Beloved and Unseemly Page 3

  Before Langdon could respond, the maid approached. Two gentlemen followed at her heels and presented their cards to Langdon.

  Sanbourne stiffened.

  “Ah!” Langdon said, “Mr. Reeve, Mr. Oster, so glad you could come. I thought my surprise had gone astray.”

  A more disparate pair of men Concordia had not seen. Reeve was rail-thin and easily the tallest man in the room, with a dark, gypsy-like complexion. Oster, on the other hand, was light-eyed and fair-haired with a short, barrel-chested physique. Judging from his slightly crooked nose and the scar along his left eyebrow, he had spent time in the boxing ring during his youth.

  “Our apologies for being late,” Reeve said with a deep bow over Mrs. Sanbourne’s hand, which she quickly withdrew. “Our train was delayed.” He turned to Sanbourne. “Peter! It has been years, my good fellow. Congratulations on your new project.”

  Sanbourne reluctantly clasped the extended hand but said nothing.

  Reeve’s lip curled in what was either derision or amusement. “Where’s your man, Guryev? I wish to congratulate him as well.” He craned his neck to scan the room.

  Oster inclined his head. “There.”

  “We will take our leave,” Reeve said. “I, at least, am willing to let bygones be bygones. Good luck to you.”

  As they made their way across the room, Sanbourne turned to Langdon. “What are they doing here? Did you invite them?” His voice, though quiet, trembled in anger.

  Concordia, meanwhile, was watching Reeve and Oster greet Ivan Guryev. As they shook hands, Reeve glanced back over his shoulder toward Sanbourne before pressing a slip of paper into Guryev’s hand. Sanbourne saw none of it.

  Langdon thrust his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “Ahem, well…I knew you had worked with Reeve and his assistant back in the day. Since the Boston Institute of Technology is only a train ride away, I thought it would be a welcome surprise.” He hesitated. “I suppose I should have asked you first. I had no idea you and Reeve were on poor terms.”

  “Not poor terms, simply a misunderstanding,” Sanbourne said. “Forgive my outburst. I was merely…surprised.”

  Mrs. Sanbourne waved an impatient hand at her husband and leaned in to whisper, “Of all the—!”

  Sanbourne made a shushing gesture. “Later, Rachel. Later.”

  Concordia took this as her cue. “I believe I will get some tea. Excuse me.”

  The offerings at the refreshments table were sadly few—hardly a surprise, if the dean still controlled the expenditures. She hoped Miss Kimble would be more generous in that regard, once she managed to wrest the duties from Maynard’s grasp.

  After helping herself to a couple of ginger crisps and a cup of tea, she found a chair next to Miss Banning, now chatting animatedly with Charlotte Crandall. It was clear that Charlotte had remained Miss Banning’s favorite.

  The old lady squinted through her thick-lensed spectacles as Concordia took her seat. “Hmph. You have more freckles than ever, missy. You would do well to stay out of the sun, but if you insist upon riding around on that bicycle machine, at least wear a bonnet.”

  Concordia’s lips twitched in a suppressed retort as her glance strayed to the lacy muslin cap perched upon the old lady’s head. She would not be taking advice about headwear from Miss Banning any time soon. Nor any other piece of fashion attire, she thought, glancing at the silk shawl draped over the lady’s shoulders, embroidered with a garish green dragon and trimmed with what appeared to be black ostrich feathers.

  “Where is that beau of yours—Mr. Bradley?” Miss Banning inquired with a sly smile.

  Concordia shifted in her seat, still uncomfortable with such terms as beau, swain, and suitor. They seemed more appropriate for a cotillion dance floor than a women’s college. “He wanted to attend, but there is a time-sensitive experiment that bears watching.” She gestured in the direction of the Chemistry Department chairman, now chatting with the Sanbournes. “The prerogatives of leadership, I suppose. Professor Grundy can assign his junior professor to mind the store while he attends the party.”

  Charlotte had turned aside, idly watching Dean Maynard as he made his way over to greet the Sanbournes. Concordia and Miss Banning followed her glance.

  Maynard suddenly stopped short, eyes wide and the color leaving his face.

