by K. B. Owen
Just before midnight supper, Concordia and the lady principal were chatting when they noticed a stir in the far corner of the ballroom.
“Miss Banning!” Concordia exclaimed, craning her neck. “Surely we were not expecting her? She must be feeling better.”
“I understand that she is rather attached to these seniors,” Miss Hamilton said. She did not seem surprised by Miss Banning’s arrival. “Shall we greet her?”
Margaret Banning was already surrounded by people, her short stature nearly engulfed by the others. Several students were talking to her, gesturing excitedly. She was listening with an indulgent smile and thumping her cane enthusiastically. Concordia was struck by how pleasant the old lady looked when she smiled. Miss Banning made her way to a nearby bench, aided by Julian Reynolds and David Bradley, who seemed to be competing with one another to seat the old lady comfortably.
Miss Banning had exceeded herself in dressing for the occasion. She had replaced her customary lacy breakfast cap with a silk turban, its black ostrich feather cocked playfully to one side. Her gown was black moiré, with flounces jutting out nearly everywhere that a dressmaker could reasonably put one. The lady had topped the ensemble with a heavily-fringed oriental silk shawl, its scene depicting a leopard pouncing upon a peacock. The effect was startling.
“Good evening, Miss Banning,” Concordia said. “How wonderful to see you!”
“So, how are you enjoying yourself, young lady?” Miss Banning asked, looking over at the hovering Bradley and Reynolds. “Are these gentlemen keeping you occupied?”
Before she could answer, a male voice interrupted them.
“What about you, Margaret; have you come to dance?” President Richter had joined their group. His teasing question was belied by a frown, and his complexion was pale: surprisingly so, Concordia thought, considering the warmth of the room and the vigorous dancing he had been doing.
Margaret Banning gave an unladylike snort. “Not likely, Arthur. I’m beyond the age where cavorting across the dance floor holds any appeal.” Her eyes gleamed with—what? Banter, humor, malice? Concordia couldn’t tell.
“I had to see my girls. I miss them. In fact, I’ve decided to return to my classes for the remainder of the year,” she continued.
“But…but…” Richter sputtered, “surely you shouldn’t take on too much, Margaret? Why not wait until next year?”
“Nonsense,” she snapped, “Miss Hamilton and I have already worked out the details.”
“I was not aware of this.” Now Richter had some color to his face.
Miss Hamilton quietly observed the interchange. Concordia shifted from one foot to the other, wondering if she should attempt a graceful exit. She glanced over at Mr. Bradley. He seemed to be thinking the same thing. Richter was oblivious to all except Margaret Banning. He leaned in toward the old lady, his face now smoothed into a picture of concern. “Your office was quite close to the fire. I do not know what state it is in. Disagreeable odors may linger.”
“We shall see,” she retorted.
The supper bell interrupted them. As she entered the dining room on Mr. Bradley’s arm, Concordia again noticed Nathaniel Young looking her way. Before she could catch his eye, he abruptly turned away, occupied with settling Mrs. Wells into her chair. Concordia noted with relief that she and her mother had different table assignments. At least she would be spared further conversation about her girlhood book-reading habits.
As this was an event attended by the city’s notables, the supper offerings were more elaborate than Concordia had before seen: besides the usual wafer-thin sandwiches, cold meats, and chicken salad that one would expect, the savory aromas of duck a l’orange, veal mayonnaise, and oyster soup drifted by her chair as the waiters brought platters to the tables.
“I wonder how the college can afford such a dinner,” someone at the table behind hers was murmuring.
Concordia heard a caustic laugh.
“Indeed, we may have to sacrifice a few faculty positions to pay for this. Perhaps we should take up a collection after the meal,” replied another.
Concordia wished she could turn around to chide the pair of gossips, whoever they were. But her good manners—and her corset—made this impossible.
She looked around the supper room. Miss Bellini, seated at another table, looked sulky. Concordia had never observed the lady in a dark mood, and didn’t know how to account for it. She had seemed so happy earlier.
