Dangerous and Unseemly Page 4

  Concordia could see Sophia’s distress, and was about to change the subject when Sophia continued in a fierce whisper, leaning closer:

  “Do you know what some of these women have to resort to, just to put bread in their children’s mouths? Do you realize what peril they expose themselves to, from disease or brutality? And men use them—for sport, for pleasure, for some proof of manliness.” Sophia gave a hollow laugh. “We shun the women who act in desperation, but not the men who take advantage of them for amusement. And yet we consider ourselves genteel and civilized?”

  Concordia shifted uneasily. She had no answer. She had always assumed that streetwalkers—there was no doubt whom Sophia was alluding to—were morally weak creatures, and perhaps too lazy to perform respectable work. She had never really considered the question before.

  “These evils come home to roost. That is the way of things,” Sophia said softly, standing up as their stop approached.

  Judge Armstrong’s house, like most others in Asylum Hill, was an impressive structure: asymmetrically proportioned, painted slate blue with creamy gingerbread trim, with peaked roofs and gables of the Gothic-revival cottage style once popular in the ‘40s. Before they reached the door, it was opened by a nervous parlor maid, ushering them in and taking their coats.

  “Have Mr. Armstrong or the doctor arrived yet?” Concordia asked.

  “No, miss. But Mrs. Armstrong is keen to see you.”

  Sophia put a reassuring hand on Concordia’s arm. “I’ll wait in the parlor. I think Mary wants to see you alone.”

  Concordia nodded. She was in for a long night.

  Chapter 9

  Week 4, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

  Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care.

  II.iii

  Concordia sat beside Mary’s bed, straightening the rumpled covers. Even in a laudanum sleep, Mary was curled up tightly, protectively, around her abdomen, as if bracing herself against spasms of pain.

  When in good health, she was a pretty, blond-haired young woman, with a heart-shaped face and a mild temperament. Her illness, however, had furrowed her brow, made her complexion sickly and her hair lank and dull against the pillows.

  Concordia wrinkled her nose. The stuffy room smelled strongly of carbolic acid, despite the lavender the maids had tucked under the mattress and carpets. She wished she could open a window.

  She reached once again to wring out wet cloths for her sister’s forehead and neck. Mary had been awake that first night, but talking exhausted her. She had not been alert for much of the past two days.

  Mary murmured and turned in her restless sleep. Concordia fumed. That quack of a doctor, an old friend of the family that Judge Armstrong insisted on consulting, prescribed nothing but useless tonics and powders. We’re on the brink of the twentieth century, should we not be able to do more?

  Henry should have consulted a specialist long ago. But Mary’s husband of six months deferred to his overbearing father in nearly everything, including when to seek further help for his ailing wife.

  Concordia found the entire household exasperating. Henry’s mother had died in his infancy, so there was no mother-in-law to supervise Mary’s care. A household of men in charge? She shuddered. They failed to understand that Mary required better tending to her hour-to-hour needs than what the inexperienced maid, Nancy, could give.

  Some of her frustration, Concordia knew, was directed inward. She felt guilty for not paying closer attention to her sister, or spending more time with her. It was obvious now that Mary had deliberately concealed the seriousness of her condition. But why?

  Mary’s behaviors and preferences had long baffled Concordia. As girls, they had been worlds apart. Concordia inhabited a realm of ink-stained hands and dusty books, where libraries were delightful and dinner parties torturous. Mary lived in a world of manicures and fashion magazines, where social calls were the breath of life and dead poets a yawning bore. There was little common ground.

  Then Concordia left for college, a defiant and disgruntled nineteen-year-old. Her mother took to her bed for a week.

  If only their father had been living. He would have championed her dream of college and smoothed the way for her. He had been the scholar of the family, the one who had given Concordia her name, for the Roman goddess of harmony.

  “Harmony” had been an apt descriptor of her relationship with her father, but with no one else. Concordia never returned to live at home.

