fondly,

  Julian

  Splendid. Someone—likely more than one person—had read the note. The rumors about her and Mr. Reynolds would be fanned back to life now. Please heaven the lady principal didn’t hear of it.

  Why did men have to complicate things so?

  Chapter 24

  Week 10, Instructor Calendar, April 1896

  But swords I smile at

  Weapons laugh to scorn,

  Brandished by a man that’s of a woman born.

  I.vii

  The day of the rally was unusually warm for a Hartford April. Concordia had just finished dressing when there was a knock on her door.

  “Yes?” she called out. Sophia Adams let herself in, giving Concordia a hug. She was dressed in her rally finery: a tailored dress of dotted white lawn, with a high lace collar, sleeves buttoned to the elbow, and narrow folds of bias satin at the skirt.

  “So, Sophie, are you ready to face the lions?” Concordia joked.

  Sophia looked subdued. “How are you, Concordia?”

  Concordia knew what she meant. “I still think of Mary,” she said quietly. “I won’t stop looking for answers. She deserves that.”

  Sophia nodded. “I’ve done a great deal of thinking, too. There is something I want to discuss with you, regarding Mary—” she sighed, looking at the watch pinned to her lapel, “but I have final preparations to oversee. Can we talk in the morning? I’m staying at DeLacey House tonight. The faculty reception after the rally will end late, so it seemed prudent to stay the night.”

  “Can’t you tell me what it is now?” Concordia asked. “Why the delay?”

  Sophia simply tipped her chin at a stubborn angle and shook her head. Concordia could get nothing more from her, as she edged out the door and waved good-bye.

  The Hartford Women’s League, a local branch of the National Equal Rights Party, had decorated the college auditorium in suffrage colors: white, purple, and green. Even with all of the fans turned on, it was getting stuffy as more people came, ushered to their seats by women wearing bright sashes emblazoned with the motto “Knowledge is Power.”

  There was a group of women from the Hearth and Home Ladies Society in the back of the auditorium, quietly holding placards protesting the rally: “Women Should Not Want to Be Men,” and “Male and Female He Created Them.”

  The students were all comporting themselves with dignity, giving the protesters curious glances and seating themselves with only a low buzz of excited conversation.

  The administrators, trustees, and faculty processed onto the stage next, with the Hartford Women’s League members close behind. Concordia found herself seated along one wing of the stage, with Julian Reynolds right in front of her. She would recognize his sand-blond hair and elegant back anywhere. He turned around and winked impertinently. She dearly wanted to discuss the imprudence of leaving notes of a personal nature in plain view, but here was not the place. That would have to wait.

  “What are your views on women’s suffrage, Mr. Reynolds?” Concordia asked instead.

  “Excuse me, sir?” a soft, feminine voice interrupted. It was Miss Howe, one of the settlement house ladies. A very pretty young woman, Concordia could not help but notice, taking in her curvaceous figure, glossy brown hair and creamy skin. Reynolds rose from his seat politely and gave Miss Howe a long, warm look that set Concordia’s teeth on edge.

  “We need a tall gentleman to re-attach the banner in the hall. A corner has come down. Would you mind?” Miss Howe blushed charmingly.

  “Delighted.” He bowed to Concordia. “If you will excuse me,” he said, and followed Miss Howe off the stage.

  The auditorium was filling quickly. Looking around, Concordia saw others who appeared as restless as she. Nathaniel Young inspected his fingernails. Miss Hamilton repeatedly checked her watch. Dean Langdon was staring into the distance, a dreamy look on his face. On such a beautiful spring day, he was undoubtedly eager to return to his garden plot.

  None of the staff who felt a personal objection to the event was required to attend. Yet, surprisingly, Concordia saw that Miss Bellini was here. Perhaps the conversation in the lounge had sparked her curiosity. There were others she had not expected, either, especially Judge Armstrong and Dr. Westfield. She realized that they were, of course, here in their capacity as college trustees. Perhaps the judge hoped his presence would have a restraining influence upon Sophia, so that her speech did not go beyond what had been agreed upon. Concordia smiled. If so, he obviously did not know that “upstart young woman” very well.

  Dr. Westfield’s attention was turned toward the judge, and Concordia could understand why. Judge Armstrong’s face, despite the usual fierce scowl and active eyebrows, had a sickly pallor. He held himself rigidly in his chair, but his hands shook a little as he gripped a sturdy walking stick decorated with an ornate lion’s head knob. She frowned. She had never seen him look ill.

  Concordia’s attention was diverted by the sight of Margaret Banning lumbering over to a seat on the stage, trailing wraps and shawls in her wake. A few gallant males collected the scattered layers and restored them to her. With barely a nod, Miss Banning settled herself into a chair and began to study the room with a sharp eye.

  Everyone knew ahead of time that President Richter would not attend—he would only capitulate so far--so the duty of introducing the speaker fell to the lady principal. After members of the league led the students in a rally song, Miss Hamilton stood.