Miss Bellini was seated between President Richter on one side and Miss Jenkins’ escort, Mr. Clark, on the other. Merrill Clark had not taken his eyes off of Miss Jenkins, and seemed to hang upon her every word. Arthur Richter was engrossed in conversation with Dr. Westfield, Judge Armstrong, and a lady Concordia could not identify. Miss Bellini was left to pick at her food. Concordia didn’t imagine that Lucia Bellini was accustomed to being ignored.
The dour Judge Armstrong was running true to type, considering the scowl that puckered his face. It was obvious, even from this distance, that he was peppering the president with questions. Considering the rigid set of Richter’s shoulders and the napkin being twisted under restless fingers, the president did not care for the judge’s line of inquiry. Concordia, for one, was grateful to be spared the judge’s company, and pitied Arthur Richter.
Dr. Westfield, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the tension around him. He was talking animatedly, his face flushed and nose reddened, making sweeping gestures that at one point knocked over his water glass. She couldn’t help but notice that the water glass had been full, but the wine glass seemed perpetually empty.
“More salmon, Miss Wells?” Mr. Bradley offered, as the waiter hovered between them.
She shook her head. The courses had not yet come to an end, but her corset was tight enough already. Sadly, this meant she would have to forgo the elaborate desserts—the Charlotte-Russe, jellies, tarts, and ices. She noticed that Miss Hamilton and Miss Bellini had also set aside their nearly full plates. Most of the senior girls, on the other hand, were still tucking in. Where do they put it, she wondered.
“I wonder if they shall ever catch the arsonist.”
Concordia looked around in surprise. She had not been paying much attention to the conversations taking place at her table, a decided lapse in manners. But here, perhaps, was a conversation worth listening to.
The comment had come from Dean Langdon, who was addressing Miss Hamilton, although in a voice that carried beyond their table. Concordia noticed other heads swivel in their direction.
Miss Hamilton clenched her jaw in annoyance. She took a sip from her water glass before answering.
“However should I know, Mr. Langdon? The police do not report to me, but to the president.”
Langdon patted his lips with his napkin and replaced it in his lap, where it promptly disappeared under his pear-shaped belly. “I doubt if the police would share their progress. Particularly if they believe it is one of us. They would not want to alert the culprit and have him flee.”
At this point, other conversations had died away, as guests at nearby tables shamelessly listened.
“No doubt,” Miss Hamilton replied, “although I see no point in discussing the matter here.”
“But do you not wonder why, Miss Hamilton?” Langdon persisted. “Why would someone set fire to your office? What hostility does the arsonist hold against you?”
“That’s enough, Mr. Langdon,” Julian Reynolds said sternly. “You are distressing the ladies. It is in bad taste, sir.”
Concordia looked at Julian in surprise. Past gatherings had shown him to be a disinterested observer rather than a staunch defender. But then again, the fire was a sensitive subject for all of them.
Langdon flushed a deep red, but said nothing more. Gradually, conversations resumed around him.
Concordia’s curiosity was aroused. Perhaps she would have the opportunity to speak with Dean Langdon on her own, and discover where his suspicions lay.
At last, the desse
rt course was finished, and the plates were cleared. The supper gathering dispersed, drifting back to the ballroom as they heard the band tuning their instruments once again.
Mr. Bradley offered his arm. “Our turn to make sure the children behave?”
“Indeed,” she said with a smile.
The next few hours were occupied with Concordia and Mr. Bradley strolling between the alcoves, balcony, and side garden, alert for couples seeking secluded corners. Concordia noted, amused, that Mr. Bradley cleared his throat loudly as they approached likely nooks. This sometimes produced a muffled exclamation, and a young man beating a hasty retreat.
One couple out in the garden, however, was so engrossed in the delight of each other’s company that they were not vigilant enough to flee before Concordia and Mr. Bradley came upon them.
