by K. B. Owen
“There’s no one outside, Miss Wells,” Meredith Spencer called out nervously. “The game must still be going on.”
They all went over to the window. Concordia could see that the grounds were, indeed, deserted. Foregoing the dignity expected of a professor, she leaned as far out of the window as she could and bellowed for help at the top of her lungs. The girls looked impressed, and followed suit.
“Help! Help!” They all yelled, in vain, until their voices were hoarse. There was no one to hear them.
The smoke was getting thicker in the room, the smell sharp in the backs of their throats. Concordia checked the study door again. She dragged over a chair and stood upon it to look through the narrow transom. There was now a distressing glow coming from the end of the hallway. The door felt noticeably warmer. And it was still stuck fast.
“Miss Landry, bring those remnants over here, please,” she said.
Phoebe Landry scooped up an armful of fabric and moved quickly to the door, where she and Concordia, who had finally given up on getting it open, stuffed cloths as firmly as they could around the edges. Perhaps this would give them some time.
Concordia went back to the window, looking for a way down. The prospects were not promising. To her right, the brick was smooth, and bare. To her left, there was a dubious-looking growth of old ivy that reached past their third story window. The vines were fairly thick. She reached out and gave one of the sturdier vines an experimental shake. Mercifully, it didn’t budge. Would it hold her weight? Was the rest of the vegetation equally secure?
They were all coughing by this point, and Concordia’s eyes were stinging. She would have to risk it.
But first she grabbed the water pitcher and soaked scraps of muslin for each girl. “Breathe through these if you need to, and stay by the window. We must remain calm,” she said. Her own heart was hammering hard within her chest.
As if on cue, one of the girls began crying hysterically. Concordia heard a sharp slap. “Compose yourself!” Miss Landry yelled at the girl, who sniffled and quieted down. Not the approach she would use, Concordia thought, but apparently an effective one.
To free her legs as she straddled the window sill, Concordia bundled up her skirts in front of her. One of the girls tittered as she caught a glimpse of cambric drawers. It’s not every day that one gets a peek at a teacher’s undergarments, presumably. Concordia swung her other leg over the sill, pivoting her body to face the building wall. Instinctively, she looked down. That was a mistake, she realized, as a lurching wave of vertigo gripped her for a moment. She took a deep breath as she planted both feet firmly on the ledge beneath the window.
Here I go.
Grabbing with one hand the thickest vine she could reach, she leaned away from the support of the window frame, seeking a second handhold in the ivy. Committed now, she stepped off the ledge.
For a sickening moment, it felt as if she were hanging in oblivion. Her arms and shoulders strained from the unaccustomed exertion. She heard gasps behind her. Then her momentum swung her toward the denser part of the ivy, where she wedged her feet wherever they could find a hold.
Concordia heard the vine creaking under her weight, and the flutter of wings as indignant birds were startled out of their nests. She gave a shriek as one flew past her head. Although she moved as quickly as she could, steadily scaling down the wall, her progress seemed excruciatingly slow. She could feel the plant giving way in places, the smaller suckers pulling out of the bricks completely.
Her skirts were an irksome encumbrance. She had to keep pausing and twitching them out of the way when they hampered her legs. She felt a rip as her underskirt caught something sharp. That’s my second best one, she thought ruefully.
She was about five feet from the ground when she heard a shout from above her. The girls were pointing frantically to the doubled-over ivy above her head. Concordia jumped, and the entire plant came down beside her with a splintering crash and a cloud of debris.
Coughing, she looked back up. Smoke was pouring out of the window at this point, and all eight girls were crowded at the opening, trying to lean out as far as possible for air. She gave a quick glance toward the gymnasium on the far side of campus. Still no one outside yet, and it was too far for her to run to get help in time. At that moment, a closed window farther along the wing shattered from the heat. One of the girls screamed.
The storage shed—yes! There should be a ladder there!
She remembered the ladder the custodian had used on the frozen pond. It seemed ages ago. It should extend just far enough.
Concordia stumbled around to the back of the building, tugging and pulling at the cumbersome ladder in the depths of the shed, stifled sobs coming from her throat.
Please heaven she had enough time.
After a couple of attempts, she got the ladder propped against the wall.
Concordia called up to them. “Two girls—hold the ladder steady! Come down one at—”
The rest of her instructions were drowned out by the frenzied ringing of the fire bell, coming from the firehouse of Engine Company 7, half a mile away at Main and Capen Streets. Someone must have seen the smoke. Turning, Concordia saw half a dozen men running up the hill to help, and more people streaming out of the gymnasium. Even the players—still in their short skirts and bloomers—swarmed towards the disturbance. Meanwhile, Miss Landry nimbly made her way down the ladder, Miss Spencer waiting at the top, as Concordia continued to steady it from below.
In moments, large, firm hands took hold of the ladder. A voice said reassuringly to Concordia, “All right, miss. We’ll get ‘em down. There now, just let us take the ladder from ye.”
In the end, they had to pry the ladder from her grip, because she couldn’t seem to let go.
Chapter 32
Week 12, Instructor Calendar, April 1896
Bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under 't.