  Mary was sixteen when Concordia left. By the time she had completed her college degree, her sister was all grown up. Hesitantly at first, they began exchanging polite letters, which were soon filled with happy news of Mary’s upcoming marriage to Henry Armstrong.

  It was an ideal match. Henry, like his father, was trained for the bar, and was on his way to making a name for himself among Hartford’s privileged set. Mary fit well with his ambitions. She would make a pretty wife and a charming hostess.

  Both families supported the union. Concordia attended the ceremony, seeing her mother for the first time since she had left home. Nothing had changed between them. Mother was as cold and uncommunicative as ever, which provoked Concordia into baiting her, with talk of the women’s movement and her own scholarly pursuits. Even as she found herself behaving this way, Concordia wondered why on earth she was deliberately making a bad situation worse.

  Concordia and Mary, on the other hand, found it easier to get along as adults than they had as children, and looked forward to the possibility of visits and outings now that she was teaching at Hartford Women’s College. But it wasn’t working out that way, between Mary’s ill-health and Concordia’s teaching duties.

  Shaking her head, Concordia resolved to spend more time with her sister, once she had recovered. She would not take such opportunities for granted again.

  “Miss Concordia,” a soft voice interrupted her thoughts. Nancy was in the doorway, carrying a tray.

  “Just set it down over there.” Concordia gestured toward the nightstand.

  “Yes, miss…but…I also came in to tell you that Doctor Westfield is here.”

  Nancy turned her head as she spoke, for the good doctor followed closely on the heels of the maid’s announcement, saying, “Ho…Miss Wells! Good to see you, my dear!” in the sort of jovial voice that seemed much too loud for the sickroom. Concordia wondered if he startled his near-death patients back to life through sheer volume.

  The man was as large as his voice, and walked in a waddling, side-to-side fashion that set his coattails swaying. He had a wide, generous mouth, reddened nose, and kindly eyes. Although Concordia didn’t consider him the right choice for Mary’s physician, he seemed likable enough.

  Mary was starting to wake, blinking and looking up at him in confusion while the opiates cleared. She glanced across at Concordia, reaching out her hand. It was surprisingly cold. Concordia chafed it gently.

  “Doctor Westfield has come to check on you, dear,” she said. “I’ll be out in the hall, and I’ll come right back in when he’s finished.” Mary reluctantly let her go.

  Concordia felt as if she had been in the sickroom for an eternity, but dusk was just beginning to stretch through the long hall windows. She looked at the bare bones of trees along the avenue, casting black and gray shadows upon the frozen ground. It was beginning to snow again. The New England landscape looked as bleak as she felt.

  She jumped when the front door bell sounded in the stillness. Knowing the staff were otherwise occupied, Concordia went downstairs, opening the door to a familiar face.

  “Nathaniel!” she exclaimed. “This is a surprise!”

  Nathaniel Young was an older man, with a head of thick, wavy brown hair heavily streaked with silver. He was of her parents’ generation, and had been a steadfast presence during Concordia’s and Mary’s childhood years. To Concordia, he seemed like a favorite uncle, one who would chastise the children for jumping on the sofa, with a wink and a smile.

  He was shivering, and his
voice was thick with worry. “Sophia sent me a note about Mary. How is she?”

  Concordia led him to the parlor fire before answering. They sat, Concordia making sure that Nathaniel perched on a chair closest to the warmth.

  “Dr. Westfield is with her now.” Concordia tried to put more reassurance into her tone than she actually felt about this news.

  “What does he say? This is the fifth such attack she has had, Concordia, did you know that? What in the world is wrong with her? Why do they not consult another physician?”

  Concordia grimaced. “I have asked Henry the same questions, and I only get evasions. I know he’s reluctant to defy his father’s wishes.”

  She patted his hand. “But I will keep pushing him to seek another opinion. I promise.”

  “Will I be able to see her tonight?” His eyes were hopeful.

