Dangerous and Unseemly Read online

  Chapter 6

  Week 3, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

  Apparently a great deal of effort is involved in extricating a body from a frozen pond, a fact that Concordia and others on campus wished they need never have learned. After the unusually warm day, the ice wasn’t strong enough at that end to withstand a man’s weight, but there was still plenty of it to hamper efforts to get a boat through. A team of policemen and firemen, with ropes, ladders, and hooks, worked into the evening before successfully pulling the unfortunate lady’s body from the water.

  The faculty, shaken by the discovery, kept the students inside their cottages, away from the scene, until the body was taken to the city morgue. President Richter had the sad task of informing Miss Lyman’s family and meeting her brother there.

  Later, at a hastily called faculty meeting, a bedraggled-looking Arthur Richter returned from the morgue with more sad news.

  “It looks as if Miss Lyman’s death was not an accident. It was a deliberate act to end her own life,” he said, his voice hoarse from a bad case of laryngitis. He sat down, absent-mindedly rubbing a scratch along his temple.

  “Is that what the police believe?” Miss Hamilton asked, amid background murmurs of shock and distress.

  “That’s not yet what they are saying officially,” the president said, struggling to project his voice into the room, “but I spoke with the chief of police. Miss Lyman’s boots were not clad in steel runners for skating, and a fabric sash from the skirt she was wearing was tied around one ankle. He hypothesizes that she was trying to weigh herself down in the water, but after her death, the sash snagged on something sharp and broke off the weight. The coroner found a wound to her head, where she struck one of the rocks, as she…went under,” he finished, with a shaky breath and a fit of coughing.

  The poor man, Concordia thought. To be ill, and dealing with such tragedy, too.

  “But there was no note in her rooms,” Miss Hamilton protested. “I looked for one myself in her quarters, before we found her. I was trying to determine if she had a family emergency.”

  Richter cleared his throat and squeaked, “I wondered that, too. The police chief said suicides don’t always leave notes.”

  Concordia felt a twist of pity for Miss Lyman, but wasn’t shocked by the news. It had seemed unlikely that Miss Lyman’s death was an accident. The bursar had been missing since the early morning of the chapel incident, but had attended supper the night before. That meant she must have gone out on the pond in the middle of the night.

  Although Concordia hadn’t known Ruth Lyman very well, it seemed far-fetched that the bursar would have gone skating in the middle of a frigid night, and alone. Even if she had accidentally fallen in, wouldn’t someone have heard her cries for help? And now, the sash found around her ankle made suicide a clear conclusion.

  And in turn, suicide suggested that Miss Lyman’s feelings of guilt over the college’s financial problems had proved too much for her to bear.

  Much like an embarrassing relative one does not like to acknowledge, the shaky financial status of Hartford Women’s College was a condition that could only be ignored for so long. The problems had begun with the stock market crash—dubbed the “Panic of ‘93”—three years before. The resulting run on the banks had plunged the entire country into the worst economic depression it had ever suffered. Even now, there was still debate about whether President Cleveland’s opposition to the free coinage of silver had prolonged the depression, or had, as he asserted, saved the financial viability of the Treasury.

  It was common knowledge that Hartford Women’s College had shared in the misery, sustaining heavy losses, and that President Richter felt responsible for advising the trustees to invest college funds in railroad stocks just before everything had spiraled out of control.

  From there, it was said, the college had suffered additional financial setbacks: unpaid invoices, inexplicable money transfers that could not be tracked satisfactorily, a sold parcel of college-owned land that did not fetch the price originally thought. Although the bursar had done her best in such a crisis, accounting books were ill-kept during that chaotic time, when emergency funds had to be moved quickly. Concordia had heard the board of trustees was still trying to untangle the mess, even as the college struggled to pay its current bills.

  No one had blamed the bursar, although there had been talk of hiring an outside accountant. Now, of course, someone would be taking over the dead woman’s former responsibilities.