  The moment passed. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and approached Peter Sanbourne to be introduced.

  “What is wrong with the man now?” Miss Banning complained.

  “He spends too much time at his desk, I imagine,” Charlotte said.

  Concordia was not so sure. The expression on Maynard’s face had been one of distress rather than fatigue. She took a bite of her ginger crisp as she mused. Ugh. Grimacing, she tucked the rest of it in her napkin. Perhaps he’d eaten too many of these stale cookies.

  “I have coaxed him to resume our Saturday morning rides,” Charlotte went on, “no matter how busy he claims to be. The fresh air and exercise are restorative.” She smiled at Concordia. “Perhaps you would join us?”

  Concordia suppressed a shudder. The last time she rode a horse—not an activity she relished—she had been holding on for dear life and had trouble sitting down for days afterward. Maynard for company hardly made it more appealing. “You have a mischievous sense of humor, Miss Crandall.”

  Chapter 5

  Week 2, Instructor Calendar September 1898

  The reception of an engaged girl by the family of her future husband should be most cordial. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  Concordia had not been looking forward to the visit. David’s family was pleasant enough and welcomed the upcoming marriage, but they would undoubtedly want to discuss wedding plans. Mother was coming, too, and was sure to fuss over details of flowers, invitations, and menus.

  Concordia did not really care what she ate, or wore, or carried at her wedding, so long as David was waiting at the steps of the sanctuary. She could understand why some found elopement appealing.

  And now there was a new family member to meet.

  “Tell me about your aunt,” she said to David, as the cab lurched away from the college gate.

  He cleared his throat. “Not much to tell. Drusilla Fenmore is my father’s older sister.”

  “Fenmore…is she related to the man who runs Fenmore Funeral Home?”

  “Ran the funeral home,” David corrected. “Edmund Fenmore, yes. He passed away a few months ago. Aunt Drusilla recently moved in with my parents.”

  Concordia refrained from wondering aloud: who takes care of the undertaker when it’s his turn to shuffle off this mortal coil? “What is she like?” she asked instead.

  Judging by the way he puckered his lips, she knew she was not going to like the answer. “Let us say that she is a...strong-minded woman of fixed opinions and does not hesitate to express them.”

  She made a face. Strong-minded did not trouble her—lively debates were commonplace within the collegiate setting, and she relished them—but a person of fixed opinions was exasperating. One might as well ask the mountain to fling itself into the sea. “Am I to assume that women’s higher education and vocations outside the home are topics your aunt possesses fixed opinions about?”

  He chuckled.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you find it amusing, do you? Perhaps I should engage Mrs. Fenmore in conversation about the new engineering program at Hartford Women’s College. I am sure the discussion would entertain you no end.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Let us make a pact to nod and grit our teeth together, shall we? Besides, who cares what the old lady thinks? We won’t be seeing her all that often.”

  She sighed. Refraining from debate about an earnest subject was not her strong suit.

  In the dimness of the cab, he moved closer and took her gloved hand in his. “In the meantime, let us consider more pleasant matters.”

  She suppressed a tremor as he rubbed his thumb along her gloved palm and gently massaged he
r fingers.

  “I thought myself too old to require a chaperone in your company, Mr. Bradley,” she managed finally, in a quavering voice.

  David’s eyes gleamed, though she could not tell if it was from amusement or amorous feeling. “You appear to have been mistaken,” he murmured.

  All too soon, they pulled up to the Bradley home, situated in the Asylum Hill neighborhood. Built thirty years ago in the lavish Italianate style, the house featured a deep, Corinthian-columned veranda, hipped roofs, and white-paneled bay windows. Topping the whole was a square cupola, whose curved windows took advantage of the sweep of russet-leaved trees in the distance.

  She stiffened, and David patted her arm in reassurance. “I forgot to warn you about the house. Quite the relic, compared to the modern structures in the neighborhood.”

  “Rather…imposing.”

  “Well, you have already met my parents, so you know they do not match the house.”

