by K. B. Owen
Chapter 35
Week 13, Instructor Calendar, April 1896
Why do you dress me in borrowed robes?
I.iii
“Signorina Wells! Do come in,” Lucia Bellini said eagerly, when the maid had shown Concordia up to the second floor of DeLacey House.
“It is so kind of you, Miss Bellini, to help me in this way.”
Concordia looked around the room, a standard size for the senior faculty but much larger than her own, as Miss Bellini opened an enormous armoire of ornately carved walnut. Such a piece of furniture would never fit in her tiny bedroom at Willow Cottage. The rest of the furnishings in Miss Bellini’s rooms were typical of faculty quarters. Miss Bellini had personalized the space with photographs of stiffly-posed family groups, carefully placed in gilded frames, and a tapestry wall hanging that took Concordia’s breath away. It was a beautiful work of art, a pastoral scene done in stunning detail. The colors were only slightly faded from the years, yet the richness of the fields and orchards, the farmhands and livestock, were still faithfully depicted.
Miss Bellini came over to Concordia, her arms full of gowns that swished and rustled. “It is wonderful, is it not? My mother gave it to me before I left Italy. This tapestry—and these pictures,” she said, pointing to the table of framed prints, “are the only possessions left from my family’s happier days in Sicilia.”
“The tapestry is extraordinary,” Concordia murmured, turning to face her. “But why ‘happier days’? Did your family suffer some misfortune?” she asked.
Miss Bellini expression darkened, and her black eyes narrowed. “It was a misfortune that a number of families in Sicilia—the prosperous ones, with many acres of land—suffered. There were riots: peasants looting homes and setting fires, turning on the families who had given them—and their fathers and grandfathers before them--a good living. Mio Dio! Selvaggios! Savages! My mother grabbed her baby—me—the pictures, and this tapestry, and fled. My father, he—he was killed. I was too young to remember, of course, but she told me about it when I was older.”
Concordia awkwardly touched Miss Bellini’s sleeve. “I am sorry.”
Miss Bellini gave a shrug. “People adapt, do they not? My mother, she lives with my aunt, in a tiny village outside of Napoli. They manage; they were even able to send me to school as a girl, and after that I earned a scholarship to Vassar College,” she said proudly. “Then, I stayed in your country, to teach here. I am no longer—how do you say?—sick for home?”
“Homesick,” Concordia said.
“Yes, yes, homesick. This is my home, now.” She gave a disparaging laugh. “In the village where I grew up, the women marry farmers and raise chickens. But you and I—we have a better life, do we not?”
Miss Bellini laid out the gowns on the bed. “But we will speak of happier things. You must be pretty, eh? We will find for you the right dress.”
Concordia looked at the profusion of richly-colored gowns spread out on the bed. Red, blue, rose, white, bronze. Satins, silks, velveteens. The blue dress was the color of sapphires, with a prim high neck and delicate ruching around the waist. The bronze gown sported enormous puffed sleeves, which ended in an elbow cuff trimmed in narrow satin ribbon. She looked in amazement at the collection. “What an array,” she said at last.
Miss Bellini looked pleased. “Yes, they are wonderful. Several are out of fashion, of course, but men, they do not know fashion. And it is a man you want to impress, yes? Let us find a color good for you,” she said, looking with a critical eye at Concordia’s pale, freckled complexion, her red hair.
“The rose—no. And not the red.” She set those down on the bed, holding up others.
“No…not the white. The blue, perhaps? No, no—it is too dark.” She looked doubtfully at Concordia.
Concordia sighed. While she and Miss Bellini were of a size, she realized that their differences in coloring would pose a problem. Miss Bellini, with her dark eyes and hair, and her olive complexion, had selected gowns for herself in colors that complemented her own looks, but, unfortunately, were not at all flattering to Concordia.