“Miss Crandall!” Concordia exclaimed when they discovered the couple, seated, the young man nuzzling the young lady’s neck, his hands in places where they ought not to be. They jumped apart.
“Mr. Blake, what in the Sam Hill do you think you are doing?” David Bradley demanded.
The young man murmured something unintelligible. Charlotte Crandall stood up, flushed but otherwise composed.
“We’re sorry, Miss Wells.” She turned to her companion. “I should go.”
“I will get someone to accompany you,” Concordia said to the girl. She certainly didn’t want her to walk back to the cottage alone, or her gentleman friend to catch up with her along the way. “We will talk later,” she added sternly.
Leaving Mr. Bradley to deal with the young man, Concordia escorted Miss Crandall back inside.
By the time Concordia had seen that the senior was taken care of, she could not find Mr. Bradley again. She returned to the garden, but didn’t find him there, either.
“Concordia,” a voice murmured close to her ear. She gave a yelp and turned. Nathaniel Young was standing in the shadow of the trellises.
“Nathaniel, goodness! You surprised me. Where’s Mother?”
“In conversation with Miss Banning, I believe.” He was certainly not as tidy as he had been earlier this evening, with his tie askew, trousers rumpled and graying hair standing on end, as if he had been running his hands through it.
“Were you looking for me?” she asked.
“Yes—uh, no!” he answered. “I was just getting some fresh air.” He was looking at her gown again as he had before.
Concordia’s patience had worn thin. “What is it? You’ve been acting strangely all evening, and my mother only has that effect upon me. Why do you keep staring at me?”
He hesitated. She followed his glance. It wasn’t her gown; he was looking at her throat. She touched the brooch.
Why was he interested in Mary’s brooch?
Mary’s brooch.
Understanding flooded her. Her breath caught. Of course.
“Here, sit down. You look terrible,” she said firmly, pulling him to a nearby bench. Wordlessly, he sat, looking down at his hands.
Concordia detached the brooch, holding it out. “This is your gift, isn’t it? To my sister?”
He took it in trembling hands. “My wedding present to her.”
“You were in love with Mary.”
It all made sense to her now. The single life Nathaniel had maintained all these years. The close attention to Mary’s illness. This is the fifth such attack she has had, Concordia. The blow that Mary’s death had been to him. The light in his eyes that had died.
“For how long, Nathaniel?” Concordia asked. Mary had been sixteen, just beginning to blossom into womanhood, when Concordia left home. Had he started then to see her with different eyes? When does affection turn into romantic love?
There was a long silence, punctuated only by a night creature rustling among the climbing roses.
Finally, he looked up at Concordia. “I don’t know. It was not…dishonorable. I promise you. Although it was torturous to me,” he said bitterly. “By the time I realized I loved her, it was too late. She was already engaged to be married.” He sighed. “Perhaps seeing another man in love with her made me realize how I felt. I was a fool.”
“You are a fool! And a cad, and a liar,” came an angry voice.
Mrs. Wells stepped from behind the roses. “How dare you taint Mary’s good name!” she cried.
Concordia looked on in astonishment as her mother, with the blazing fury of a lioness protecting what is hers, advanced upon Nathaniel, now standing, who waited for the blow.
“Mother, stop!” Concordia pleaded. “Mary didn’t know. He never told her.” It was a guess, but knowing Nathaniel’s principled nature, she didn’t doubt it.
Mrs. Wells hesitated, fists curled at her sides. “Is that true?” she demanded.
“It would have been abominable to tell her at that point,” he said wearily.
But Concordia wondered if Mary had known, all the same. She remembered where she had found the brooch, tucked carefully out of sight, in the very back of the jewel case. According to Mary’s husband, she had never worn it.
Mrs. Wells was still shaking in anger, which she now directed at Concordia. “Why did you keep this from me? You had no right!”
“Mother, I only just…”
“You always have to be so important, have to know things that others do not. You and your father both! Keeping secrets together, having your own special jokes that no one else understood. I have always hated that.”