I.v
“Stop fidgeting!” Miss Jenkins said in exasperation. “I’m not finished with you.”
Concordia, still smelling of smoke but now in blessedly clean clothes a couple of hours later, stood impatiently in her sitting room as Hannah Jenkins applied iodine to the assortment of scratches on her arms. The brick wall had done a fair job of scraping her right hand, too, which was wrapped in gauze. She winced as Miss Jenkins found tender spots.
“There,” Miss Jenkins said, satisfied. With a quick murmur of thanks, Concordia hurried from her room to the parlor.
The first startling sight was that of her mother, of all people, sitting beside Miss Hamilton on the sofa, a tea tray in front of them. Lieutenant Capshaw was there, too, perched gingerly on the edge of a creaky antique rocker. He stood politely as Concordia entered.
“Mother! Why in heaven are you here?” she exclaimed, ignoring both the lady principal and the policeman.
She braced herself for the expected caustic reply, but her mother, who had visibly paled at the sight of Concordia’s bandages, instead clenched her trembling hands more tightly in her lap.
Miss Hamilton, patting Mrs. Wells’ hands, gave Concordia a sharp look, her hazel eyes clouded with disapproval. “Your mother attended the game today and, like the rest of us, saw the rescue. Naturally, she was concerned for your well-being.”
Concordia didn’t know which was more remarkable: that her mother had come to visit her at Willow Cottage, solicitous of her welfare, or that she had, apparently willingly, attended a women’s basketball game.
“I appreciate your concern, Mother. I’m fine, really,” Concordia answered, feeling a twinge of guilt. “But I don’t understand why you were there to begin with.”
Some of her mother’s spark had returned. “There are many things about me that you do not understand, Concordia,” she said coldly. She stood. “I do not care to explain myself in front of a policeman.”
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Hamilton,” sh
e continued, turning to the lady principal. “I shall see myself out.”
Once the front door had closed with a sharp click, the ever-patient Lieutenant Capshaw finally spoke. “So, Miss Wells, another incident,” he began, as if she were responsible for causing him trouble. “I will need to ask you some questions, miss.”
“Of course,” Concordia said, with a quick glance in his direction before addressing Miss Hamilton, “but first, tell me—are the students all safe?” Feeling dazed and lightheaded after help arrived, Concordia had only a dim recollection of what had happened immediately afterward. There had been a great deal of shouting, she remembered, and she had a general impression of people getting in one another’s way, calling out contradictory instructions. Then, mercifully, the steam-powered pumper truck had arrived, and the volunteer firemen had taken over.
“Yes, Miss Wells,” Miss Hamilton answered, “the students are all safe, thanks to your cool-headedness—and impressive acrobatic abilities,” she added, with a small smile.
She continued, shaking her head. “I regret that a defective door knob rendered such a feat necessary.” She shuddered.
Concordia sank down into a chair, weak with relief. She looked up at the detective. “Where did the fire start, Lieutenant?” she asked.
“In Miss Hamilton’s office,” he answered.
So someone had been there, Concordia thought, feeling a chill creep up her back.
Capshaw pulled out his paper wad and pencil stub. “Now, miss, if you could tell me about this afternoon?”
Concordia recounted what she remembered. She told him about the sound that she and Miss Landry had heard, but that she could see no one from her vantage point. Besides, the door had been locked, so she thought nothing more of it. No, she could not gauge how much time had elapsed from that point until the time she noticed the smoke.
Finally, Capshaw took his leave, shaking his head in disappointment. Concordia turned to Miss Hamilton. “We need answers, Miss Hamilton. Who was in your office? And why? The fire was deliberately started, yes?”
Miss Hamilton sighed. “It was, indeed. With all that has happened, I fear we’ll have to close the school. The president has called a staff meeting for this evening at Sycamore House.” She stood up to leave. “Let us talk more at the meeting. I have matters to attend to in the meantime. Oh, and your presence is required upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Concordia repeated blankly.
Miss Hamilton’s mouth twitched. “Miss Crandall’s room. You are quite the celebrity now, Miss Wells. I do not think that they will be denied.” And with that comment, Miss Hamilton left.
Concordia climbed the stairs to the Head Senior’s room. It was humming with conversation, and the door was flung open before she had a chance to knock.
“It’s Miss Wells!” she heard a girl say excitedly. She was escorted to the only upholstered chair in the room. There were at least a dozen seniors; Concordia did not know the tiny room could possibly hold so many people. From her sitting position, it looked like a sea of skirts—reds, browns, plaids; cottons, twills, taffetas—surrounding her.
“So, Miss Wells, how do you feel?” one of them asked her.
“I’m fine, really,” Concordia responded, as Charlotte Crandall handed her a cup of cocoa.
“You never told us your mother was such a good egg,” another girl chimed in.
Concordia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ooh, yes, Mrs. Wells—wasn’t she nice?” one senior began a side conversation with another. Sometimes students have the attention span of a flea, Concordia thought in annoyance.