  Without much ado, she introduced Sophia. If the students had expected Miss Hamilton to give any indication of her own views of women’s suffrage, they were sadly disappointed.

  Sophia Adams stepped up to the podium. How very like they are, Concordia realized, as Sophia and Miss Hamilton greeted one another: the same height, the same slender build and erect posture, the same angular shape to their faces. Sophia’s hair was a bit lighter than Miss Hamilton’s perhaps, and she was, of course, younger than the lady principal. Yet the overall likeness was striking. Concordia had not noticed it before.

  “L’il lady! I say!” came a loud, boisterous voice. A young man, standing in the back, was approaching the stage, although lurching toward the stage would have been a more accurate description.

  “Y’ud have my vote, Sophia dearie!” he leered. Quite a seedy-looking individual, Concordia thought, repulsed. His dark hair was greasy and uncombed, his face had several days-worth of beard stubble, and his suit, though undoubtedly expensive, was creased and rumpled, as if he had repeatedly slept in it.

  Both Nathaniel Young and Dean Langdon stood up at the same time. Sophia, cheeks flushed and eyes wide in recognition, took an involuntary step back from the podium. The lady principal, who had not yet taken her seat, grimly advanced toward the man.

  What was Miss Hamilton doing, Concordia thought, alarmed. Did she not realize how dangerous he could be?

  Barely six feet from the lady principal, the man stopped at the bottom step to fortify himself from a flask.

  “Pow’er to the ladies! Put ‘em in charge of e’rything!
” he bellowed, after a long swallow.

  Before Miss Hamilton could confront the drunkard, Young and Langdon jumped from the stage, grabbed the man by both arms, and frog-marched him to the exit.

  The audience erupted into cheers.

  “They are all yours, Miss Adams,” the lady principal said, with a stifled sigh of relief.

  Sophia, composure returning, stepped forward as the noise subsided.

  “Thank you, Miss Hamilton. I and my fellow league members appreciate the opportunity to speak with you all today,” she said, looking out over the crowd. “When we stand together, we can succeed. But many wish us to fail.” She glanced toward the back of the room, at the Hearth and Home group of protesters.

  Concordia was struck by those words: Many wish us to fail. Could that be the motive behind the incidents at the college? Could they be looking at this from the wrong point of view? Everyone had assumed that the pranks were petty attempts by students to lash out at authority; could someone in power be behind it instead? But what about the bursar’s death? Could she have gotten in the way of someone’s plans to sabotage the school? Instead of falling through the ice by accident, or throwing herself in as a deliberate suicide, could someone have killed her and put her body in the pond?

  She looked over at Margaret Banning. What was it she had said during their visit several weeks ago? “’The measure of a man is what he does with power.’ Who has power at Hartford Women’s College? The students? Hardly.”

  Who would wish the college to fail? Who had power? Concordia felt a little sick. She did not like the direction her reasoning was taking her.

  But the incidents had abated recently. Nothing new had happened since the students had returned from spring recess. And no one else had died. Perhaps she was worried over nothing.

  She focused her attention on Sophia once again. Enthusiasm radiated from the woman like ripples on a shore. One could not help being swept up by it. When we stand together, we can succeed.

  Chapter 25

  Week 10, Instructor Calendar, April 1896

  “A most impressive address, Miss Adams,” Miss Hamilton commented. A more intimate group of faculty, along with a few administrators and trustees, were gathered in the DeLacey House dining room. “You handled yourself beautifully. I apologize for the unfortunate disruption.”

  Sophia, blushing, waved aside the apology. “Do not concern yourself, Miss Hamilton. One disturbed young man is not enough to stop our work. It means so much to us to be able to bring our message to your students. Perhaps we could discuss the formation of a junior suffrage league at your college?”

  Concordia saw Miss Hamilton’s lips contort into what could have been either a wry smile or a grimace. “Let us take smaller steps to that end, Miss Adams.”

  Sophia leaned eagerly toward the lady principal, heedless of her cheese plate and glass of punch. “We are trying to make a difference in all aspects of women’s lives, you understand, Miss Hamilton. Consider your own faculty, for instance. Why only appoint unmarried women? That is not an issue for the male professors that you hire. Why should it be different for the female professors?”

  Miss Hamilton responded easily. “Our women professors are charged with the safety and well-being of the female students committed to our keeping. These are responsibilities that the male professors do not have.”

  “Pah!” Sophia did not try to hide her contempt. “You are trained to provide these young women with a college education; that is a job only you can do. Any responsible adult woman could act as their chaperone.”

  Miss Hamilton grew thoughtful. “Your point is well taken, Miss Adams,” she said finally.

  “There is much to be done for our sisters, in all walks of life,” Sophia pressed, her voice getting louder and more vehement. “Women are being exploited every day; their health and even their reason are suffering as a result.”

  Concordia noticed that Nathaniel Young and Judge Armstrong, who were helping themselves to the buffet, stopped, and looked over at Sophia in surprise. Sophia’s intensity could be a bit startling sometimes.

