by K. B. Owen
Concordia’s thoughts wandered to her conversation with Miss Hamilton nearly a week before, the afternoon following the dance.
“I must thank you for your assistance as chaperone last evening,” Miss Hamilton had said, pouring them each steaming cups of tea. She passed the scones.
Concordia smothered a yawn. She had managed a small nap that morning, although it didn’t seem like nearly enough sleep. But when the lady principal asks one to tea, “no” is not an alternative.
“What will happen to Miss Crandall?” Concordia genuinely liked the girl, but knew that Charlotte Crandall, Head Senior or no, could be expelled for her behavior in the garden.
“I have spoken with the young lady. She is secretly engaged to this Mr. Blake, against her parents’ wishes,” Miss Hamilton said. “They have another match in mind for her, apparently.”
“But surely she is of an age to make her own decision?” Concordia protested. Miss Crandall seemed a sensible girl overall—except for last night’s behavior, of course. But Concordia knew nothing about the young man. “Is there something objectionable about Mr. Blake?”
“That is not our place, Miss Wells,” Miss Hamilton reproved. “We are not her parents.”
“So what will you do?” Concordia persisted. “Miss Crandall is due to graduate in a few weeks. You would not dismiss her now? With her degree, she could be independent and choose for herself!”
“I am aware of that,” Miss Hamilton said sharply. “But we must also safeguard the reputation of this college. No self-respecting parent will send a daughter here if we are perceived as tolerant of such behavior.”
“Surely we can keep this quiet, and restrict her contact so that she is not compromised further? I would be willing to take responsibility for her,” Concordia urged.
Miss Hamilton was quiet for a moment. “I will consider it.”
Concordia knew not to push further. In a change of subject, she asked, “What were you and Mr. Bradley discussing last night?”
Miss Hamilton’s features took on an expressionless quality. “We discussed many things, Miss Wells. I do not recall when you mean.”
The conversation progressed little after that.
Now, in the quiet of the examination period, with only the scratching of lead pencil points and the rustling of papers, Concordia wished she had been more persistent. But Miss Hamilton had a skill for thwarting Concordia’s best efforts at drawing out any information the lady was unwilling to relinquish.
Concordia had forgotten to ask her about Miss Banning’s return. She strongly suspected that Miss Hamilton had something to do with that. The lady principal had not been surprised by Margaret Banning’s arrival at the dance, nor by President Richter’s flustered reaction to it. In fact, one might wonder if she was trying to produce that very response.
Did Miss Hamilton suspect President Richter of the incidents at the college? Yet his own office had been ransacked, and a threatening note left on his door. What would be the point of that? Perhaps she suspected him of something else, such as the embezzlement, the attack on Sophia, or Miss Lyman’s death?
In Concordia’s opinion, Dean Langdon could bear further scrutiny. She recalled the argument between Richter and Langdon the night after the fire. President Richter had accused the dean of—what? Did he believe the dean was responsible for the fire? Or the other incidents? And yet the dean himself had raised the issue of the fire during the midnight supper, so wouldn’t that mean that he was innocent? Or was it a blind, to fool them all?
She must say something to Miss Hamilton. Perhaps they should be looking more closely at Dean Langdon.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the bell.
“Stop writing,” she called out. “I will collect your papers here in the front of the room as you leave.” Concordia heard mixed sighs of relief and resignation as the students escaped into the sunshine.
Chapter 43
Week 16, Instructor Calendar, May 1896
“There now, miss,” Ruby said, giving the gown a final shake and fluffing the folds, “the dress is all cleaned, and the creases came right out.”
“What about the tear in the train?” Concordia asked, picking up the bottom of the skirt. She had been dismayed to discover a tear in the lace edging, but Ruby’s repair was barely discernable.
“Whatever would I do without you, Ruby?”
The matron huffed in embarrassment and carefully folded the dress into its box. “I can have Sam deliver it this afternoon for you,” she offered.
