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  In the meantime, her sister’s condition was unchanged. Sophia wrote to Concordia nearly every day. The specialist had indeed come from Boston. However, he had left after just a few days, and Sophia had not been able to find out why. Had the doctor abandoned the case as hopeless?

  But Concordia did not have much opportunity to meditate further upon either the mystery of Mary’s illness or Julian Reynolds’s attentions. In addition to her courses and play rehearsals, the doings at Willow Cottage were sufficient to keep her and Ruby occupied in their scant spare time. It was Willow Cottage’s turn to host the president’s Tea, and during the course of the week the girls were in a flurry of excitement, vigorously cleaning and polishing, snipping endless recipes for scones, muffins, and other dainty edibles for the dining hall’s cooks to make, contributing pillow cushions and other bric-a-brac from their rooms to pretty up the parlor. Silk dresses were brushed, gloves mended, and shoes polished.

  It was a source of pride for the students to play hostess to President Richter, who spoke glowingly of the teas as an example of “refined Christian womanhood.” (Apparently heathens did not drink tea). What Arthur Richter did not realize was that the teas had become a competition of sorts among the cottages to see who could outdo the others. Not a ladylike, or Christian, goal.

  Soon it was the Saturday afternoon of the tea. Concordia planned to leave afterward to visit Mary—and discovered what the specialist had learned. In the meantime, she needed to supervise her girls, so that the event proceeded smoothly. She was proud of them—they all looked well-groomed, and were, so far, conducting themselves in an uncharacteristically lady-like manner. She knew that the influence of their Head Senior was partly responsible for their success.

  She looked over at the composed Miss Crandall, every strand of her smooth brown hair in place, arranged snugly at the nape of her neck. Such a style served to emphasize her strong, square jaw line, a feature that Concordia found incongruous in the girl, as it hinted at rebellion where there was none. Although Ruby had described the senior as once “a wild one,” Concordia remembered. If so, she’d certainly matured in the past two years.

  Miss Crandall was seated (one might say wedged, as there was hardly room for all twenty girls and their guests in Willow Cottage’s parlor) between President Richter and Miss Hamilton on the settee. As she chatted, the girl passed teacups and plates to others with smooth, practiced movements, clearly comfortable in such a setting. And no wonder, having been raised in the wealthy Crandall household, where such niceties were as essential to one’s education as Moral Philosophy. Concordia thought of her own abilities at that age, and suspected that she would have been more likely to dump the tray of scones in Richter’s lap.

  He seemed to be enjoying himself, smiling amiably at the girls, encouraging what he saw as their strides toward domesticity. Yet Concordia noticed shadows under his eyes, and his long, stained fingers fidgeting restlessly with a teaspoon.

  “I must say, my dear young ladies, I am most impressed by your preparations,” Richter commented, casting an approving eye around the room, taking in the newly-swept hearth, the shining wood surfaces, the carefully-laid tea tray.

  “It is gratifying to see that you keep your faith and your home duties close to your hearts, even here at the college,” he continued, looking again at the “God Bless Our Home” sampler prominently displayed over the mantel. No one volunteered the fact that Miss Drake had pulled it from the depths of her trunk in honor of the occasion. No doubt it would find its way back to obscurity after the tea.

  Richter kept the conversation on light-hearted topics, and the girls followed his lead. The time seemed to drag on. Has it only been half an hour, Concordia wondered, surreptitiously checking her watch again. She reflected upon the smaller teas that she and the other professors hosted for their students, where stimulating discussions were the norm, and the time flew by. And what a wide range of topics—not just the school subjects one might expect. The students were, surprisingly, interested in current events, politics, even international affairs. She remembered one discussion about the overthrow of Queen Liliuokalani, and whether the United States should have better considered the proposal to annex the new Republic of Hawai’i. Concordia had known nothing about that part of the world. Then there was the debate about the Pullman railway strike—should President Cleveland have intervened the way he had, sending in federal troops to end it? What about the workers, who were protesting reduced wages for twelve-hour workdays? That had been a particularly spirited discussion.

