by K. B. Owen
The moment was brief, although it seemed to stretch, suspended. He was smiling when he gently let her go. Without a word, Concordia fumbled for the latch, stepped into the hallway, and did what any well-bred lady would do in such a circumstance: she closed the door in his face.
Chapter 29
Week 12, Instructor Calendar, April 1896
To beguile the time,
Look like the time.
I.v
“So much fabric!” Miss Pomeroy exclaimed, as she helped Concordia sort through the piles of donated cloth. Miss Pomeroy came from a family of accomplished seamstresses, and she would make many of the costumes for the play.
“And it’s only Wednesday,” Concordia said. “We could get more in the next two days.” While Concordia appreciated Miss Pomeroy’s help in sorting, she had hoped to go through the piles herself first, so that she could note which fabrics came from which students. She remembered Miss Hamilton’s plan to track down the effigy-makers. Unfortunately, she had found nothing of interest yet.
Miss Pomeroy laughed out loud.
“What is it?” Concordia asked, glancing over.
“They do mean well, they really do, but sometimes these girls simply aren’t thinking!” Miss Pomeroy said, grinning, chubby cheeks pushing up her wire-rimmed eyeglasses. She held up a segment of light pink gingham. “Can you imagine Lady Macbeth in this?”
Concordia’s heart beat faster. “Who turned that in?” she asked, forcing herself to remain calm. Gingham was a common fabric, after all.
Miss Pomeroy pursed her lips thoughtfully. “One of the sophomores—I’m not sure which.”
Concordia tried to hide her impatience. Miss Pomeroy’s slow, plodding approach to everything, combined with her mild demeanor, could be irksome. She delved further down into the pile of fabric that Miss Pomeroy had been sorting through.
Soon she had found the two distinct fabrics they were looking for—the navy sateen with its lavender print (another unlikely candidate for Lady Macbeth’s costume), and the embroidered black taffeta. “Were these all contributed by the same person?” Concordia asked.
Miss Pomeroy nodded. “Let me think—I’ve had her in my Introductory French class—lively girl, rather tall…. Yes. Phoebe Landry. Why? Is it important?”
“I’ll explain later,” Concordia said, bundling up the fabrics and rushing out of the room.
Within the hour, Concordia sat in her office, waiting for a knock on her door. When it came, it was a hesitant tapping.
“Enter!” she called.
Miss Landry and Miss Spencer walked into the room. Meredith Spencer seemed the more nervous of the two, plucking at the folds of her skirt, looking around as if she expected something to jump out and bite her. Miss Landry, though wary, comported herself with something close to her usual aplomb.
“We were told you wish to see us, Miss Wells?” she asked smoothly.
“Sit down, ladies.” Concordia stretched her hand out toward the pair of chairs in front of her desk, positioned to catch the light from the window. She wanted to see their faces clearly. Miss Landry calmly smoothed her skirt as she sat, while her cohort Miss Spencer perched uneasily upon the other chair.
“Do you know why I sent for you, Miss Landry?” Concordia asked.
Miss Landry looked amused. “Fashion hints, Miss Wells?” she said, looking pointedly at Concordia’s pleated white shirtwaist and durable navy serge skirt. Miss Spencer let out a groan and slunk into her chair.
“Hardly.” Concordia pulled out her own effigy and held it up. “I would pay little heed to fashion advice from someone who would dress a red-head in pink gingham. The others here are somewhat more becoming, however.” She pulled out the other dolls, except for Miss Hamilton’s. Concordia also produced the remnants collected for the costume-making.
Miss Spencer muttered, “We’re done for now.” Miss Landry looked pale, but spoke with bravado.
“All right, not fashion hints, then. What are you going to do with us?”
Concordia ignored her question. “Here’s a particularly fetching outfit,” she continued, pulling out Miss Hamilton’s effigy, dressed in the embroidered black taffeta. She clucked her tongue in mock dismay over the gash in the doll’s midsection. “But what a shame; it has been ruined! Here, take a look,” she said, passing the doll to the girls. Miss Landry held it reluctantly.
Concordia’s voice became hard and brittle. “Are you responsible for the knife found in this doll, Miss Landry?” She fixed the now squirming girl with a stern look.
Miss Spencer, meanwhile, abandoned all caution, flinging herself out of her chair in agitation. “Never, Miss Wells! We were playing a joke, yes, but we are not depraved.”
Concordia kept her gaze steadily upon Miss Landry, paying scant attention to Miss Spencer’s histrionics. “Let me tell you what I think, Miss Landry.”
Miss Landry gave an exaggerated sigh, and shifted in her chair. “If you must, Miss Wells.”
Concordia continued. “I believe that, for the first time in your young life, you have found yourself in an environment where you are not permitted to do as you wish. Before coming to Hartford Women’s College, you had no doubt been petted and spoiled”—another groan from Miss Spencer—“and given your own way in everything. But here, we expect you to exhibit self-control, and apply yourself earnestly to your studies. You have resented this, and have lashed out by making disrespectful likenesses of those in authority over you.”