  She nodded. The Bradleys came from self-made wealth rather than inherited money. While John Bradley’s real estate investments downtown and his friendship with the mayor secured the family a prominent social position, they mercifully did not suffer from pretentious airs.

  The maid ushered them in. The sight of the two-story entryway, with its marble floor and gilded moldings, made her glad she’d chosen the lace-trimmed Paris green satin her mother had coaxed her into having re-made last spring. Its wide side gores slimmed the waist and allowed for ease of movement. She had to admit the delicately embroidered elbow sleeves in contrasting ivory produced a charming effect. She tucked back a stray lock of hair and took David’s arm.

  His gaze was warm and lingering. “You look beautiful, my dear.” She flushed with pleasure.

  In the parlor, the plump Mrs. Bradley lounged against the sofa cushions. “Pardon me for not getting up, dears. I have had quite the fatiguing day.” She nodded toward Concordia, brown ringlets bouncing beneath a satin-trimmed muslin cap. “What a charming gown. Come, sit next to me.” She motioned with a be-ringed hand.

  David frowned. “You should have sent word. We could have postponed our visit.”

  Concordia sat beside the lady. A cloud of liberally applied, white heliotrope perfume made her nose twitch in a threatened sneeze. Her own mother, along with her cronies, favored the scent as well. Hmm, perhaps it was a preferred fragrance of the matron set? She smiled at the thought of being handed a weighty glass atomizer of the stuff once she joined the ranks of staid matronhood.

  “No, no, I will be fine.” Mrs. Bradley sat up straighter and tugged at her cuffs. She turned a sharp eye toward the light-brown, pug-sized dog snoring on a mat beside the fireplace. “That wretched little beast of Drusilla’s is what caused the problem. Dug up all my bulbs in the flowerbed beside the porch, then got into John’s cigar box and chewed through several of his finest Havanas before I caught him. The first time, that is. Then he wriggled out of my grasp, ran into the dining room, and got sick as—well, sick as a dog, as they say—on our best Turkish carpet.”

  Concordia’s eyes watered in her effort not to laugh. Or was it the perfume? She snorted into her handkerchief.

  “Why didn’t Aunt Drusilla or the servants take care of the mutt?” David asked, after a quick glance at his fiancée.

  Mrs. Bradley grimaced, creasing the deep lines of her forehead. “We are short-staffed, and Drusilla is out with John. It had fallen upon me to keep Bandit out of trouble. I am sorry to say I was not equal to the task.”

  The dog’s ears pricked in his sleep at the mention of his name. He rolled over with a contented sigh.

  They heard the bell, and soon Letitia Wells joined them in the parlor.

  “Mother!” Concordia stood and embraced her.

  Mrs. Wells returned the embrace, then stepped back. “How nice to see you wearing one of Mary’s gowns. The hue complements your coloring.”

  Concordia’s smile stiffened. More than two years had passed since her younger sister’s death. Apparently, the ache never quite goes away. Mother had grieved even more deeply for Mary. The two had been especially close. While Concordia had gravitated toward her father’s company during childhood, reveling in a love of books and scholarly study, her sister and mother had pursued the whirl of social doings: who was marrying whom, what concerts and soirees were in the offing, who was attending the new exhibit at the Atheneum, and what they wore. Should one have opened the armoire of each sister, the differences between Mary’s array of colorful gowns and Concordia’s serviceable shirtwaists and walking skirts would have been readily apparent.

  Concordia’s fragile delight in being found presentable collapsed beneath the reminder that it was all due to what Mary had left behind.

  “Speaking of dresses,” Mrs. Wells went on, “we must make an appointment with Mrs. Feeney.”

  “I assume she is a dressmaker?” David inquired.

  Mrs. Bradley and Mrs. Wells each gave him a pitying glance.

  “Not simply a dressmaker, dear. One of the best in Hartford,” Mrs. Bradley said.

  Mrs. Wells made a face. “But do not repeat that—if she becomes too successful, it will take forever to have any clothing made!”

  David’s lips twitched. “Your secret is safe with me, madam.”

  “I told her of your upcoming wedding,” Mrs. Wells said, turning to Concordia. “She said we should have you fitted for your gown soon, before the holiday rush.”