“…she was able to settle Meredith right down, and you know that’s awfully hard to do, once that girl gets a wind up her sail…”
“…and she spoiled that pretty lace handkerchief of hers in helping Elsie get the soot off her hands…”
“…did you see that one soph—I forget the girl’s name—just sobbing on her shoulder?”
Concordia listened in bewilderment. She must have been more dazed after the rescue than she had realized. She seemed to have missed quite a bit.
And perhaps, too, she didn’t know her mother as well as she thought.
Miss Crandall, ever the attentive hostess, noticed that Concordia had become quiet. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Miss Wells?”
Concordia roused herself. “Yes, I’m fine. But I do have one concern.”
There was a murmur from the girls. “What is that?” Miss Crandall asked, with an uneasy look.
Concordia looked around the room. “Who won?”
Charlotte Crandall beamed. “Who else?” she answered exultantly.
Chapter 33
Week 12, Instructor Calendar, April 1896
There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.
I.iv
The mood of that evening’s meeting was quite different from the exuberant senior gathering. Looking around Sycamore House’s crowded dining hall—a larger space than its parlor, where the staff had met before--Concordia saw that this was much more than a faculty meeting. Tonight, the trustees were also in attendance. Rarely did the trustees and college staff meet. Concordia felt a grip of panic. Had they already decided to close the school?
President Richter was drumming his thin, restless fingers on the tabletop in front of him. He looked around the room gravely, lost in thought. Miss Hamilton and Dean Langdon were seated beside him, talking quietly together. As mismatched as they seemed in appearance and temperament—the lady principal, coolly elegant in her tailored suit of marine blue, and the dean, bulging out of a rumpled black worsted suit that had seen better seasons—they made a good working pair, Concordia realized. They seemed to have developed a rapport that enabled them to work together without the typical power struggle one often sees between administrators.
Looking around the room, Concordia realized it was more likely that one of these people, rather than an outsider, was responsible for what was happening at the college. But who? And why? She knew—and liked—all of these people.
Margaret Banning had said something about it, when they were discussing Macbeth. She thought back. What was it?
No matter how kind, well-intentioned, or amiable we may be, we are each equally capable of evil, under the right circumstances.
It was a chilling thought.
The president stood, and the room became quiet.
“I will give you the good news first,” Richter began. “No one was seriously injured by the fire.” At this, he looked over at Concordia. “I must commend Miss Wells for her quick thinking under such distressing circumstances. We are grateful to you.” Concordia flushed.
“Further,” President Richter continued, “the Hall has not been structurally damaged by the fire, although the east wing will be closed for repairs for an extended period. Fortunately, this will not affect the ground-floor library,” Concordia saw Miss Cowles breathe a sigh of relief, “but it means that the staff will be sharing offices throughout the rest of the term. If there is one,” he added, mouth compressing in a grim line. “The fire was no accident. Miss Hamilton has suffered considerable loss—of both property and peace of mind—because she is the target of some malicious person. We believe that poor Miss Adams was attacked last week because she was mistaken for Miss Hamilton in the dim light, and now this has happened. If we cannot find the person responsible, and put an end to this, we will have to close the school. Our students’ safety must come first. I welcome your questions, and suggestions.” Richter sat, looking expectantly around the room. There was a moment’s silence, and then the room buzzed with discussion.
Concordia knew she should be listening, but she found herself strangely disconnected from the hubbub around her; the result of her fatigue, she guessed. She watched gestures and facial expressions most acutely, but paid little heed to what was said, as if those around her were speaking another language. She noticed that Miss Bellini, cheeks flushed and dark eyes sparkli
ng with animation, was watching President Richter intently. Miss Hamilton displayed her usual utter composure, hands resting quietly in her lap as she listened. Dean Langdon, strangely, appeared animated one moment, then silent the next, looking back and forth between the lady principal and the president, bobbing up and down in his seat in order to do so. Miss Pomeroy’s usual cheerful countenance was more of a vacant smile.
The trustees known to Concordia seemed much the same: Nathaniel Young and Dr. Westfield, each exuding compassion and concern; Judge Armstrong, haughty, ill-tempered, his skeptical black brows drawn up until they seemed to touch the edge of his hairline. He was looking in better health today than he had at the rally, Concordia noted. His hands were steady, and his face had better color.
Julian, arriving late, had slipped into the dining hall and stood near the door. It was the first time she had seen him since last week, when he had kissed her. He glanced over at her, then looked away with barely a nod. Concordia felt her face grow hot. Was he angry with her for shutting the door, literally and figuratively, in response to his amorous display? A pity, but she had to make clear the difference between offering attentions that were appropriate and those that were not. She was not prepared to lose her position at the college because of him.
The meeting was drawing to a close by the time Concordia came out of her reverie.
“So we are agreed,” President Richter was saying, “that the college will remain open—for the time being—but we will employ additional watchmen to patrol the grounds. Further, no student will walk to activities alone after dark, and all doors must be locked.”
“Police scrutiny into the fire may suffice to deter more incidents,” Nathaniel Young pointed out. Concordia wasn’t so certain. No one else bothered to respond to this hopeful comment, either.
“But would not families take their daughters out of school, even if we continue the semester? We have had so much tragedy here, have we not?” Miss Bellini.