Dangerous and Unseemly

by K. B. Owen

  Before passing it to Ruby, she looked at the filigree pattern, accented with a pearl in the center and in each corner, once more feeling the pang of loss. She would give anything to have Mary wearing this tonight, instead of her.

  Once Ruby had the brooch threaded and tied in place, Concordia couldn’t help but admire the effect. It nestled in the hollow of her throat, catching the light as she turned.

  “There, now. Don’t you look beautiful,” Ruby said, smiling. “But there’s one more thing,” she added, reaching out with work-roughened fingers to gently remove Concordia’s spectacles. “Yes. That’s much better.”

  Concordia squinted in dismay. “But—I cannot see properly without my glasses!” she protested.

  Ruby put her hands on her hips. “And what do you need to see, may I ask? You can see the faces of them that’s dancing with you, can’t you? You can see the floor under your feet. That’s plenty. You’ll get used to it.”

  Concordia gave up. “All right. But I’m bringing them with me.” She didn’t think she would last very long without her glasses. A squinty chaperone would be of little use.

  Ruby was collecting the extra combs and pins when there was another knock at the door.

  “I’ll answer it,” Concordia said. With great difficulty, she gathered her skirts and stood up. Apparently the knocker was too excited to wait; the door opened before she could reach it, and one of the freshmen poked her head in.

  Ooh, Miss Wells, don’t you look a treat!” she exclaimed.

  “Thank you, Miss Bentham. Shouldn’t you be getting to bed?” It was nearly 10 o’clock. The flurry of senior preparations was making it difficult to maintain the routine.

  “Yes, Miss Wells,” Abby Bentham answered, “but this just came for you.” She held out a small florist’s box.

  Concordia took it. “Thank you, Miss Bentham,” she said firmly, not opening the box. “To bed now.”

  Ruby took over. “There now, you heard Miss Wells. Off you go!” She bustled the disappointed girl through the door, closing it behind them both.

  The exotic fragrance and bright color of the single pink orchid inside the box assailed her senses as soon as Concordia lifted the lid. She squinted at the card inside, fumbling to put her glasses back on.

  It was from Julian, as she had expected it would be.

  Will you forgive me? I throw myself on the mercy of your sweet nature. I hope that you will save a dance for me. Fondly, J.

  Concordia sighed—to the extent that her dress would allow—and wondered what she was going to do about Julian Reynolds. He had made his feelings for her quite plain, and she wondered why she resisted the attraction she felt for him. Perhaps she simply wasn’t ready for that sort of commitment. She would have to trust her instincts, and see what happened.

  Concordia knew that Julian was distressed over her friendship with Mr. Bradley. She and Julian had actually quarreled about it.

  They had been enjoying an open-air carriage ride through Keney Park last Sunday afternoon when Julian asked to escort her to the dance. He was flabbergasted by her answer.

  “You are going to the dance with Bradley? After what I told you I saw?”

  “You don’t know what you saw, Julian,” Concordia said evenly.

  “But I thought you would go to the dance with me!” The depth of his indignation surprised her.

  “I don’t recall you asking me before now!” she snapped.

  “That was my intent, Concordia! I simply did not have the opportunity to do so before you jumped at the first offer you had!”

  The words stung. How dared he? She was not some elderly spinster, desperate for an escort. And the cheek of the man, to assume that she would have no plans so close to the occasion!

  The rest of the airing, considerably shortened, had been a silent one.

  “Mr. Bradley has arrived,” came Ruby’s muffled voice through Concordia’s door. Concordia hesitated. Carefully, she removed her spectacles again and put them in her reticule. She gathered up her other accoutrements—gloves, shawl, Mr. Bradley’s flowers—and headed for the parlor.

  The orchid was left behind to perfume an empty room.

  Mr. Bradley’s eyes widened when Concordia walked into the parlor. He tried not to stare as he admired the way her gown clung to the curves of her torso and hips. Her cheeks were becomingly flushed, and soft wisps of coppery hair framed her face.