Concordia shuddered at the thought of the grubby 12-yr-old boy, amiable as he was, carrying around Miss Bellini’s dress.
“No, no; I’ll take it to her myself. I won’t be long.”
Concordia realized as soon as Miss Bellini opened her door that she had come at an inopportune time. The lady’s eyes, usually bright and vivacious, were dull, watery, and red-rimmed; her face was pale. Her entire aspect conveyed agitation: hair carelessly pulled back rather than arranged in its usual soft waves, dress rumpled, shoulders drooping. Concordia had not seen Miss Bellini since the dance, and the difference was startling.
“I’m…I’m…so sorry to disturb you,” she stammered.
“Non importa. Come in,” Miss Bellini murmured, holding the door wider.
“I’ve brought back your dress. It was kind of you to lend it to me.” Concordia laid the box on the bed. She looked again at Miss Bellini. Should she say something?
Concern prevailed over politeness. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Bellini? You look…unwell.”
Miss Bellini sat down in a nearby chair, staring for a long time out the window. Concordia waited.
“Please, you must call me Lucia,” she answered finally, looking up at Concordia. “We are friends now, are we not?”
“Of course—Lucia. What is wrong? Can I help?”
Miss Bellini shook her head. “No, no, signorina—may I call you Concordia? Yes?” She paused a moment.
“There is family trouble. You can do nothing. I can do nothing!” she said fiercely, getting up and beginning to pace in her agitation.
“There was one person who could have helped me—who promised to help me—but it was all empty words.” Her voice choked. “He will not. Despite all we have been through together.”
“Who, Lucia? Who would help? What do you need from him?” Concordia could not imagine anyone heartless enough to deny a woman in such obvious distress.
Lucia Bellini shook her head mutely. Her expression hardened into a glare, and her eyes flashed with their old animation.
“It is private. But I will act. He must know,” she answered. She turned to the door and opened it. “Grazie, Concordia. You have helped me make up my mind.”
Concordia left, confused. She had offered no advice; in fact, she had done nothing but ask questions. How had she helped? She felt like a spectator in a conversation that Miss Bellini had had with herself.
Concordia’s thoughts were still full of the puzzle of Miss Bellini when she returned to Willow Cottage to find Annie, the Armstrong’s maid, waiting in the parlor.
“Annie! Is everything all right? How is Davey?” Concordia asked. The maid’s face was tense with excitement, and there was a fine bead of perspiration on her brow.
“Oh, he’s fine, miss. Takin’ to that woodworking they’s teaching him like a fish to water, he is. But I’m so glad yer back. The waiting was enough to drive a body crazy. Look what I found!” With a flourish, Annie pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocketbook and handed it to Concordia.
Concordia smoothed it out and looked at it closely. It was heavy-weight paper, with a crisp gilt edge on three sides, the left edge was ragged and torn. Her heart fluttered with excitement. Mary’s journal!
She looked over at Annie. “Did you find any more pages?”
Annie’s face fell. “No, miss. Nancy and me, we looked nigh everywhere. Now don’ worry,” she added hastily, “I didn’ tell Nancy why we was looking for the journ
al. I made out that it was sentimental, like, that yer wanted it. I’m the only one who seen this page.”
Concordia glanced down at Mary’s familiar, delicate writing, the feeling of loss tugging at her again.
January 15th
I am feeling better today, but also quite worried. I have been ill for so long. Henry avoids me now. He doesn’t touch me anymore. Is he disappointed in me? How can I be a proper wife for him when I am constantly unwell? What in heaven is wrong with me?
There was a second entry, farther down the same page.
January 17th
Sophia came to visit me today. Dear Sophia. She has been my comfort during this hard time. But, oh, how I wish she had not come today! What she had to tell me was most unwelcome. She cannot be right, but I fear she is. It is unbearable. Why must I suffer this way? What have I done to deserve this? What would Henry say, if I told him of my suspicions?