  Poor Miss Lyman. Could this have driven her to act so desperately?

  But that led to more questions. Why go to the pond to end it all? And why now?

  The students and staff grappled with these questions over the next week, as discussions, conjectures, and regrets circulated. The police interviewed staff members close to Miss Lyman. Concordia was glad she was not among that group. She had never spoken at length with a policeman before, and the thought made her a little uncomfortable. Even the sight of the two uniformed men on the college campus this week seemed strange. It was an unsettling reminder that all was not as it should be.

  At a school as closely knit as Hartford Women’s College, there are very few secrets, and soon Concordia learned the gist of the police interviews.

  It seemed that several close associates of Miss Lyman had reported noticing a recent moodiness and preoccupation in the lady; even Arthur Richter, when pressed, had reluctantly acknowledged that he’d wondered if the bursar was suffering from melancholia, but had dismissed the idea.

  What could we have done for her? seemed the current refrain on everyone’s lips. A memorial service was held, in which only praise was spoken; nothing about her mistakes or struggles, or suspicions of the mishandling of funds.

  In that manner, Miss Lyman’s death was pronounced an unfortunate suicide and quietly pushed out of the way, questions unanswered. And yet, Concordia was uneasy. She never liked unanswered questions.

  Chapter 7

  Week 4, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

  A few days after the memorial service, Concordia had her long-delayed meeting with the lady principal.

  Miss Hamilton made one brief mention of the pond rescue that preceded the discovery of Miss Lyman.

  “We will not be taking any more chances,” she said, with a meaningful look at Concordia, “will we?”

  Miss Hamilton sat tirelessly straight, her crisp white shirtwaist showing not a sign of crease or wrinkle. Concordia surreptitiously smoothed her skirt and tugged at her cuffs. “Miss Patterson would not have lasted much longer. I had to act.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Hamilton said, “and I am grateful to you for rescuing her, at considerable risk to yourself. However, it strikes me as reckless and ill-considered on your part. I expect my staff to comport themselves with more decorum. Leave the heroics to others, Miss Wells. We certainly don’t wish to lose more staff.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Concordia answered meekly.

  “This is your first year, is it not?” the lady principal asked, in a change of subject.

  “It is my first year here,” Concordia said. “I held a teaching post before at my alma mater. Mr. Young recommended I apply for this position.”

  Nathaniel Young, a family friend, was on the board of trustees for Hartford Women’s College.

  “But Hartford is the city of my childhood, so I am not new to the area,” she added.

  In general, Concordia was glad to be back in Hartford. She had missed the familiar haunts, the bustle of the downtown district, and the handful of friends she had left behind. Her younger sister Mary, now married, lived in affluent Asylum Hill, barely two miles from the college. To the surprise of both, their renewed communication had begun to produce a friendship that had eluded them as children.

  But Concordia’s homecoming was not entirely congenial, which was to be expected. Her mother, widowed years ago, still lived in their childhood home, also nearby. Concordia had made one obligatory attempt to visit, only to
be coldly rebuffed. She had not made a second attempt.

  Miss Hamilton broke into her thoughts. “It is difficult for someone new, the adjustment. Especially for an administrator. This too is my first year at the college, as you know, and I have had to learn about the people I work with; determine who is reliable, who is not, and make best use of people’s strengths.”

  There seemed to be no good response to this, so Concordia didn’t offer any.

  “You are no doubt aware that Miss Banning is too ill to return to teaching,” Miss Hamilton continued.

  “I hear her rheumatics are troubling her in this weather,” Concordia said. Miss Banning had taught history at the college since its inception nearly twenty years ago. Her retirement was almost certain now, but the lady seemed to dither about whether she was really retired or not.

  “We have been able to borrow professors from Trinity College to teach her classes,” Miss Hamilton continued, “but we have found no one to take charge of the senior play. I was hoping you could—”

  “But I am only a junior instructor,” Concordia protested, knowing now where this was leading. “Really, I know very little about directing student plays.”