“Ah! Wait—I forgot another!” Miss Bellini cried, flinging those dresses aside and pulling open a trunk beside her bed. Wrapped in tissue paper was a gown of pale green. “This one, what was I thinking when I bought it?” she said. “It makes my skin look yellow—see?” She held it up to her neck. “Ugh. It is quite new, too. I was planning to send it to my cousin. You try it,” she said, stepping back to look at it against Concordia. “Yes, yes, that it definitely better, no?” She turned Concordia towards the mirror.
Half-heartedly holding the gown against her shoulders, Concordia was astonished to see that the dress did, indeed, look becoming. It had the effect of darkening her red hair to copper, of accentuating her green eyes and the creamy tint of her skin. The gown itself was beautifully made, and more in the current fashion, with barely a bustle at all. The form-fitting bodice, trimmed in pearl beading, glinted in the light. A short train draped gracefully along the floor. She would have to wear a tight corset in order to fit into it, she thought with a grimace. Miss Bellini had a smaller waist than she. But it would be worth it.
Miss Bellini was already on the floor, estimating length adjustments. “Yes, yes, there is not much to alter. Good!” She smiled up at Concordia.
When Concordia left Miss Bellini and that wonderful gown, her mind was full of the accoutrements she still needed. She had slippers already, an evening purse, and a cloak, serviceable but not glamorous. But that would be left in the cloakroom. Opera gloves? Jewelry? She would have to borrow those. She felt as if she were floating on a cloud.
Back at Willow Cottage, and preparing for bed, Concordia found herself reflecting on Lucia Bellini’s family misfortune. The lady had successfully recovered from such an ill-fated start in life. And she had done so in her newly-adopted land. A resourceful woman.
Concordia also thought back to Mr. Bradley. They’d had a pleasant outing today, but her worry about Sophia had clouded it somewhat. She still found it puzzling that he had visited Sophia last week.
Why did that bother her so?
Then it came to her.
Mr. Bradley was supposed to have been in Boston.
Chapter 36
Week 14, Instructor Calendar, May 1896
Say, from whence
You owe this strange intelligence?
I.iii
The week that followed brought with it the usual classes, student appointments, grading, and more play rehearsal. Miss Pomeroy was sharing Concordia’s office now, as her own was in the fire-damaged wing. This simplified the necessary consultations between them regarding the costumes for the play, but unfortunately it made for crowded conditions, especially as Miss Pomeroy was rather slovenly. More and more of the room was being taken over by a jumble of fabric remnants, scissors, spools of thread. Concordia shoved aside the mess so that she could work at her desk while awaiting a student.
The boy who delivered mail and messages came in and dropped a packet of letters on her desk. “Thank you, Sam,” Concordia murmured, sorting through the stack. Whistling cheerfully, he gave a nod as he moved on.
Casting aside the usual circulars and a Sage Allen department store bill, Concordia held up two letters, puzzled. She didn’t recognize either one. The first envelope was made of high-quality paper, and had that satisfyingly substantial feel to it. Concordia didn’t recognize the Boston address. Probably a life-insurance solicitation. She set it aside and fixed her attention upon the other letter. It was in a thin, cheap envelope, with what looked to be—tea stains?—in one corner. The writing on the outside was in a careful schoolroom hand which looked familiar. She slit that one open first.
It was from Annie. Concordia’s heart beat faster as she started to read.
Dear Miss,
I been looking for the missus jernal, and letters. They are not in her desk or room. I think they are gon but I will keep looking. Mister Henry looks bad. He has bee
n acting real odd.
Annie
Concordia sighed in disappointment. Realistically, though, it was doubtful that any of Mary’s correspondence would have been found after all this time had passed. She was puzzled by Annie’s last comments: Henry “looks bad”—how? And he has been “acting odd”? She trusted the girl’s instincts; if Henry’s behavior was a normal response to Mary’s death, Annie would not have bothered to mention it.
With an air of resignation, she picked up the other letter and slit it open. It was not life insurance, as she had supposed, but a letter from Dr. Samuels. Concordia sat up a little straighter. She had despaired of receiving an answer from him. How extraordinary that she should get both letters at once.
