Dangerous and Unseemly Page 5

  Chapter 11

  Week 4, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

  With Mary’s parting words undermining her courage, Concordia hesitantly climbed the narrow back stairs to the Armstrong attic, her bedside lamp in hand. Although it was the middle of the day, the small attic windows would not provide enough light for her to make a thorough search.

  And it should keep ghosts from sneaking up from behind, she thought sarcastically. Let’s be sensible, old girl. She would scare herself witless by her own fancies.

  The narrow door opened easily on well-oiled hinges. The attic, though certainly gloomy, seemed to have been vigorously dusted recently, to Concordia’s surprise. Her limited experience with attics led her to expect a grimy and neglected jumble of household goods, the detritus of previous occupants and grown children. But the items here were neatly stacked, and allowed plenty of room for movement, if one crouched. Concordia cast her lamp around, making a face at the layers of hideous wallpaper panels, leftovers used to insulate the attic walls. They were peeling in places, and she could see decades of unfortunate décor choices: Neo-Gothic prints of trefoils and towers, garish Rococo designs festooned with gilt and curlicues, the frenzied florals of an Art Nouveau pattern.

  The contents of the attic were the sort that one would expect: a wood-and-leather hobbyhorse that Henry had no doubt played with as a little boy; trunks filled with cast-off clothing, one old night-shift sticking out of a corner; an assortment of umbrella stands, hat-racks, and end tables; even a worn mattress propped on its side.

  Hadn’t she searched enough? She was obviously the only person here. She could report back to Mary and put her fears to rest.

  Still, something about this room didn’t feel right. Perhaps her disturbing dream of last night, combined with Mary’s suppositions, preyed upon Concordia’s imagination.

  Reluctantly, Concordia continued toward the back of the attic, farther from the sunlight filtering through the narrow window, farther from the only door out of the room.

  It was dusty at this end of the room, and a shifted trunk had left its outline. Concordia’s heart lurched as she noticed something else: a thin string attached to a wood handle, painted in familiar-looking red and yellow stripes.

  Setting down her lamp, Concordia crouched to pick it up. Pulling the top from her pocket, she compared the two. There was no doubt that they were a set. After a couple of clumsy attempts from remembered childhood days, she finally got the top to spin. She idly watched its point make thin swirl marks in the dust as she considered what the presence of these items could mean.

  From her vantage point so close to the floor, she could now see similar swirl marks, undisturbed. She frowned. Someone has been here.

  A movement caught her eye. With a startled squeak, she turned toward the door. It was softly closing by an unseen hand.

  “H-h-hello?” she called out, scrambling to get up, but—bother!—her skirts hampered quick movement.

  By the time she made it to the door, she was too late. The stairs and corridor outside were empty. Who had been spying on her?

  She could at least talk to Mary about what she found. After one last glance down the empty hall, Concordia put the spinning top and string in her pocket and headed to her sister’s room.

  But their talk would have to wait. Mary was asleep. Stroking Mary’s light hair as it lay tousled on the pillow, Concordia noted the relaxed delicacy of her sister’s face, her easy breathing. She was sleeping more easily than she had in days.

  Concordia felt hopeful. The specialist would know what to do. Thank heaven Henry had finally developed a backbone and was getting his wife the care she had long needed. She wondered what Judge Armstrong had to say about Henry’s act of defiance. Fortunately, she had not encountered him since her arrival.

  As if conjured by her thoughts, the sound of a throat clearing made her turn to see that very man standing in the doorway. Although getting on in years, the judge was still a commanding presence: tall, muscular, and barrel-chested. His florid complexion emphasized the startling contrast between the pure white of his hair and his black brows, which settled into a perpetual frown. Whenever Concordia was in the judge’s company, which thankfully was not often, she could not help but stare at those eyebrows.

  Concordia accompanied the judge into the hall and closed the door. She stifled a sigh. Whatever he wanted, she resolved not to be goaded into an argument this time.