  Leading the senior play would not have been the job of a new professor, as it was considered a prestigious duty. Hartford’s elite attended the performance, and the seniors thought of it as the crowning glory of their college years.

  In Concordia’s mind, it was a prestigious pain in the neck.

  “Nonsense,” Miss Hamilton said, “I have reviewed your background. You had stage experience as a college student, besides having taught the Shakespeare play they will perform. I will give you Miss Banning’s address in town, should you need to confer with her. She is well enough for visitors, I hear.”

  Concordia thought frantically of possible excuses as Miss Hamilton rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a key. “Ah – here, Miss Wells,” she said, passing it over, “I am promoting you to temporary senior faculty status for the rest of the term. This unlocks the auditorium and most of the common buildings.”

  Concordia looked down at the key; it was heavy and ornate, with a medallion of the college’s seal attached to it. She experienced conflicting sensations of pride and alarm.

  But she wasn’t ready to concede defeat, yet. “There must be someone else, surely? I already supervise the literature club and the bicycling club. How would I have time for the senior play?”

  The lady principal’s lips twitched at the reference to the bicycle club. Except for winter weather, the avid cyclists took to the paths regularly. President Richter was less than enthusiastic—dismayed might be a better word—to see the young ladies wobbling about the campus on their machines, clad in bicycling suits of shortened skirts and bloomers.

  “An upperclassman can lead the literature club, Miss Wells. I’m sure you know of someone adequate for the position. As for the bicycling,” Miss Hamilton added with a straight face, “no doubt you will still find the time.”

  Concordia walked back to Willow Cottage, lost in thought. Miss Hamilton was a difficult woman to refuse.

  Directing the senior play would be a substantial drain on her time. In addition to her teaching duties, her responsibilities as live-in chaperone—surrogate mother, really – made the concept of leisure seem laughable. With the term beginning inauspiciously enough with Miss Lyman’s death, Concordia could tell it was going to be a difficult semester.

  Events would prove her prediction to be painfully correct.

  Chapter 8

  Week 4, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

  If you can look into the seeds of time

  And say which grain will grow and which will not,

  Speak then to me.

  Macbeth, I.iii

  In her sitting room, Concordia settled into a well-worn padded armchair to get re-acquainted with the Shakespeare play the seniors had selected for this year’s performance.

  Macbeth. Also known as “the Scottish play” and “the unlucky play.” Unlucky for her, certainly. Concordia grimaced. She doubted that the elite of Hartford society were ready for a tale of gore, violence and witchcraft, not to mention a haranguing female as one of the leads.

  There was a knock on her door.

  “Come in!” she called.

  Ruby Hitchcock leaned in. “A lady to see you, Miss Wells.” This was followed by a crash overhead. “I’ll see to that. They’re likely cooking fudge again,” she said, and hastily left, muttering, “I’m gettin’ too old for this nonsense.”

  Concordia frowned as she headed for the front parlor. Indeed, the odor of burnt chocolate was strong out here. Thank heaven for Ruby. Concordia knew she would take a firm hand against illegal cooking in the rooms. Although the lady grumbled a good deal, Concordia had learned very little flustered her. Perhaps it came from being thrown back upon her own resources as a young widow after the Civil War, making her living however she could – as maid, cook, and seamstress, among other occupations – before becoming a fixture at Willow Cottage, when the seminary-turned-college abandoned its single-building dormitory system for the more domestic “cottage” arrangement. The years of hard work had roughened Ruby’s hands, certainly, but beneath matron’s crotchety exterior, she had a genuine fondness for the girls in her care.

  Concordia straightened her collar and smoothed her hair before opening the door to the parlor.

  “Sophia! What are you doing here?” she cried in delight, embracing the young woman in front of the fireplace.