  The students have lively minds, Concordia thought, looking around the room at each of her girls. She had developed protective feelings toward them. She hated to think that any of them would be considered unladylike for wanting to discuss matters of greater import than which spring bulbs were emerging, or plans for the next dance.

  Her eyes rested upon Miss Hamilton, looking most elegant today in a gray taffeta with black braid trimming at the waist and hem. The lady principal, in turn, was closely observing both the president and Miss Crandall. Her face conveyed a watchful stillness that reminded Concordia of a cat, poised to strike when the mole emerges from hiding. Concordia suppressed a shudder.

  President Richter looked up and caught Concordia’s eye, giving her a silent nod of approval. She smiled, relieved that the tea was nearly over—without incident. Soon she would be able to turn her attention to other matters.

  She had sent word to Henry in advance, so the Armstrong carriage was waiting for her at the campus gate when she was ready. Once the driver settled her comfortably, they were on their way. Concordia was anxious to see Mary again, although she was wary of sharing the house with both Judge Armstrong and her mother, even for so short a time. It would be a chilly reception.

  She knew something was wrong as soon as they approached the house. An empty buggy was standing in the street; Concordia recognized it as Doctor Westfield’s. The front door had been flung wide open, and no one had yet thought to close it. Concordia stumbled out of the vehicle before the driver could help her, and ran into the house.

  Chapter 16

  Zion Hill Cemetery, March 1896

  Out, out, brief candle!

  V.v

  Concordia stood next to Mary’s grave as the minister read the prayer. The March wind tugged at her hat, and dried her damp cheeks. It was difficult to stand for so long. Her head throbbed and her legs ached. Her mother stood next to her, rigid, dry-eyed, and pale.

  Perhaps they should not have come. She had seen a few eyebrows lifted in surprise upon their arrival. Concordia knew that many still held to the custom that women--even female relatives--did not attend the graveside service of a departed loved one. But she had to come today, even if no one else understood. She could at least keep watch over her sister this final time, when she was put to rest. Her mother, surprisingly, had insisted upon accompanying her.

  She looked at her mother. Mary had been so like her: the same heart-shaped face, light blue eyes, and golden hair, her mother’s now streaked with silver. Both women had been beauties in their time. For Mrs. Wells, time and grief had faded the red of her lips, pulled the skin of her neck into loose folds, veined her long slender hands with blue. She looked fragile, standing out here in the wind, as if a strong gust might knock her down. Protectively, Concordia reached for her hand, which was snatched away. Concordia felt a lump rise in her throat, remembering their argument the day before.

  “Mother, you know I detest that woman. She isn’t here to offer condolences—oh, certainly, for the sake of appearance, she will. She is here to gather fodder for gossip and to satisfy her busybody curiosity. Visit with her all you like—it is your house, after all—but do not require me to come down. I will not.”

  Mrs. Wells’ lips compressed into a thin line. “No, of course not,” she scoffed. “Heaven forbid you support me when I need you. All these years, you have done as you pleased. You have not visited or even written.”

  Concordia clenched her fist
s within the folds of her skirt as she took a deep breath.

  “I tried to visit, when I came back. And you know why I stayed away to begin with,” she said evenly. It took an effort of will not to scream in frustration.

  “You made my life miserable,” Concordia continued. “I could not be who you wanted me to be. I could not be like Mary. I never can.”

  Her mother choked back a sob. “That girl was the delight of my life. And now…she is…gone.” Mrs. Wells groped again for her handkerchief.

  Wordlessly, Concordia went back in her room and shut the door.

  Concordia looked over the funeral gathering. The Armstrongs were gathered closest to Reverend Elliot. Henry, his face even paler in severe black, kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Judge Armstrong, his brow furrowed, scowled at the poor minister, who had lost his page in the wind.