And then, scribbled in agitation at the bottom, Mary wrote:
If she is right, then there is no hope for me.
Concordia looked up at Annie, who had been quietly waiting, pity in her eyes.
“Where did you find it, after all this time?”
“It was under the rubbish bin, beneath the missus’ writing desk. That no-account scullery maid, she’s too bone-lazy to look around for rubbish that i’nt smack under her nose. She must ‘a just dumped the bin and put it back without feelin’ around for any scraps that fell out. And the desk prob’ly hasn’t been used since then. Nancy and me, we was doing a lot of crawling around on our hands an’ knees. That’s how I finally found it.”
Mary must have torn out the page from her journal and thrown it away. She was probably afraid of how revealing it was, although, to Concordia, it wasn’t revealing enough. And someone—Judge Armstrong, perhaps? Or Henry?—had later disposed of the rest of her journal.
She looked at Annie, impressed by the girl’s resourcefulness. “Annie, you’re wonderful! Your talents are wasted in service for the Armstrongs. Have you ever thought of getting a position elsewhere?”
Annie hesitated and looked around cautiously. She dropped her voice. “I been thinking on it, miss, believe me. I have a mind to take a typewriter training class. There’s lots o’ places here in the city that needs people who know how to use them contraptions, my sister says. And they pay the girls well, she hears.” The girl sniffed. “I’ll be right sorry to leave Mister Henry. Not the judge, though! That man thinks he’s the biggest toad in the puddle, he does.”
Concordia stood and clasped Annie’s hand. “I think it’s an excellent idea. Do take care of yourself.”
Annie looked at Concordia intently. “Are you all right, miss? Yer face is wet.”
Concordia put her hands to her cheeks. “Yes, of course I am. Good-bye,” she managed to say, as Annie let herself out.
Chapter 44
Week 16, Instructor Calendar, May 1896
Concordia, I simply do not know!” Sophia angrily pushed back her chair and stood. She began to pace—door, window, desk, window—her tall, angular form crossing the small room in quick strides.
They were in Miss Jenkins’ sitting room, adjacent to the infirmary. Now that Sophia had sufficiently recovered from her head injury, a more congenial location was deemed necessary. Here, in Miss Jenkins’ quarters, Sophia could be more comfortable, yet protected. They had to assume that her attacker, still at large, might try again. The prolonged confinement was wearing on Sophia’s nerves.
Mary’s diary page fluttered to the floor. Concordia picked it up. One sentence stood out as she glanced at it again.
What she had to tell me was most unwelcome.
Concordia looked over at her friend, exasperated.
“Sophie, can you not remember anything? Or are you simply trying to shield me from the truth? What was wrong with Mary? You must tell me,” she pleaded. She could not bear the thought of never knowing why Mary had been so pitilessly taken from them.
Sophia sank back into the chair, putting her head in her hands.
Concordia bit back her disappointment. She had so hoped that Sophia’s memory would be roused by the sight of Mary’s handwriting, her words.
Then something occurred to her.
“Perhaps we do not have to rely on your memory of specific people and events. Perhaps we can rely on your knowledge,” Concordia said.
Sophia looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Based upon this entry,” Concordia pointed to Mary’s diary page, “we can safely assume that what you had to tell Mary was a surprise to her. My sister did not reveal a secret to you; instead, you came up with the answer. It must have come from your observations and knowledge, knowledge gained from your settlement house work, perhaps? Think! What do you know about the women you have worked with, their circumstances in life, the problems that they face? How might that apply to Mary? Where would this have led you?”
Sophia waved an impatient hand. “But Mary was not poor; she did not live in squalid conditions. What could I have figured out?”
But Concordia was not ready to give up so easily. She was convinced that Sophia had the answer.
“Dr. Westfield and Judge Armstrong know something that they have worked very hard to conceal. Henry, too,” Concordia answered. She recounted to Sophia the conversation she had listened to in the library the night following Mary’s funeral.