  It was late when the gathering broke up. Concordia came over to Sophia to say her good-byes.

  “Remember, I want to talk with you tomorrow,” Sophia said.

  Concordia nodded. She could not imagine what Sophia had to tell her. She was tempted to press her again, and not wait. But she knew how stubborn her friend could be. “We can have breakfast at Willow Cottage. Eight o’clock?” Tomorrow was a Saturday, so she had more free time.

  “Good,” Sophia answered. Concordia gave her hand a quick squeeze, and left.

  The next morning brought a steady, gray, and chilly downpour. New England springs were notoriously inconsistent, Concordia thought with a sigh. She looked out at the dismal scene, wanting to retreat back to bed, but she had to prepare for Sophia’s arrival. As she got ready, she remembered something that Mark Twain, Hartford’s most famous resident, had written years ago:

  I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in New England but the weather. I don’t know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the weather clerk’s factory. The people of New England are by nature patient and forbearing, but every year they kill a lot of poets for writing about “Beautiful Spring.”

  When eight o’clock came and went without a sign of Sophia, Concordia put on her boots and mackintosh. No doubt Sophia had become entangled in some earnest debate with one of the faculty at DeLacey House and had lost track of the time.

  Slipping her hood over her head, she ducked out into the rain. She nearly collided with Mr. Bradley (she seemed to be doing a lot of that sort of thing), who was pushing her newly-repaired bicycle ahead of him down the path.

  “Why on earth are you here?” Concordia asked him, astonished.

  He gave her a sheepish look, made all the more ludicrous by the rain plastering his dark hair against his head and dripping down his nose. “Seems silly, doesn’t it?” he said. “Delivering your bicycle in the pouring rain? I have business that takes me to Boston for a few days, so I wanted to make sure you got it back before I left.”

  As they hastened back to Willow Cottage to stow away her bicycle, Concordia explained her errand.

  “I’m looking for Sophia. She was supposed to meet me nearly an hour ago. I think she might have been delayed at the faculty house.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Bradley said. “I’ll walk with you.”

  They set out again for DeLacey House. Concordia and Mr. Bradley had not gotten very far along the path, however, before they heard a moan coming from the hedge.

  “What was that?” Concordia asked. “A cat?”

  Mr. Bradley looked grim. “No.” He ran to the hedge, where two paths intersected, stooping over to look. Concordia hurried to follow.

  “Oh, dear Lord, no!” she exclaimed. It was Sophia. She had a large gash on the side of her head. A pool of blood, blurred by the rain, was collecting under her ear. She was white, and motionless.

  Chapter 26

  Week 10, Instructor Calendar, April 1896

  “She’s still breathing,” Mr. Bradley said, leaning over Sophia.

  “Thank heaven,” Concordia whispered, her chest constricted in fear. Sophie looked so very pale, lying there. “We have to get her inside,” she urged. Concordia’s rain hood had slipped back, but she ignored it. She pushed aside the wet locks straggling across her eyes, and looked around for possible help. No one, of course, was outside in this weather. She and Mr. Bradley would have to manage by themselves.

  Mr. Bradley recognized the same thing. “I would rather not be moving her, but we cannot leave her out here in the wet. I don’t feel any broken bones,” he said, carefully probing her neck and limbs. He gently gathered Sophia in his arms. Concordia hurried ahead of him to open the door to Willow Cottage.

  “In here,” she said, gesturing to the settee in the parlor. Ruby came bustling down the hallway at the sound of voices, her apron still on and h
er calloused hands dusted with flour.

  “What on earth…?” At the sight of the dripping couple and the unconscious Sophia, Ruby sucked in her breath sharply.

  “Ruby,” Concordia said, “send some of the girls for the lady principal and the infirmarian. We’ll need towels and blankets, and a hotter fire in here.” Ruby scurried off.

  She turned to Mr. Bradley. “I have to send you out of the room now, David. Ruby and I need to get her wet clothes off. It may already be too late to keep her from developing a chill.” She looked over at the young woman. “I should have gone looking for her sooner,” she said, shivering.

  David frowned. “It’s not your fault, Concordia. And you need to get dry, too. I don’t want you to become ill.”

  But Concordia was already pushing him out of the door, as Ruby came in with blankets.

  He stopped at the doorway. “Her injury looks more serious than Miss Jenkins can remedy,” he said quietly. “I should fetch a doctor for her.”

  Concordia knew he was right. “Do you know someone nearby?” she asked.

  “What about Dr. Westfield? I believe he’s attending the trustees’ breakfast at Sycamore house at the moment. One can’t get any closer than that.”

  “No! Not Dr. Westfield,” Concordia replied firmly. She’d already lost her sister under the doctor’s care; she wasn’t going to lose her friend as well. “Oh, I can’t explain, David,” she said, in response to his puzzled expression, “just find someone else, please.”

  “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I know a doctor not far from here, off of Wooster Street. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”