Unseemly Pursuits

by Owen, K.

“Yes. In Egyptology,” Miss Phillips repeated carefully, as one would to a slow-witted child.

  “Regretfully, he passed away more than a decade ago,” Concordia said. “He was never interested in Egypt, to my knowledge.”

  “But wasn’t your father Dr. Randolph Wells?” Miss Phillips persisted.

  “That’s right,” Concordia said, “he was an ancient Greek and Latin scholar, not an expert in Egypt.”

  “Hmm. Dr. Wells did suspend his work in the field more than twenty years ago. No one knows why. Perhaps you were too young to remember. But growing up, you saw no displays of the artifacts he acquired? None of his writings? He never spoke of his early work?”

  Concordia shrugged. Miss Phillips must have him confused with another Randolph Wells, surely? She remembered how enthusiastic her father had been about his study of early Greece and Rome. He certainly would not have been mute about a subject he loved. He never talked about pyramids, tombs, mummies, or anything of the sort.

  “If you’re interested, I have a few articles of his among my books that I can show you. Just give me a few minutes to finish cleaning up first.”

  “No, no – don’t trouble yourself, Miss Phillips. I really must go,” Concordia protested.

  But Miss Phillips paid her no attention.

  “Oh, no. Where is it?” Miss Phillips dropped to her hands and knees and crawled under the table, heedless of the dust collecting on her skirts. Concordia realized the professor was looking for something other than a scholarly article.

  “What’s wrong?” Concordia asked.

  “Perhaps he set it down…? Oh, this is awful. My first day as curator.”

  Dorothy Phillips looked up in despair. “The heart amulet – it’s gone.”

  Chapter 2

  Week 2, Instructor Calendar

  Sept 1896

  While Concordia wasn’t yet familiar with the habits of the new history professor, she suspected that clambering around furniture while mumbling to oneself in a panic were not typical behaviors of a well-respected department head. Especially one who had trekked through the far-flung, inhospitable terrain of foreign lands.

  So Concordia dropped to the floor to help her look.

  “It’s no use,” Miss Phillips sighed after they had combed the room. She dusted off her skirts and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s gone.”

  “But how?” Concordia asked, brushing off her own skirts. If the back of her dress looked anything like Miss Phillips’, she was going to have to change her clothes entirely. “It obviously hasn’t been mislaid. It isn’t anywhere here. Was it stolen? Is it a valuable item?”

  The history professor shook her head. “While it’s an interesting piece in terms of its magnetic properties, it isn’t terribly rare or sought-after. At least, not singly.” Miss Phillips fiddled with a pencil as she thought. “There’s one possibility,” she said at last. “During the assembly, I had the distinct impression that Colonel Adams was surprised to see the amulet among the displays.”

  “So you believe the amulet was accidentally included in the donation, and the colonel has stolen it back?” Concordia raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler for him to point out the error and reclaim the item?”

  Miss Phillips grimaced. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but is the alternative any more agreeable?”

  Concordia could see her point. If the colonel wasn’t responsible for the relic’s disappearance, then it was someone else in attendance. But she had difficulty imagining anyone who had been here – the college board, the faculty, the administrators, the mayor? – committing such a deed.

  “What will you do now?” Concordia asked.

  Dorothy Phillips squared her shoulders. “I suppose I shall have to pay a call upon the colonel, heaven help me.” She looked at Concordia. “Can you keep this confidential in the meantime? I’d like to settle this quietly.”

  “Of course,” Concordia promised.

  Chapter 3

  This bodes some strange disruption to our state.

  Hamlet, I.i

  Week 2, Instructor Calendar

  September 1896

  Concordia had been both expecting and dreading this meeting.

  She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  “Enter!”

  Lady Principal Grant’s office was much different in style than that of her predecessor. Gone was the light, airy, elegant feel of the room, the stacks of well-thumbed books, the open window. Instead, Olivia Grant’s office was dark and formidable: heavy draperies made the room stuffy and confining; dark wood frames held dour-looking historical figures, painted in stiff poses; matched leather-bound book sets lined the walls like well-trained soldiers. Knick-knacks occupied every ledge not already spoken for.

  The lady principal herself filled the chair with her bulk. Without getting up, she gestured toward a chair.

  “Sit down, Miss Wells.” Her tone was chilly.

  Concordia had just smoothed her skirts in her chair when there was a knock at the door.

  “Enter!” Miss Grant called.

  Charles Harrison, the new mathematics professor, stepped in. He was a short, dapper man, his black hair parted precisely down the middle. Everything about him, in fact, appeared precise and perfect: the sharp trouser creases, the polished shoes and watch chain, the deliberation as he shut the door and seated himself at Miss Grant’s bidding.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Harrison,” Miss Grant said, a broad smile crinkling the fat folds of her face.

  Concordia couldn’t help but notice that the atmosphere of the room had thawed since his arrival.

  Miss Grant settled her attention again on Concordia. “I understand, Miss Wells, that you directed the senior play last year.”

  Concordia had expected this, and had her speech ready. “That’s true, Miss Grant, and I was happy to be of assistance. However, this year, I would ask that you not –”

  “Young lady, do you think that I would assign you to direct the play?” Miss Grant interrupted. “While it is my understanding that you had a modicum of success with the endeavor last year, it isn’t a prudent course to have someone so young in such a position of authority. These seniors need a firm hand.”

  Concordia was confused, and relieved. She would not be directing the senior play this year. Good! Yet a small part of her was perversely a little disappointed and insulted. Of course she could control the seniors. What nonsense.

  However, she avoided saying any of this aloud.