Dear Miss Wells,
* * *
Please allow me to convey my deepest condolences for your sister’s death. You have asked me its cause, expressing doubt about the death certificate. Let me assure you that your sister did suffer from endocarditis, an inflammation of the heart valve, and it can be fatal. There is not much beyond this that I am at liberty to share with you. I can tell you that there was no active malice or deliberate harm brought upon your sister. The condition which created the endocarditis is more widely spread than most people want to acknowledge. Your sister, however, was blameless.
* * *
Unfortunately, I cannot breach patient confidentiality in this matter; I have already revealed more than I probably should. I do hope that you find the answers you seek.
* * *
Regretfully,
Bernard Samuels, M.D.”
An odd letter—clarifying and confounding at the same time, Concordia thought. Dr. Samuels seemed to have no doubt about the underlying cause of Mary’s death. It was maddening that he would not reveal more. If she could trust what Dr. Samuels said, then at least Mary had not fallen victim to foul play, which gave her some peace of mind. But what “widely spread” condition was Samuels cryptically alluding to? And why would he refer to Mary as “blameless”? How did blame come into it?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the student she had been expecting.
Concordia’s schedule after dinner kept her occupied for the rest of the evening. After an hour of grading student themes in the library, she decided to visit Sophia before attending the costume fitting.
“How is your patient?” she asked the nurse on duty.
The nurse grunted. “Restless and irritable, as most convalescents are. But your visit will help, I’m sure.”
Concordia found Sophia pacing, from window to bed. She was pleased to see that Sophia’s current bandage was much smaller than the one before.
“Concordia!” Sophia said in delight. She sat on the bed, and gestured toward a chair. “Can you stay?”
“I’m sorry, Sophie, not for long.” Concordia said with regret. Sophia’s face lost its animation. She’s not used to being idle, Concordia thought. The burden of secrecy was weighing heavily upon her.
“I’m…worried,” Sophia said hesitantly.
“That’s understandable, dear,” Concordia said.
“No, that’s not what I mean.” Sophia sighed. “I still cannot remember anything from the week when I was attacked—not even the rally. This is agonizing. You have no idea.”
Concordia tried to imagine what it must be like for days at a time to be a blank in one’s memory, to try to will the thoughts to come to the surface, without success. “It must be frustrating,” she said finally.
“Yes, but more than that—I feel that I had something very important to tell you…that morning.” Sophia frowned in concentration. “But I can’t remember any of it. Not at all.”
Concordia nodded thoughtfully. “That’s right, I recall it now; that’s why you were coming to the cottage.” So many things had happened since then; Concordia had forgotten about it, too. “You’ll remember,” she reassured Sophia. “I know you will.”
She stood to plump up Sophia’s pillow. “Why don’t you rest for a while? It may do you some good.”
“I suppose so,” Sophia agreed, leaning wearily against the pillows. After making sure she was settled comfortably, Concordia left.
As she approached the auditorium, she found Julian Reynolds seated on an outside bench, chatting with a student. The last rays of evening light illuminated the meticulously-clipped blonde hair not covered by his derby.
“Concordia!” he called eagerly, getting up and walking over to her.
“Hello, Mr. Reynolds,” she said, unsuccessfully keeping the chill from her voice. How could he greet her so familiarly now, after ignoring her for the past two weeks?
“The lovely Miss Osgood here,” he gestured to the blushing senior still seated, “told me that you would be coming this way.”
“Miss Osgood,” Concordia chided, “you should already be inside the auditorium being fitted for your costume. Tell Miss Pomeroy that I will be there in a moment, if you please.”
With a curious glance at the two of them, Miss Osgood went inside the building.
“I would appreciate it if you would not call me by my Christian name in front of the students,” Concordia said stiffly. “It undermines my authority.”
“Of course, my dear,” he answered. “But there is something important I need to talk to you about.”
“I know what you want to discuss. Now is not the time for such a conversation. And I really must go,” she protested.
“No, it’s not about that, although I do apologize for my behavior that night, and for neglecting you since then. Can you forgive me?” he asked.