  He cleared his throat. “You look—most fetching, Miss Wells,” he said at last. Recovering, he said with a twinkle, “I will have my hands full tonight, beating off your ardent admirers.”

  She gave a laugh. “Thank you, kind sir. You look quite presentable yourself, you know!”

  He did look rather dashing, she thought. His black tail coat fit him well, without the creases and lumps of his customary hounds-tooth jacket. The crisply-starched white shirt, with its wing-tip collar and black bow tie, complemented his dark eyes and hair. The effect was quite elegant.

  “Shall we go?” he asked.

  The sounds of shuffling feet and excited whispers drew their attention to the second floor landing, where Ruby and several grinning girls were huddled. Even Ruby wasn’t immune to curiosity, it seemed.

  “By all means.” Concordia smiled.

  “Good night, ladies!” Mr. Bradley called out, steering Concordia toward the door.

  Mercifully—as dancing pumps were quite impractical for walking about—it was a short walk to Sycamore House, where the Senior Ball was being held. They encountered a crowd of young men, on their way to Willow Cottage to pick up their companions. Several of them looked uncomfortable, although she couldn’t tell whether it was from the tall, rigid shirt collars they were unaccustomed to wearing, or from nervousness.

  Sycamore House had every light glowing, and looked wonderfully festive. The freshmen, sophomore, and junior classes had assembled teams of students to decorate the front entrance, ballroom, solarium, and dining room, in honor of the seniors. Torches lit the path up to the front doors, which had already been thrown open to guests. Beribboned garlands of ivy were draped over doorways and wrapped around pilasters. Pots of flowering shrubs brightened corners. Some of the plants shielded the seating clusters from general view, Concordia noted. Those areas would require particular attention.

  “I’m glad we are arriving early,” Concordia said. “Before we see Miss Hamilton about our chaperone duties, there is a confidential matter I must discuss with you.”

  Mr. Bradley gave her a worried look. “Is something wrong, Miss Wells? You’re trembling.”

  But Concordia was already leading him out through the side door, to a decorative arbor where the gardeners stored their tools. Here they would be screened from curious passersby.

  Concordia looked at him for a long moment before speaking. He shifted uneasily, waiting.

  “Mr. Bradley—I don’t know how to ask you this, but…” Concordia floundered.

  Mr. Bradley took her hands in his. “You can ask me anything, and I will give you an honest answer. What is it?”

  She blurted out, “someone saw you go into a house…of ill repute. Last week. I need to know if that’s true.”

  Concordia could see surprise, anger, and unease flit across his features. He did not answer right away.

  “Yes, it is true. I did visit such a house recently,” he said at last.

  She pulled her hands away and stepped back.

  “I was not there for the reason that you suppose, however,” he continued, his voice even.

  “For what other reason would one visit such a place?” she asked coldly.

  He took a deep breath. “I cannot tell you, at least not right now. I would be breaking the confidence of another. But you must trust me,” he continued, in a pleading voice.

  “I want to,” she said, in barely a whisper.

  “You can. I promise.”

  Concordia tried to read his face, and see where the truth lay. Could she really trust him? Should she also ask him about his abort
ed trip to Boston? It seemed less urgent. After all, the man had every right to change his plans, and to visit the woman he had helped rescue. The matter seemed silly, now, as she weighed what Mr. Bradley had just told her.

  “Mr. Bradley, I…” she began.

  “Signorina Wells! Signore Bradley!” Miss Bellini was approaching them, gesturing in excitement. Concordia quickly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and put on a smile.

  Miss Bellini looked at the gown with an approving eye.

  “Does she not look bellissima, Signore Bradley?” she asked delightedly.

  Bradley, smiling, obligingly cast his eye up and down Concordia’s form. She felt a strange tingling sensation.

  “Molto bellissima,” he agreed.

  “Y-yes, thank you. Miss Bellini—it—it is a wonderful gown,” Concordia said.