  Sophia Adams had been a childhood friend of both Concordia and her sister Mary. Mary, before her marriage, had occasionally helped with Sophia’s charity work. Sophia was also active these days in the suffrage movement that was gaining ground in the area.

  Upon second glance, Concordia noticed that the pale skin under Sophia’s eyes was smudged with shadows, and her clothing, a simple walking suit of gray worsted, hung more loosely upon her slender form.

  “You must be working too hard, Sophie. Have you been well?”

  Sophia shook her head. “I’ve come to take you back to Mary. She’s quite ill.”

  Concordia felt her stomach lurch. “But I thought she was better now.” She leaned against the writing desk. “How bad is it this time?”

  Mary had been in ill health for several months, since her return from her three-month bridal tour in southern Europe. The bouts of abdominal pain and weakness usually abated after a course of medicine and rest. When Concordia had last seen Mary, just after the New Year, she seemed better.

  “Doctor Westfield is calling it another ‘episode,’” Sophia answered, grimacing. “But I’m concerned that it’s something more. Mary cannot keep anything down now, and her fever is worse. I think even the judge is worried.”

  That was certainly saying a great deal, Concordia thought, since Mary’s father-in-law viewed succumbing to physical illness as a lack of mental fortitude. A little indisposition would do him some good, in her opinion. Perhaps it would have a humbling effect.

  Concordia dreaded her encounters with Judge Armstrong. The two of them disagreed fervently about women’s education, vocation, and right to vote, and had taken up battle during past visits. There would be no avoiding him now.

  But that wasn’t the only person she sought to avoid.

  “Has Mother been told?” Concordia asked.

  Sophia shook her head. “She’s visiting Aunt Florence out in the country. They got a lot of snow yesterday, and I haven’t been able to get word to her.”

  “But don’t worry,” Sophia added, misreading Concordia’s sigh as one of distress, rather than relief, “I’ll keep trying.”

  After packing a valise and giving Ruby a note for Miss Hamilton, Concordia and Sophia set out for Mary’s home.

  Hartford’s street rail had a stop within walking distance of the college. The trolley ride would take them along Main Street through the business district, and across Asylum Avenue, to stop a block from where Mary lived.

  �
�Henry has the carriage. He’s still downtown,” Sophia explained. “I volunteered to bring you back on the trolley rather than wait.”

  In Concordia’s view, the Hartford Street Railway was more efficient than navigating crowded evening streets in a private vehicle, especially now that the city had switched over all of its lines from horse-drawn cars to the new electric-propulsion. Within minutes of waiting, they caught a glimpse of the streetcar as it approached, the signature Tuscan red with cream-tinted trim gleaming in the dying light of winter dusk. She and Sophia gave the conductor their nickel fares, collected their transfer tickets to the Asylum Line, and settled themselves on the benches as the trolley lurched into motion.

  From Main Street, Concordia saw the Connecticut River waterfront in the distance, dotted with smoke stacks from the Colt factory. The mingling smells of coal smoke and stagnant water had receded by the time they approached the City Hall Post Office stop. From there, they switched cars for the briefer trip along the Asylum Avenue line.

  Concordia caught glimpses of the closely packed tenement buildings of the East Side, three- and four-story shoddy structures propped haphazardly alongside one another, with clotheslines stretched across narrow alleys and rear yards. Sophia worked with families in this section.

  “How is your work going?” Concordia asked Sophia, to keep her own thoughts diverted.

  Sophia made a face. “Frankly, not well. Oh, there have been small successes – the Harrity family was able to move out of those awful tenements and into a decent home. Our settlement house was able to find work for Mrs. Harrity – she’s recently widowed. But there are so many others. Women especially, and their little ones – with no schooling, not even reading and writing. The children can’t go to school because they have to earn money for the family. They get work in the thread and loom mills, but it’s back-breaking work for a child, and they are paid a pittance. Everyone in the family works, but it’s barely enough to keep body and soul together.”