  Concordia shrugged. Why she could not walk down the aisle in her best blue silk was beyond her understanding. That shade was more flattering to her red hair and freckled complexion than white would ever be. But Mother was not to be denied.

  “Sara and Gracie have been asking for you,” Mrs. Wells added. “Will you be able to visit soon?”

  “I don’t know. I will try.” In addition to her academic duties and the day-to-day needs of the young ladies in her charge at Willow Cottage, Concordia also led the Literature Club, the Bicycling Club, and the Debate Society. Then there were the mind-numbing faculty meetings that accomplished nothing but rehash the same rules and policies everyone knew by heart.

  Mrs. Wells perched upon the settee across from David’s mother. “What a lovely home you have here, Mrs. Bradley.”

  Mrs. Bradley inclined her head. “You must call me Georgeanna. We are to be family, after all.”

  Mrs. Wells smiled. “If you will call me Letitia.”

  “I am curious: who are Sarah and Gracie?” Mrs. Bradley asked.

  “My young nieces, visiting from California.”

  Concordia wondered how her mother would explain the presence of the girls without their parents. It would not do for it to be generally known that their father was in prison. In the ensuing silence, it became apparent that Mother had decided upon not explaining at all.

  “It must be difficult for them to be so far from home,” Mrs. Bradley said.

  If the lady was probing for more information, she was not about to get it from Concordia’s mother, whose lips twitched at the ploy. “There is a bit of an adjustment, but we are—” She broke off as David’s father walked in, accompanied by a middle-aged lady.

  Even if Concordia had not already met John Bradley upon previous occasions, she would have known him to be David’s father. The kinship was apparent in the compact, muscular build, the dark wavy hair—though peppered with gray—and the warm brown eyes, bright with ready humor.

  “Ah, we are just in time,” he said. “May I present my sister, Drusilla Fenmore? Drusilla, this is David’s fiancée, Miss Concordia Wells.” He smiled at Concordia as he escorted his sister to a chair. The pug stretched, tottered over, and jumped in the woman’s lap.

  Concordia would have liked to believe that widowhood was responsible for the lady’s down-turned mouth and rigid carriage, but suspected not. Her hair was scraped back into a tight topknot that tugged at her forehead. She wore her copious widow’s weeds like armor.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Fenmore,” Concordia said p
olitely.

  The widow’s cool gray eyes, topped by arched brows of perpetual skepticism, lingered upon every detail of Concordia’s appearance. “So, you are the woman my nephew is to marry. My, my, your hair is quite…red. Not a fashionable color these days, I’m afraid.”

  There seemed no good answer to this remark, as she doubted the lady was recommending she acquire a bottle of hair dye from the druggist.

  “I have heard a great deal about you,” Mrs. Fenmore went on.

  The inflection of a great deal sounded none too favorable. She met the woman’s sharp eye. “I have heard a great deal about you as well.” She let the inflections fall where they may.

  “Well, then, how nice that you two have finally met,” David said briskly, pulling over a chair. “How are you, aunt? The weather has been exceptionally fine recently, has it not?”

  Concordia and her mother exchanged amused glances.

  Mrs. Fenmore’s hooked nose quivered. “That is precisely the danger. Temperate weather in the autumn allows pestilence to breed, instead of killing it off. Then it lingers to plague us in the winter months.” She turned to Concordia. “Every autumn I insisted that my dear Edmund increase his daily dose of cod liver oil. Then mustard plasters and flannel in winter, against catarrh.” She sat back with a sigh. “Alas, I fear he was merely humoring me his last few months, and that is why he took ill and died. One will reap what one sows. You must take care that David does not meet the same end.”

  “Really, Drusilla,” David’s father objected, “Edmund died of an infection from a gouty leg, not some contagion.”

  “My poor Edmund, God rest his soul, had gout for years and was fine,” Mrs. Fenmore retorted. “What made this time any different?”

  “We really should be discussing the happy couple’s wedding plans,” Mrs. Bradley said smoothly, gesturing with a chubby hand. “Concordia, dear, have you and David settled upon a date?”