  She shook her head. “The doctor typically gives Mary a sedative in the evening. He says sleep is the best remedy.” She kept her opinion to herself regarding that truism. She stifled a yawn and rubbed her stiff neck.

  “Then I should go,” Nathaniel said, rising. “You need some rest, too, my dear. You will send word when she can have visitors?”

  “Of course,” she promised.

  When he left, she watched him through the window, head bent against the swirling snow. Even after all these years, she thought, he is a staunch family friend.

  As tired as she was, sleep did not come easily that night. Perhaps it was the watching and worrying over Mary. Perhaps it was successive nights in a strange bed. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar noises—the creaks of the house, the sighing of the wind in the trees.

  When she at last drifted asleep, she had strange, fitful dreams. The creaks became footsteps; the sighing became toneless murmurings. The air grew cold as she seemed to glide along corridors, opening doors that led to more passageways, following the sounds. At last, she came upon a door that opened into a room.

  Her room. She saw herself in bed, asleep. And across the room, a small, white-gowned form, stretching out a pale hand.

  “Uhh-nehh, uhh-nehh.”

  Her heart thudded madly in her chest. She wanted to run, wanted to scream, but she was immobile.

  The apparition silently crossed the room and approached the bed, growing closer, closer…

  Concordia awoke to the sound of her own shriek. Bolting out of bed, she turned up the lamp with trembling fingers, and inspected every dark corner of the room.

  She was alone.

  Chapter 10

  Week 4, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

  A soft knock on the door and the clatter of crockery woke Concordia the next morning.

  “How is Mary?” she asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. After that awful dream, she had dozed a little, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

  Annie set down a tray of toast and fragrant tea—Light of Asia blend, a favorite of hers. The dollar-per-pound cost, however, was too exorbitant for a teacher’s salary. Concordia usually made do with Oolong or Ceylon.

  Annie’s usual smile was absent this morning. Her teeth tugged nervously at her lower lip. “The missus is no better, Miss Concordia.” She hesitated.

  “What is it?” Concordia slopped tea into the saucer.

  “Oh, miss, no, she’s no worse neither,” Annie was quick to reassure her, blotting up the spill, “it’s just that Nancy is mighty worried, and with not knowing how to take care of a sick ‘un, she don’t know whether she’s coming or going a’times.”

  Nancy had joined the household as Mary’s maid once the couple had returned from their honeymoon trip. Annie was protective of the younger girl, and had helped her learn her new duties. But beyond that, Annie couldn’t help her much; she was kept busy enough as the cook’s assistant. Occasionally, when a guest stayed in the house, as Concordia had, Annie took on additional maid duties, trading a flour-dusted cotton apron for a crisply starched lace one.

  “What we really need is a nurse. I’ll speak to Mr. Armstrong about it. Again,” Concordia said.

  Annie straightened up from her smoothing and folding of clothing articles that Concordia had strewn in her fatigue of last night, and gave her a grateful look, mixed with an expression of—something else? It was so fleeting that she wasn’t sure she had seen it at all.

  After Annie left, Concordia dressed quickly, hoping to catch Henry before he left for downtown. She crouched beside the bed to retrieve a shoe.

  A small piece of painted wood under the bed skirt caught her eye. Concordia picked it up. It was a spinning top, its wide round base coming to a small point in the center, a thin stem above, gaily painted with red and yellow stripes.

  But what was a child’s toy doing in her room? She frowned. There were no children here in the house. She tucked it in her skirt pocket to ask about later.

  Concordia was barely in time to waylay Henry. She didn’t appreciate conducting the conversation by the front door, but he seemed ill-disposed to budge. Successive wakeful nights had etched lines around his mouth. His thinned face made his eyes look large and luminous. Although he was older than she, it gave him a vulnerable, boyish appearance.

  “Yes, what is it? I’m late,” he said impatiently.