  Beyond the immediate family, she recognized President Richter, Nathaniel Young, and Julian Reynolds. A subdued Sophia Adams, who cared not a jot for social convention, was standing behind them.

  When the service was concluded, the mourners began to disperse. Arthur Richter approached, frowning—in concern, or disapproval? Concordia could not tell. Mrs. Wells stretched out a gloved hand, which he held and gently patted.

  “Letitia, you and Concordia should have spared yourselves this distress. It was not necessary to make an appearance here. Death, while unfortunate in one so young, is a fact of life, after all. I understand she had been ill for some time.”

  “We appreciate your concern for our well-being, Arthur,” Mrs. Wells responded stiffly. “Thank you for coming. I remember how you doted on Mary, during your visits with my husband.”

  This was merely politeness on her mother’s part, Concordia knew. Arthur Richter’s visits when her father was still alive were confined to the library, a place of little interest to Mary. Concordia’s own intrusions upon those sessions, while welcomed by her father, had been scarcely tolerated by Richter.

  Arthur Richter nodded. “Indeed. Mary was a charming child. I will always remember her as a little girl, in a pinafore two sizes too large for her.”

  He gestured toward Mr. Reynolds, who had joined them.

  “Concordia, Miss Hamilton wanted me to inform you that Mr. Reynolds here will continue with your classes until you are ready to return. Take all of the time you need to set your family affairs in order, my dear.” With a bow, he left.

  A breeze blew a lock of Julian Reynolds’ blond hair rakishly across his brow as he clasped Concordia’s hand. Even through the gloves they each wore, the warmth of his hands enfolding hers was comforting. In that moment, she felt a disconcerting urge to be gathered up in his arms and cry without stopping.

  She pulled her hand away and took a breath to collect herself. “I do appreciate your help, Mr. Reynolds. It…should not be much longer. We have a few more tasks to attend to. I intend to return to classes by the end of the week.”

  Mrs. Wells, still standing next to Concordia, swayed slightly. Time to get Mother home; it had been a grueling day. Making their apologies to Mr. Reynolds, they headed for the carriage. Sophia caught up to them, helping Concordia prop her mother, who was sagging quickly.

  “Allow me to assist you, Miss Wells!” Reynolds called out, hurrying after them. By this point, Concordia and Sophia were standing beside the vehicle, the driver wrestling open the door against the wind. Concordia clutched her hat, eyes watering, and with the other arm helped ease her mother in.

  Mr. Reynolds, breathless and arriving too late to be of help, gave a rueful smile.

  “Well, at least I caught up with you before you left. I forgot to mention that we should meet to discuss your classes. Could you perhaps come to my residence one afternoon this week when you are free? I would not want to presume upon a household in mourning.”

  Concordia frowned. Who makes social arrangements in a cemetery? But she knew Mr. Reynolds had a point. It might also be pleasant to see him again, under less somber circumstances.

  “Sophia,” she said, turning to her friend, “could you accompany me to Mr. Reynolds’s house in a few days?”

  Sophia, though puzzled, agreed.

  “Excellent,” Reynolds exclaimed, taking Concordia’s hand again, “I will wait to hear from you.”

  Concordia stepped into the carriage, working to settle the folds of the dull black crape-lined dress she had borrowed from her mother. It was too long for her and had been hastily pinned. She suspected that at least some of the pins had worked themselves loose. She winced when her suspicion was confirmed.

  As they put the cemetery behind them, Sophia was the first to speak. “What an odd gentleman!”

  Concordia smiled weakly. “Perhaps. I don’t know what to think, honestly.”

  Sophia thrust out her pointy chin and gave an unladylike snort. “Well, I do. Look out for that one.”

  Seeing that her mother had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Concordia did not reply. She was puzzled by Sophia’s words. Mr. Reynolds had been nothing but a gentleman, showing a sincere, albeit inexplicable, interest in her. It was her own feelings she had to be wary of.