  “Your mother will be arriving soon,” he said.

  Concordia looked up at him, struggling to avoid the eyebrows. The attempt was futile. There they were, frowning down upon her, as if they had a life of their own.

  “But I thought she was still stranded at Aunt Florence’s,” she said in surprise.

  “Miss Adams managed it somehow,” the judge said with a derisive snort. “Upstart young woman. Thinks she can intrude her ideas upon other people.”

  “She is resourceful,” Concordia said, smiling.

  The judge scowled, and the brows drew close to touching.

  “’Resourceful’ is of little use when you young ‘career women’ lack the feminine instinct to take proper care of my daughter-in-law,” he said sharply. “Perhaps if you had paid attention to your true vocation, Concordia—which is hearth and home—and left behind these faddish notions of doing a man’s job, you could better care for Mary. Your mother’s arrival cannot come soon enough for me. She, at least, has the maternal instincts necessary to tend to your sister.”

  “Had you engaged a proper professional,” Concordia retorted, “a ‘career woman’ such as a nurse, Mary would have had better care all along.”

  The judge’s reddish complexion was now taking on a purplish tinge.

  “I know, at least, that your presence is no longer needed,” he sneered. “You are free to return to your school and cram more useless knowledge into those empty-headed girls.”

  Abruptly, he walked away, leaving her seething.

  Chapter 12

  Week 5, Instructor Calendar, March 1896

  Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

  I.iii

  The trolley ride from the Armstrong house back to Hartford Women’s College briefly diverted Concordia from her thoughts. She boarded a crowded morning streetcar, standing during the early part of the trip, stretching to grasp a nearby hand strap, feet already aching from her pointy-toed boots. If only women’s fashions would take pity on a lady’s foot and forgo these ridiculous shapes.

  At City Hall Square, many of the office workers disembarked. Concordia sat down in relief, adjusting her spectacles for a better look through a frost-etched window. This section was the hub of downtown Hartford, and the bustle of the city had an appeal all its own. Even on a cold winter morning there were people outdoors: street vendors setting up for business with their rickety hand carts, expressmen loading packages onto wagons for delivery. She could hear the boisterous shouts of newsies, mixed with the thin, high-pitched calls of children selling chewing gum and shoelaces. Main Street was crammed with these, along with bicyclists and pedestrians.

  The trolley car continued north, leaving the noise of the inner city. Concordia’s thoughts returned to her sister. What was making her ill? Why was a new doctor only now being called? The Armstrong family could afford the best specialists and nurses, and Henry certainly wasn’t near with a dollar.

  Concordia had to reluctantly concede that the judge was right about one thing: Mary would receive better nursing at the hands of their mother than she could give. Her mother’s arrival yesterday was a relief, although the two of them exchanged the most perfunctory of greetings.

  Mrs. Wells had brought with her the trusted housekeeper who had cared for Concordia and Mary through many a childhood illness. It seemed a good idea to have extra help, but Judge Armstrong sent the housekeeper away, refusing to allow anyone but family.

  Why?

  With all the commotion--and tension--of her mother’s arrival, Concordia missed the chance t
o talk with Mary about what she had found in the attic. She honestly didn’t know if it was important or not. The toy could have been dropped a while ago. Perhaps previous guests of the Armstrongs had brought a child with them, who had wandered off. Perhaps it was going to be a gift, and had fallen out of a pocket. She should have asked one of the staff before she left, but she just wanted to make a quick exit. She’d had enough of that household.

  They were approaching the stop for the college. As she caught sight of the Memorial Chapel tower in the distance, her thoughts turned to the problems the college was having. The chapel prank. The loss of Ruth Lyman. The financial difficulties. Hartford Women’s College had a lot of obstacles to overcome this year.

  Concordia gathered up her belongings as the trolley slowed.

  As she approached the center of campus, she saw students milling about in front of the Hall.