  Miss Bellini herself looked quite bellissima, Concordia noticed. She was dressed in a becoming satin gown the color of deep wine, cut flatteringly on a bias to emphasize her small waist. Her black hair was pulled smoothly back and gleamed in the light. She positively glowed with contentment.

  In a change of topic, Concordia asked, “Have you seen Miss Hamilton?”

  “Ah! How could I forget! She wants all of us to meet, subito—right away.”

  Linking her arm through Mr. Bradley’s, Miss Bellini led them into the dining room, where the others were waiting.

  Perhaps she should trust Mr. Bradley and set aside her worries about him, at least for tonight, Concordia thought, as they entered the dining room. She was at a festive event, after all. The outside world and its cares could wait.

  Penelope Hamilton looked regal in a high-necked mauve silk gown, her graying-blonde hair plaited in a coronet around her head. She was talking with the other chaperones, among them the president, Dean, Gertrude Pomeroy, Nathaniel Young, and on his arm…Concordia’s heart sank. Her mother.

  Nathaniel, looking especially dignified this evening in his sleek black jacket and pin-striped trousers, smiled apologetically at Concordia, but then frowned thoughtfully as he looked over her dress.

  Concordia paid him little heed. “Mother? How…? Why…?” she sputtered in confusion. Although still in the color of mourning, her mother had certainly dressed for the occasion, in what looked to be a new gown of shimmering onyx, with tulle elbow sleeves and the low square neck that was currently in fashion.

  Letitia Wells’ lip curled in amusement. “Nathaniel told me that more chaperones were needed, so I offered to accompany him.” She leaned toward Arthur Richter and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “My daughter thinks I have no experience chaperoning young ladies. She rarely saw me in that capacity, of course, because she would not attend such events unless she was dragged to them. Always had her nose in a book. Just like her father.”

  “And naturally, Mary gave you ample opportunities,” Concordia snapped. How dare her mother intrude here, where she did not belong?

  “Indeed. And may I say, Concordia, that you look much more attractive without those horrible eyeglasses perched on your nose?” her mother shot back.

  President Richter, caught in the midst of this bewildering interchange, looked to the lady principal for rescue.

  But it was the arrival of Miss Jenkins, accompanied by a gentleman whom Concordia didn’t recognize, which provided the necessary diversion.

  “Sorry we were delayed, Miss Hamilton,” Miss Jenkins said.

  “Good! Now we have everyone,” Miss Hamilton looked up from her clipboard. Concordia could see a sketch of the ballroom on it, with what looked to be marked areas. The woman was unquestionably organized.

  Miss Jenkins gestured to the bulldog-faced man standing beside her. “This is an acquaintance of mine, Merrill Clark,” she announced. Mr. Clark gave a stiff little bow. “He’s the director of physical education at Trinity College.”

  To Concordia, that last bit of background hardly seemed necessary. Mr. Clark looked as if he were more comfortable with a coach’s whistle around his neck than the bowtie he was now sporting.

  “A pleasure,” he responded, his voice gravelly from what Concordia imagined to be years of shouting at thick-headed collegiate boys.

  Miss Jenkins was wearing a dress that might be judged an unfortunate shade of Mandarin yellow, particularly when set against her blotched skin and deeply-lined face, but Concordia thought that the high color on the lady’s cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes put Hannah Jenkins at her most becoming this evening.

  After greetings were exchanged, Miss Hamilton, much like a general planning a campaign, outlined what they were to do.

  Chapter 41

  Week 15, Instructor Calendar, May 1896

  Have we eaten on the insane root

  That takes the reason prisoner?

  I.iii

  “Whew! It’s getting warm in here,” Concordia said, brushing aside a few damp strands of hair. Since she and Mr. Bradley were assigned to monitor students during the after-supper dance period, they decided to take advantage of before-supper dancing. Of course, it would not do to dance more than twice with her escort, but she found, to her surprise, that in between her dances with Mr. Bradley she had a steady stream of young men who sought to be introduced (the good-natured Miss Pomeroy was kept busy in that regard) and sign her dance card. She had also danced the quadrille with Dean Langdon, who was surprisingly light on his feet for such a large man, and more adept with the intricate movements than she.