By the time she had finished, Sophia was no longer paying attention; she was staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts. Tears started in her eyes.
Sophia looked at Concordia. “I know, now. My poor Mary.”
“Tell me,” Concordia urged.
When Sophia was done, neither of them spoke for a while, each struggling against a fresh wave of grief.
But Concordia knew they couldn’t afford to wallow in their feelings. They had work to do.
A plan was beginning to form in her mind. Its success would depend on Sophia.
“How good of an actress are you?” Concordia asked.
Sophia dried her eyes and squared her shoulders. “As good as you need me to be.”
“Good,” Concordia had said. “You are about to become deathly ill.”
Chapter 45
Week 16, Instructor Calendar, May 1896
…what in me is dark
Illumine; what is low, raise and support
Concordia encountered these lines as she struggled to grade the Paradise Lost examination papers in the quiet of her office. Her own wishes were echoed there; she needed as much illumination as she could summon.
There had been some light already, with the understanding of what had killed Mary. The cold fury brought on by that knowledge settled into her chest like a heavy stone. Nothing could be proved, but she knew those responsible must be confronted, not only for Mary’s sake, but for Sophia’s. Her safety depended upon it.
But would her plan work? Concordia conceded that it was an outlandish one. And they were up against a cunning and unscrupulous foe.
It was imperative that she talk to Miss Banning. She would need the old lady’s help if this was to work. And she should inform Miss Hamilton, too.
Concordia looked out her office window. The day was incongruously bright and cheerful, with students sprawled on the lawn in their colorful spring dresses. Concordia recognized Miss Crandall, seated beside the fountain, scribbling upon a piece of paper, deep in conversation with Miss Pomeroy and Miss Bellini. Concordia was glad to see that Miss Bellini looked more like her animated self.
She heard snatches of laughter beneath her window as another group caught her eye. Mr. Reynolds, seated on the grass, was surrounded by the usual number of adoring girls. Once he lifted his head to gaze straight up at her office window. She pulled back hastily. Since the dance, she had been too busy to see him.
If she were honest with herself, she would admit she had been avoiding him. She didn’t know if she could trust her feelings about him. Something was holding her back, and she needed time apart from him to
think. But that was a luxury she didn’t have at the moment, with all of the other turmoil going on in her life.
She glanced down at the ungraded pile of papers. Perhaps a short stroll to the pond and back would clear her mind.
Avoiding the crowd on the green, Concordia followed the stone path to the pond. Students were tossing crumbs to the ducks and exclaiming over the ducklings, mere puff-balls in the water behind their parents.
She smiled. How beautiful it was here. The water cast dancing flashes of light against the shore as the breeze ruffled its surface.
As she approached the overhanging low-limbed pine on the far side of the water, she noticed debris, no doubt tossed there by careless students. With a sigh, she began picking up the trash: a napkin, a wax paper wrapper, a fork, and, strangest of all, a shoe. Quite a grimy one, in fact. Ugh.
As she crouched under the pine bough to grab the shoe, one of the prickly cones scratched her forehead. Drat! She sucked in her breath sharply and winced, putting a hand to her head.
But she held onto the shoe as she moved away from the offending bough. Why on earth would a gentleman leave a shoe here, Concordia marveled, shaking out water and pine needles from it. It wasn’t remarkable-looking, just a man’s brown dress shoe, save for the irrecoverable damage done to the leather by being in the water for so long. But it looked familiar, somehow.
“Miss Wells, what do you have there?” a voice called.
Miss Hamilton approached, and stretched out a hand. Concordia willingly passed it over, and brushed off her palms.
“I found it just over there.”
“By the tree?”
Concordia nodded. “It was caught in the leaf clutter. Rather odd to find a shoe here, don’t you think?”
“Indeed. You seem to have gotten a nasty scratch, too.” Miss Hamilton added, passing her a handkerchief. “Why don’t you attend to it? I’ll take care of this…item.” She wrinkled her nose.