  Her heart sank. Please heaven, not another crisis. Although the girls were exasperatingly mischievous this semester, Concordia found herself hoping it was simply a harmless practical joke.

  Once she had sidled past students on the third floor stairs, her valise bumping awkwardly against her knees, Concordia could see that the disturbance was centered in front of President Richter’s office. Miss Bellini and Miss Pomeroy were shooing a dozen or so girls in the adjacent hallway. Beyond them, President Richter and Dean Langdon were in close conversation as Miss Hamilton pulled something from the door and inspected it.

  The president and dean were a study in contrasts: the latter, large and rumpled, with mismatched garments selected for comfort and convenience rather than style; the former, long-limbed, trim and nattily dressed.

  “Out you go, now, Miss Babcock, Miss Dellawan, Miss Connors. All of you: out, out,” Miss Pomeroy said, propelling the girls by their elbows, as they craned their necks to see.

  “Ooh, Miss Pomeroy, we just want to know what’s going on,” a girl begged.

  Miss Bellini, too, sternly waved them back toward the stairs, but the corners of her mouth curled in a hint of a smile and her black eyes glittered with barely-disguised interest.

  “You heard Miss Pomeroy, signorinas. We have much to do here, and we do not need you all—what is it? Under the foot,” Miss Bellini said. She dropped her voice a bit. “I promise—later I will tell you all, si?”

  Just as Concordia set down her case to help, the air was pierced by the sound of a metal whistle. All turned toward the stairwell. In the stunned silence, the white-haired Miss Jenkins, coach’s whistle around her neck and hands on hips, called out:

  “Basketball practice in ten minutes, ladies! What are you doing there, gawking? Get moving!”

  Before one could say “foul shot,” the hallway was cleared. Miss Jenkins, a satisfied smile on her lined face, followed the girls out.

  “That woman is a gem,” Miss Pomeroy murmured. She made a half-hearted attempt to tuck strands of frizzy brown hair back into their pins.

  “What has happened here?” Concordia asked. She looked over at Miss Hamilton, holding—was that a knife? She felt a little sick.

  The lady principal was the single point of utter calm among the agitated group. President Richter, standing beside her, was staring at a torn piece of paper that he held between trembling, tobacco-stained fingers. Dean Langdon shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he read over the president’s shoulder.

  “There was a note on his door,” Miss Pomeroy said, “held in place by that letter opener.” She pointed to the object in the lady principal’s hand. Concordia breathed a small sigh of relief. They didn’t need any more knives.

  Miss Bellini nodded. “One of my students, she was coming to see me in my office, yes? She let out a scream when she saw it.” Miss Bellini rolled her eyes. “The young ladies, they are so dramatic.”

  “Of course, that brought everyone running,” Miss Pomeroy picked up the thread of the story. “And word spread like wildfire after that. President Richter came, and found that his office had been rummaged through.”

  “Did anyone see who it was?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Bellini shook her head. “My door was only partly open. I saw nothing.”

  “I was also in my office,” Miss Pomeroy said, “but I was so engrossed in my translation of Charlemagne that I noticed nothing before I heard the scream.”

  “What does the note say?”

  “I saw it,” Miss Bellini said. Her dark brows furrowed in concentration. “’Beware. Next time a real stabbing could happen,’” she quoted.

  Even the placid Miss Pomeroy looked troubled. “Why would someone do

  this? What can it mean?”

  Concordia shook her head. “One thing is clear: we have moved beyond irksome practical jokes.”

  Chapter 13

  Week 5, Instructor Calendar, March 1896

  “Two pranks in ten days is an outrage, especially after Miss Lyman’s death,” President Richter thundered. He had recovered from his bout of laryngitis, and was as loud as ever. He turned to the lady principal. “Miss Hamilton, what has been done to catch these girls? Have you made any progress?”

  It was just after the evening meal, and the staff, most still in their dinner attire, had gathered in the spacious parlor of Sycamore House, which housed the president, dean, and visiting male professors. Fires in the hearths at each end of the room cast dancing shadows upon worried faces.