  “I’ll bring you a cup of punch,” Mr. Bradley answered, guiding her over to a bench by an open window. With a mock-chivalric bow, he headed for the punch bowl.

  The light breeze felt refreshing as Concordia sank down on the bench in relief. She tucked a foot under her skirts and surreptitiously eased off her shoe. She would, no doubt, find at least one blister tomorrow. She fished out her spectacles and put them on; it was annoying to see people across the room as only blurry shapes.

  The blurry shapes on the dance floor turned out to be students with their partners, assorted faculty, and Hartford’s wealthy set: civic leaders, prominent businessmen, and their wives. It was a visual feast of bright lights and colors, of jewels glinting in the hair, around arms and throats.

  Concordia noticed Miss Bellini, dancing with President Richter. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was beginning to come out of its combs in the exertion of the round dance. The cuer called out the changes in steps and the couples on the dance floor performed them—or tried to perform them—simultaneously. At one point, President Richter missed his cue, but Miss Bellini didn’t seem to mind; she threw her head back and laughed.

  There were others, of course, who were not dancing. Concordia spied a knot of elderly men, cigars in hand, deep in conversation out on the balcony. One of them looked up and caught her eye. Dr. Westfield. He looked exceedingly cheerful, and flashed a wide grin in her direction. She nodded her head before turning away. Near the cloakroom, she saw her mother talking with Miss Jenkins.

  Concordia still could not understand why her mother was here. This was the second time in the past few weeks that she had attended a campus event—first, the basketball game, and now, tonight’s Senior Dance. Why? Her demeanor seemed too hostile for Concordia to suppose that a reconciliation was being attempted, but Mother had always been difficult to understand.

  A pair of black-trousered legs was approaching.

  “Oh, Mr. Brad—oh!” she broke off. It was not Mr. Bradley, but Julian Reynolds. He had come to the ball, after all. Concordia’s heart beat a bit faster at the sight of his elegant form, and his dazzling grin.

  “Good evening, Concordia.”

  He sat down beside her.

  “You look wonderful tonight, my dear,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Concordia stood uncertainly as Mr. Bradley came over to them, cups in hand.

  “Here, Miss Wells,” Mr. Bradley said, passing her a cup. “Good evening, Mr. Reynolds,” he said, as Julian stood up.

  “Bradley.” Julian gave the barest
of nods.

  Concordia concentrated on drinking her punch.

  The band struck up a waltz, and Julian offered his arm. “May I have this dance?”

  She hesitated. Handing back the cup to Mr. Bradley, she let Julian whisk her away.

  Julian proved to be an accomplished dancer, guiding her steps, one gloved hand firmly upon her waist. Much to her dismay, she found herself trembling in his arms. Really, the waltz is a rather decadent form, Concordia thought, a little unnerved. Few dances permit this sort of contact.

  “Did the flower arrive?” he asked.

  “Oh—yes, thank you, Julian.”

  “I really am sorry, Concordia, about the things I said, during our drive. It’s just—I don’t like this Bradley fellow. Even before I saw him go into that house. Well, we’ve been through all of that,” he added, looking down at her compressed lips and clenched jaw, “I don’t want to upset you further. But be warned. He could break your heart.”

  “We are merely friends.” She looked over Julian’s shoulder, and saw that Mr. Bradley was watching her. It was a long and lingering gaze, as if, at that moment, he considered her the most important person in the world. With a jolt, she realized that David Bradley had been looking at her in this way almost since they first met. Why had she not noticed it before?

  “What about us, Concordia?” Julian Reynolds asked softly.

  Embarrassed to realize that she had been thinking of one man while dancing in another man’s arms, she flushed and looked up at Julian.

  “Your friendship is important to me, it truly is. I don’t know if there is more.” She felt confused by a heady sensation whose origin she didn’t understand. “I need time. Can we not leave it at that, for now?”

  He expelled a breath. “I will give you all the time you need, Concordia.” He smiled. “We have time.”