By this point, Miss Landry was no longer looking Concordia in the eye, but was instead staring out the window just beyond her shoulder, blinking rapidly. Miss Spencer was holding her head in her hands.
“However, this was not base enough for you,” Concordia continued. “You had to further lower yourself, and distress others, by stabbing the likeness of the lady principal—”
“Stop!” Phoebe Landry cried, her composure crumbling at last. Tears trickled down her face. “Miss Wells, I swear to you, none of us put a knife in Miss Hamilton’s doll! We were shocked, too. We don’t know how it got there. The dolls were just supposed to be a jolly joke,” she pleaded. “We wanted to impress the seniors, and beat the Glove Night prank they pulled when they were in our year.”
“Surely you have heard about the sophomore class hanging the freshmen gloves from the chapel beams two years ago?” Miss Spencer chimed in.
Concordia did not answer them immediately. Her mind raced through the possibilities. A separate person responsible for the knife in the doll?
It made a kind of sense. What had bothered her the most—the knife—didn’t fit in with her experience of high-spirited students. It suggested a different sort of mind at work.
She would have to trust her intuition. “Tell me how everything happened, who participated, and who knew about it.”
When they were done, Concordia had the names of six co-conspirators. The girls asserted that no one else but this group knew about it ahead of time. “We are very good at keeping secrets,” Miss Spencer declared proudly.
Now it was time for Concordia to dole out punishment. “Miss Hamilton and I have decided to put your skills to good use, ladies. You and your fellows will meet me in the Sophomore Study this Saturday, at one o’clock. Bring your sewing kits,” she added as she gestured for them to leave.
When they had gone, Miss Hamilton came into Miss Wells’ office to find Concordia slumped in a very unladylike position in her chair. She looked up at the lady principal. “You heard everything, I hope?”
Miss Hamilton looked amused. “Oh, yes, indeed, Miss Wells. Nicely done.”
“But we still don’t know about the knife,” Concordia pointed out. “I believe the girls are innocent of that.”
“As do I,” Miss Hamilton said. “I have my own ideas about the knife that I will look into.”
Concordia made a face, thinking back over the interview. “Was I too severe with them? Some might consider what I said to be unforgivably harsh.”
“Perhaps,” Miss
Hamilton said, “but I’m sure they will forget about it.”
“By the time they are grandmothers,” she added as she left the room.
Concordia laughed.
Chapter 30
Week 12, Instructor Calendar, April 1896
If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well
It were done quickly.
I.vii
There was great excitement on campus at the approach of Saturday’s junior-senior basketball game. The game of basketball had been only recently devised, played mostly by local Young Men’s Christian Associations. Concordia was amazed by how quickly it was becoming popular among the women’s colleges, too.
There was certainly no lack of enthusiasm on this campus. Several upper-story cottage windows displayed hand-lettered signs of support for the teams. Banners were springing up throughout the grounds, in the college’s colors of green and gold. Students were wearing either green or gold bands around their arms to show their allegiances to the juniors or seniors. The faculty remained carefully neutral.
Although Hartford Women’s College was not as strict as Smith College and other institutions about banning male spectators at the event, it was made clear that any male visitor caught whistling or shouting lewd comments to the players would be immediately escorted from the gymnasium. Further, in accordance with uniform rules, no girl was permitted to step outside the gymnasium building in her game attire.
Concordia regretted that she would be unable to attend the event. Miss Hamilton had decided that Miss Landry and her band of offenders would serve their detention for the glove night prank during the game; perhaps the penalty would be more keenly felt. Concordia had volunteered to oversee their work.
Word of the sophomores’ punishment had circulated widely, to the chagrin of the culprits. Concordia’s senior students were unhappy to learn that Miss Wells would be missing their game. Charlotte Crandall was one of them.
“But you must come, Miss Wells!” Miss Crandall said, her square jaw set in disapproval. “Can’t someone else mind those sophomore brats? We need you to cheer for us!”
“You know it would be improper for me to take sides,” Concordia admonished. She looked around the nearly empty library and continued in a low voice, “but I’m counting upon you to defeat the juniors this year. Otherwise, they will be insufferably full of themselves. It is for their greater good, you know.”
Charlotte Crandall nodded gravely. “You are right, of course, Miss Wells. It is our duty.” She grinned. “But you will come to a small gathering that I’m planning afterward?”
“I’ll be there,” Concordia promised.
On Saturday, about an hour before the start of the game, eight glum-looking girls filed into the Sophomore Study in Founder’s Hall, where Concordia was waiting for them. On a table behind her were piles of fabric not needed for costumes.
“Since you have demonstrated an inclination to hand-sew dolls for your own amusement,” Concordia explained, “We have decided to put your skills to use for a greater good. Today, you will be making dolls for the poor and indigent children of Hartford Settlement House.” She proceeded to give them basic instructions as to what was wanted, and set them to work.
The lady principal stopped by a short while later. Concordia stepped into the hallway to speak with her.
“The girls seem industrious,” Miss Hamilton commented. “I am on my way to the gymnasium, but I wanted to see how you are faring. Any trouble?”