  Concordia could sympathize with his frustration, although she bristled with the barely-restrained urge to defend the lady principal. It certainly wasn’t Miss Hamilton’s fault.

  But the strain was taking its toll on Arthur Richter. Looking closely at the president, sitting in a large wing-back chair across from her, Concordia saw the web of creases spreading beside his eyes, and the sagging flesh under his chin. His mouth, nearly bloodless, twitched, and his restless fingers drummed upon his knee.

  Concordia remembered Arthur Richter from her childhood, when he and her father, poring over a rare book find together, would puff away at their pipes until their library at home was thick with a bluish-white haze. The smoke never bothered her. Sometimes, Mr. Wells indulgently allowed Concordia to stay and listen to them talk. The memory was still strong.

  Arthur Richter had been appointed President of Hartford Women’s College eight years ago, stepping in after the death of the college’s very first president. Some were surprised when Richter accepted the position. It was common knowledge that, as a former trustee, he had objected to the 1878 collegiate conversion of what had been the Hartford Ladies’ Seminary, citing the views of experts—prominent physicians, religious and civic leaders—that women’s minds were constitutionally different from men’s, and that a young woman risked damaging her “delicate apparatus” with arduous study.

  But change was inevitable. Women’s colleges had been springing up in the area like crocuses in a winter thaw—New York’s Vassar College in 1861, Massachusetts’ Wellesley and Smith Colleges in 1875—and enrollment at Hartford Ladies’ Seminary had dropped off drastically. The evangelical fervor of preparing women for motherhood or the teaching profession, which had been the original driving force of the seminary more than two decades earlier, had been replaced with more modern sensibilities. The early generation of women scholars had proved that they possessed the aptitude for serious study. Demand for such institutions was increasing. The Hartford Ladies’ Seminary was lagging behind the times, and its trustees knew it. Thus, Hartford Women’s College was born.

  Now, with Richter as president, Concordia could see that he was in a unique position to control the direction of the college in its second decade. Under his leadership, the college had maintained some of the seminary customs designed to train young Christian women in decorous behavior and family life: daily Chapel, formal dinner dress, once-per-week (chaperoned) social visits, and strict enforcement of bedtime curfew, widely known as the “ten o-clock rule.” Male costume for student plays was not allowed, and the student basketball teams only recently were permitted t
o play in modified skirts and bloomers. Only irrepressible youth could have managed athletic endeavors in full skirts, she thought.

  Concordia looked around the room and noticed Miss Bellini, her shoulders hunched under a paisley shawl, distractedly plucking the ends of its fringe in her lap. It must be unsettling to realize that the prankster had struck again nearly at her door.

  The wall sconces—electric, now—had been switched on in the growing dusk, so Concordia could see even into the far corner, where she observed a familiar-looking man. She could not quite place him. She thought she knew all the teachers by now. He certainly was handsome, and knew how to dress well. His suit, made of finely-woven French wool, fit his lean frame too well to be anything but custom-tailored. He was seated in a chair against the wall, his long legs leisurely crossed, looking quite relaxed, despite the tension in the room. Concordia felt as if she could look at him for hours.

  She took her mind off fanciful thoughts when she sheepishly realized that she had missed a large portion of the discussion.

  “Could we not bring in a private inquiry agent?” Dean Langdon suggested.

  Several people shifted uneasily in their chairs.

  President Richter shook his head vehemently. “The public exposure would be detrimental to the college. Between Miss Lyman’s untimely death and rumors about the college already in circulation before that, such a public action in this matter could irrevocably damage the school’s reputation.”

  Concordia saw the lady principal and dean exchange glances. They knew the president was referring to the college’s financial problems.

  * * *

  The meeting concluded, with very little decided (as happened with most large meetings, Concordia thought). She smothered a yawn. Back to Willow Cottage, and to bed.