  The carriage ride from Zion Hill Cemetery to her mother’s house in the South Green neighborhood was short. Sophia had volunteered to stay with Mrs. Wells while Concordia remained at the Armstrong house to go through Mary’s possessions, something she knew her mother could not bear to do. Henry had abdicated all responsibility for the dispersal of his wife’s belongings. Concordia could not decide whether he was too callous to care, or too deeply grieved.

  She also had another, more formidable task, one that she kept to herself; to discover what the Armstrongs had to hide about Mary. If Concordia was to have any peace about her sister’s death, she had to know the truth.

  Once assured that Mother and Sophia were in the care of the attentive housekeeper, Concordia drove on to Asylum Hill. She looked out idly as the carriage drove through Bushnell Park, where budding willows and the emerging crocuses dotting the ground reminded her that spring was coming. A spring that her sister would not see.

  Concordia’s eyes blurred as she struggled to shake off these thoughts. She would need all of the composure she could muster in order to face the Armstrongs.

  Chapter 17

  March 1896

  Our fears do make us traitors.

  IV.ii

  The afternoon after the funeral was a lonely one. The household was quiet, with Henry and Judge Armstrong ignoring Concordia and one another, and retreating to their rooms. After sharing a cottage with twenty lively girls, Concordia was unaccustomed to empty silences. She needed bustle and noise; if she couldn’t have that, at least she could find something to occupy her.

  Concordia went into Mary’s dressing-room. It still possessed the character of its owner, with Chantilly-lace curtains and the lingering scent of rose-water. The vanity table held neatly arranged brushes, combs, and a monogrammed hand mirror—Concordia’s wedding gift. She picked it up. Water drops began to spatter its surface.

  How did she think she could do this? She crumpled to the floor, buried her head in her arms, and wept.

  It was dark outside when she was roused by wind-lashed branches scraping along the roof tiles. The soft pfft, pfft against the window meant the rain that had been threatening all day had started at last.

  Floors were not meant to be slept on, Concordia thought, wincing at the stiffness in her back. She blew her nose noisily in her handkerchief. Feeling better now, she resolved to at least start sorting through Mary’s belongings, late though it was.

  She opened the armoire, admiring the array of silk wrappers, soft wool skirts, shirt-waists sporting the popular leg-of-mutton sleeves, and traveling suits, some tailored in the latest fashion of masculine shoulders and military-like braid. There were also tea gowns and ball gowns in shimmering colors of aquamarine, cerise, silver, and rose. Most of these would be given away. Mary had been slimmer than she, and Concordia certainly had no social occasion that called for a gown.
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  Amid the swish of silk and taffeta and sounds of the storm buffeting the house, she almost missed it: a series of pattering sounds above her head. She froze, heart thumping.

  She listened. A further scrape and creak sent goose bumps shivering along her arms. Had that been overhead as well? It was difficult to tell. Was this what Mary had heard, when she pleaded with Concordia to search the attic? Or was she now the one imagining things?

  Firmly thrusting away thoughts of ghosts, or madness—this house was getting on her nerves—Concordia stepped into the hall. Annie was just coming down the passageway, obviously in search of her.

  “Ah, miss—I thought you might be here,” she said. “The judge and Mr. Henry don’t need any of us tonight, and I wanted to see if you wanted anything before I go to bed.” Brow furrowed, she looked closely at Concordia. “You did’n eat much today, miss, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. Can I fix you some toast, maybe?”

  Concordia was touched by her concern. “I’ll be fine, really. I was wondering, though—have you heard any unusual noises tonight? I’ve been hearing something that sounds like it’s coming from the attic.”

  “Ya don’t say?” Annie paled. Mary was right, Concordia thought, Annie is a bit superstitious. “Can’t say I have, miss, but that storm sure is loud, with them trees knockin’ around. Are you sure it weren’t that?”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” Concordia said, “but it seemed to come from right overhead.”