  Concordia tried the direct approach. Her temper was too frayed for tact.

  “Henry, you must engage better care for Mary. It is obvious that Doctor Westfield is out of his element. Can’t you see that she’s only getting worse? And you cannot expect Nancy to shoulder the burden for her care. She’s just a girl. You know that Mary needs a specialist and a nurse.”

  Conflicting emotions crossed his weary face: anger, frustration, worry.

  “I have already decided to call in another professional,” he said defensively. “He should be here sometime tomorrow. Later, we’ll see if a nurse is advisable.”

  He left, adding under his breath, “What happens now? Heaven only knows.”

  By the afternoon, Concordia was relieved to see that Mary was resting more comfortably. Nancy was sent to bed, nearly asleep on her feet. Concordia restlessly paced the floor of Mary’s room. After three days in the Armstrong house, with little more to divert her mind from the sickness and worry than watching the dust motes settle, she was eager to return to her classes. Heaven only knew how behind they would be, even with another teacher taking over in her absence. But someone needed to stay to take care of Mary.

  “Concordia.”

  She turned to the bed. Mary was awake.

  “Mary! How do you feel?” She sat down beside her.

  Mary smiled weakly. “I have been better. Where is Mother?”

  “She’s still trapped at Aunt Florence’s, dear,” Concordia answered.

  Mary gave a sigh. “She misses you, Concordia. She’s too proud to admit it, but I can tell.”

  “I doubt that,” Concordia retorted.

  “You believe that you and Mother are so dissimilar?” Mary said. “I think not. Both of you are stubborn, and carry a long grudge. You must be the first to make amends. She is too…set in her ways…to do it.”

  Concordia shook her head. “You forget how she treats me, Mary. I cannot.”

  “Can not, or will not?” Mary persisted. “After I am gone, the two of you will only have each other.”

  “Tut-tut—you’re not going anywhere,” Concordia said soothingly.

  Mary gave her a steady look. “Try—for me?”

  Oh, alright, we’ll see. I cannot promise,” Concordia grumbled. Mary always knew how to get her way.

  Deciding not to push any further, Mary changed the subject.

  “There’s something else you can do for me.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Take a look in the attic. No, really,” Mary said, in answer to Concordia’s puzzled expression. “There have been…noises, coming through the ceiling, in the middle of the night.”

  Perhaps the dream of last night was still fresh in Concordia’s mind, for Mary’s words produced a chill at the base of her spine.r />
  She shook off the first ridiculous thoughts that sprang to mind. “What sort of noises?”

  “Shuffling, mostly, and occasionally a slight scraping sound.” Mary gave a shaky laugh. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s been happening too often this past week for it to be a dream, Concordia. I asked Annie earlier if she would go see, but she looked so alarmed—I guess the attic is rather gloomy, and she seems the superstitious sort—that I dropped it. When I asked Henry, he acted as if I’d lost my wits.”

  Concordia patted Mary’s hand. “Of course you haven’t. Big houses have noises, that’s all, and with your illness, and the laudanum the doctor has prescribed, it would be strange if you didn’t hear things.” Perhaps she was trying to reassure herself as much as her sister.

  Mary shook her head stubbornly. “It’s not the medicine, or my condition. There was someone, some…thing, up there.”

  Concordia felt that quiver of fear inching up her back again. “Did Henry search the attic after you told him?”

  “He said he did, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. But I want you to look, Concordia. You’re the only one I can trust.”

  There was a pause. Mary gave her another pleading look.

  “Well, I can certainly look around,” Concordia said, standing up and straightening her skirts, “but I doubt that I’ll find anything.” Except dust and spiders, she thought with a shudder. Heaven knows what condition the fifty-year-old attic would be in.

  “Be careful,” Mary said. Her lips trembled. “There’s one other thing I didn’t tell you—about the noises.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Once, I thought I heard a voice. Garbled. It didn’t sound—quite human.”