Concordia felt a lump form in her throat and could barely speak. “You are being grossly unfair,” she croaked.
Nathaniel, recovering his composure, stepped into the fray, pulling Mrs. Wells’ arm through his. “Come, Letitia,” he coaxed. “I will take you home. You two can talk when you both are calmer,” he added firmly, looking at Concordia. “We will get it all settled then.”
The dance was coming to an end, with many of the seniors already returning to their cottages. After taking a few minutes to regain her poise, Concordia finally found Mr. Bradley. He was in close conversation with Miss Hamilton. Concordia had nearly overlooked the two of them, tucked in a corner by the balcony. The balustrade cast them in shadow, with only a bit of light illuminating Miss Hamilton’s hair and reflecting off of Mr. Bradley’s glasses. They were so earnestly engaged that neither was aware of her approach.
“That answer is not satisfactory, Mr. Bradley. Whyever were you—” Miss Hamilton was saying. Mr. Bradley, looking up and seeing Concordia, put a quick hand on the lady principal’s arm. Frowning, Miss Hamilton turned around, and fell silent.
“Miss Wells, there you are!” Mr. Bradley said, giving her a bright smile. “I have been looking for you. I was just informing Miss Hamilton about the amorous couple she will need to deal with tomorrow.” He looked at her more closely. “Weren’t you wearing a brooch earlier?”
Concordia did not answer, her mind filled with questions about what she had just overheard. It did not sound as if they were discussing the “amorous couple” at all. Miss Hamilton looked decidedly unhappy with Mr. Bradley.
“If you will excuse me, I have to attend to other matters,” Miss Hamilton said smoothly. As she walked away, Concordia noticed Judge Armstrong, alone on the balcony, smoking a cigar. He was staring after Miss Hamilton. His face was a collection of quick-changing expressions: surprise, and—was that fear? Perhaps relief as well?
Her imagination was running amok. Just because she had stumbled upon one secret tonight, surely that did not mean everyone else had something to hide. But she couldn’t make any sense of it.
“I need to go home,” she said. Her sticky-treacle thoughts were making her head ache.
He gave her a sharp, questioning glance. “Of course.”
The pre-dawn glow made it easy for them to follow the path back to the cottage. Birds were already stirring, giving small trills from the shrubbery.
“Are you feeling all right, Concordia?”
“I’m fine—simply tired, that’s all.” Tired, but aware that he’d
used her Christian name.
They came to her door.
“Thank you for—for a wonderful evening,” she said. She looked up at him. Could she trust him? He may never tell her what she wanted to know. Was he an honorable man? Or would he break her heart, as Julian had said?
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Bradley, I –“
He pulled her toward him, gently. She could feel his warmth, his strong hands on her shoulders. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, his breath lingering in her ear. “The pleasure was mine. Sweet dreams, Concordia.”
He smiled as he left, with Concordia staring after him.
Chapter 42
Week 16, Instructor Calendar, May 1896
O, full of scorpions is my mind!
III.ii
Milton today.
Concordia prepared the classroom in advance of her students’ arrival, spacing apart desks, laying out papers and pencils. The juniors were to be tested on Paradise Lost, part of their Mastery in Classics degree requirement. She had already been visited (haunted might be a better word) by a steady stream of students in her office this week, those seeking to compress half a term’s worth of knowledge in the space of a one-hour tutoring session. A Herculean task at best.
What was it about Milton’s Paradise Lost? Every year, the students fretted over it. Of course, they had eighteenth-century writer Samuel Johnson as a surprising ally in that regard:
We read Milton for instruction, retire harassed and overburdened, and look elsewhere for recreation; we desert our master, and seek for companions.
She chuckled, remembering a student unearthing the Johnson quotation and waving it gleefully before her.
“You see, Miss Wells? We are not the only ones!”
As the students worked, Concordia opened the windows. The scent of newly-mown grass wafted in, and sunshine sent prisms of color through the tilted lead-glass panes. Several girls stirred, restless.