Concordia shook her head. “They are remarkably cooperative. I don’t anticipate any problems.”
“Good,” Miss Hamilton answered, then, gesturing toward the study door, added, “Before I forget--avoid closing this door completely. The knob has been sticking, and the custodian tells me that he has not been able to purchase the replacement part yet.” And with that, she was gone.
As the students worked, the silence in the Sophomore Study was punctuated by faint sounds from the gymnasium across campus: a coach’s whistle, a cheer from the crowd. More than once, one of the girls would sigh and turn her head to the open window.
Miss Landry came over to Concordia with her first finished doll. Concordia looked it over. “Nicely made,” she commented, noting the even stitching. She looked up at Miss Landry and smiled. “I would like to see the same care given to your academic work. You are a bright student.”
Concordia was astonished to see tears start in the girl’s eyes. “Miss Landry, what is wrong?” she asked quietly. Miss Landry shook her head mutely. Several students looked up from their sewing.
“Let’s go out to the hallway,” she said, leading the tearful girl.
“Continue with your work,” she called over her shoulder to the other students. At the end of the hall, they sat down on a bench outside the lady principal’s office.
“What is wrong?” Concordia asked again, passing over her handkerchief.
Miss Landry wiped her eyes, then looked Concordia full in the face. “D…d...do you really think I’m smart?” she asked gravely.
“Of course,” Concordia said, puzzled, “surely people have told you so before? That is why you are here.”
Phoebe Landry gave a bitter laugh, fighting back more tears. “That’s not what Mother and Papa say. I am not here be a bookworm, as they put it. Mother expects me to make beneficial connections while I am here. Several acquaintances of Mother’s have their daughters at the school, you know, so she thought this would be suitable for me, too.”
“Has anyone else in your family attended college?” Concordia asked. Perhaps talking to a different family member would be of help.
“Besides Father? Oh, yes. My two older brothers. But it was different for them; they are quite clever, you see, being boys. Papa was always very strict about their studies. They went to Harvard. When they came home for holidays, they told me what a jolly fun time it was there. I was so excited to be going to college, too!”
Miss Landry paused and looked at Concordia, frowning. “But it’s not at all what I expected—the girls are so serious here. It’s more work than I ever thought.” She wiped her eyes once more, calmer now.
“Does your father not inquire about your studies?” Concordia asked. Miss Landry shook her head.
Concordia thought about this. She remembered arguments from family and acquaintances when she announced her own intention to attend college.
Higher learning won’t help you become a better wife and mother.
No one wants to marry a bookish woman.
You could ruin your health with all that studying.
She could recall the unwanted advice, too, from those who were cautiously in favor of the idea.
Take only domestic subjects, Concordia dear.
You must be sure to form advantageous friendships to help you later in life. Isn’t Doctor Willoughby’s daughter attending Wellesley? Perhaps you should go there.
The latter piece of advice was obviously Mrs. Landry’s own rationale for sending her daughter to Hartford Women’s College.
So what happens to a young lady enrolled at an academically rigorous college, expecting “jolly fun,” Concordia wondered. In the face of such demands, she might assume that she would not be equal to the work. That would explain Miss Landry’s rebellion, disdain, and lack of effort. Why make the attempt when one was sure of failure?
Phoebe Landry was looking at her expectantly.
“Miss Landry, I can assure you that you are capable of outstanding work,” Concordia began, “but you are the only person who can believe it, and act upon it. That is entirely your own decision to make, not that of your family.”
Miss Landry was about to answer when they heard a sound, like a dull thud, from inside the lady principal’s office.
There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in there.
“What was that?” Miss Landry’s eyes widened.
Concordia stood up and cautiously tried the door to Miss Hamilton’s office. Locked. She stood on tiptoe and looked in through the narrow g
lass door panel. The office was empty. She could see that the window behind the desk was partly open, but they were on the third floor, so no one could have come in that way. She looked to the floor by the desk. A small book was lying face down. She sighed in relief.
“A draft must have knocked a book from Miss Hamilton’s desk,” she said, turning away. “We should return to the Study.” There was something different about the office, but she couldn’t place it.
Back in the Sophomore Study, the students were making progress. During the next half an hour, Concordia walked around the room, more to avoid falling asleep than for the sake of vigilance. As she passed the door at one point, however, she noticed an odd smell. She tried opening the door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Bother!” she muttered under her breath. She had forgotten about the lady principal’s warning, and had shut the door behind her when she and Miss Landry came back. The knob was stuck. They were locked in.
As embarrassing images ran through her mind that involved yelling out of the window to a passerby to come and release them, she realized that they had a more serious problem. The smell was becoming stronger, drifting in around the edges of the door.
Smoke.
Chapter 31
Week 12, Instructor Calendar, April 1896
Concordia turned back toward the room. “Ladies, pack up your belongings,” she said, forcing herself to remain calm. “Miss Spencer, open the window as wide as you can. See if anyone is out on the grounds.” She kept trying the knob, hoping it would turn. She banged on the door, too, and gave it several good sound kicks. Nothing helped.