When he looked at her so earnestly, with those sincere blue eyes, Concordia could not help but relent. “Of course. We can talk later,” she said in a softer tone.
But Julian was not to be deferred. He led her over to the bench. “You should sit down. It’s about that Bradley fellow. I had to warn you.”
Concordia’s eyes narrowed. “Warn me? Whatever do you mean?”
He gave a great sigh. “This is a difficult subject to bring up to a lady, and I do hate to do this, but it’s for your own good, Concordia.”
“Just speak your piece,” she said impatiently. She had always been wary of what was said or done for her own good. It was rarely good at all.
“I was conducting business downtown yesterday,” he began. “It was such pleasant weather that I decided to walk. My walk took me through a neighborhood where there are…questionable establishments. One house in particular,” he said carefully.
Concordia gave him a blank look.
He took a deep breath and went on. “This house is known to be a…brothel. And, plain as day, I saw Mr. Bradley go in there. In fact, it was clear that the woman who opened the door knew him. She seemed to be expecting him.”
Concordia shook her head vigorously. “No. That’s impossible. You must be mistaken.” She looked up at him, seeing his worried expression through blurred eyes.
Julian took her hand. “I’m sorry. But there is no mistake.”
Miss Osgood came back outside. “Miss Pomeroy says she needs you now, Miss Wells,” she called, her glance taking in the sight of them holding hands.
Concordia pulled away. “I have to go.” She followed Miss Osgood inside.
The players were in various stages of dishabille, wearing partially pinned costumes, some of the pieces trailing upon the floor and getting stepped on. A flustered Miss Pomeroy, mumbling through a mouth full of straight pins, was fitting partially-sewn garments on the principal actors, while others in the cast picked through a pile of completed costumes.
“No, I get the scarlet cloak! Miss Pomeroy promised it to me!” one girl insisted.
This raised a hubbub of protest. Concordia quickly stepped into the fray.
“Miss Pomeroy and I have already decided upon the recipients,” Concordia said firmly. She began handing out garments.
Miss Pomeroy glanced over in relief, and turned back to Lady Macbeth’s hem. “Thand thill!” she muttered to the fidg
ety girl.
Finally, with the remaining costumes pinned and ready for their last round of sewing, Concordia and Miss Pomeroy sent the girls back to their cottages. It was nearly bedtime. Miss Crandall, as Head Senior, was not bound by the ten o’clock rule; she offered to remain behind to help clean up.
They would need all the help they could get during the three weeks remaining until the performance, Concordia thought. They needed more hands for sewing, especially for the time-consuming ornamentation of the “royal” garments. There was still the set to construct, although thankfully not an elaborate one.
“Props. Where do we keep the props?” Concordia wondered aloud. She turned to Miss Pomeroy. “I should at least look over the props tonight, just to see what we have to work with.”
Miss Crandall noticed that the drooping Miss Pomeroy had removed her glasses and was rubbing her eyes. “I can show you where we keep some of them, Miss Wells,” she offered. Concordia nodded, and Miss Pomeroy, looking grateful, said a weary good-night.
Miss Crandall and Concordia finished stowing away the costumes and turned out the lights. Concordia locked the door, pulling on the handle to assure herself that it was securely latched. A light rain was falling, and although not heavy enough to soak them through, Concordia hoped it would be a quick walk.
“Where to?” she asked Miss Crandall.
“The chapel,” she answered.
“Are we praying for props?” Concordia quipped.
“Actually, the bell tower beside the chapel, Miss Wells. There is a little-used storage area,” Miss Crandall explained as they crossed the quadrangle. “Not many people know about it.”
The tower looked forbidding in the darkness. Since the bell tower and chapel had not yet been adapted for electric lights, Miss Crandall lit the lantern provided on a hook beside the door. They ascended the tower’s spiral staircase, Miss Crandall leading, stepping gingerly. The stairwell was so cramped that Concordia could reach out with both hands and touch the damp stone walls on either side of her.