  The lady principal continued. “Mr. Harrison has volunteered to direct the play this year.” Mr. Harrison sat up even straighter, if that were possible.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Harrison is a mathematics professor,” Concordia protested. Why was she objecting? Stop talking, she thought. Just stop.

  But she couldn’t.

  “The seniors have chosen Hamlet this year,” Concordia continued, turning to Charles Harrison. “Are you familiar with the play?”

  “I had read it in my youth, of course,” Mr. Harrison said in his thin-voiced, meticulous diction, “and I am reviewing it now. I see no problem.”

  “That is why I’m assigning you to assist Mr. Harrison,” Miss Grant said, fixing Concordia with her dark eyes, like currants pressed into pale dough. “You can give him the benefit of your experience from last year, along with your knowledge of Shakespeare – if that is necessary – and carry out whatever tasks he sees fit to assign you.”

  Harrison’s face took on a nostalgic look. “I have fond memories of my own time among the footlights, back in my college days. I’m looking forward to it.” He turned to Concordia. “I would be grateful for your help, Miss Wells. I have some wonderful ideas to bring to the production.”

  Concordia didn’t like the sound of that. Wonderful ideas often translated into dreadful headache.

  “Miss Grant, I’m honored, but I don’t see how I have the time,” Concordia said. Was she recklessly consigning the fate of the s
enior play to a …mathematician? So be it. “I already have charge of the Literature Club and the Bicycle Club. And there are my cottage responsibilities, too.” Which Mr. Harrison, as a man, did not have, she added silently. Except for the most senior faculty, female professors at Hartford Women’s College were required to reside in the cottages with their students, acting as live-in chaperones, seeing to their day-to-day needs, making sure the girls did not get up to mischief.

  Miss Grant’s lips thinned into a hard, narrow line. Concordia was to quickly learn that when this happened, woe betide the offender.

  “I care not about your schedule, Miss Wells,” came the cold response. “Should you feel you are not up to the task, given your responsibilities, I am perfectly happy to dissolve the Bicycle Club to afford you more time.”

  Concordia knew when she had been bested. She gritted her teeth. “That will not be necessary. I will manage.”

  The lady principal smiled sweetly. “I thought as much. Oh, and one more thing, the play will be performed in December, rather than May. There are far too many distractions at the end of the spring term, so I have decided to change the date.”

  Charles Harrison looked as startled as Concordia. “Surely we need more time? Could it not be in February or March, at least?”

  While Concordia privately agreed with Miss Grant about the plenitude of distractions in the spring, the senior play was a time-consuming production. No doubt they would have to scale back some of Mr. Harrison’s wonderful ideas.

  Miss Grant shook her head. “We’ll present it along with the other Christmas-time festivities, before the students leave for winter recess. The matter is closed.”

  With that, she heaved herself out of the chair and shooed them out.

  Chapter 4

  I might not this believe

  Without the sensible and true avouch

  Of mine own eyes.

  I.i

  Week 2, Instructor Calendar

  September 1896

  Concordia was about to meet her first spirit medium.

  Had someone told her last week she would be meeting a two-headed llama, she would not have been any more amazed. It was true that mediums had grown in popularity over the last decade, with some making their livelihood through stage performances in packed concert halls. Others, like Madame Durand, conducted private séances for the wealthy, and acted as “consultants” to grieving families who set store in such things.

  So perhaps mediums were more plentiful than two-headed llamas, but Concordia had always expected her chances of willingly seeing either one were the same. Yet here she was, seated next to Miss Pomeroy in the quickly-filling dining hall of Sycamore House, where Madame Durand would address her first meeting of prospective members of the Spiritualist Club.

  Sycamore House was the college residence for the president and other male administrators. It had been built, too, with social functions in mind: balls, recitals, and teas were often held in the capacious dining hall, or the smaller drawing room. A few years ago, the building had been updated with the most modern of conveniences: a telephone, electric wall lamps, steam heating, and a new coal-burning cook stove – which had produced no end of dismay among the kitchen staff as they tried to figure out the contraption.

  Concordia wished she were here for any other occasion but this. It was Miss Pomeroy who had coaxed her to come.

  “I’m worried,” Gertrude Pomeroy had said, pulling Concordia aside after the morning’s faculty meeting. She took off her spectacles and polished them distractedly on her sleeve, returning them to her face slightly askew.

  Concordia resisted the impulse to straighten them upon the language professor’s nose. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s about Madame Durand,” Miss Pomeroy said. “I understand that she’s of some European background. At least, she’s supposed to be, but –”

  “You mean she isn’t?” Concordia interrupted.

  Miss Pomeroy grimaced in dismay. “I don’t want to say that, but her accented English is not consistent with a non-native speaker. Yesterday – she had just come out of Dean Pierce’s office, you see, probably finalizing arrangements for tonight’s meeting – and she was speaking to him through the open doorway. Her accent was nonsensical: sometimes Slavic-toned, sometimes the inverted noun-adjective order of a Romance language speaker…to my ear, at least.”

  If anyone would recognize an inconsistent accent, Concordia thought, it would be expert linguist Gertrude Pomeroy, who was fluent in six languages.

  So, who was Madame Durand really, and what was she up to? If she was a charlatan, which certainly wasn’t a shocking thought, why focus her energies on the school? She wasn’t getting paid for her involvement with the college. On the other hand, should her deceits be exposed, the college’s reputation could be blemished, and all of them appear to be simpletons. They were playing with fire.

  “Did you say anything to the dean?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Pomeroy shook her head and pushed back a lock of frizzy brown hair. “I’m not sure I should say something. She could have her own harmless reasons for the pretense. These clairvoyants are quirky, I hear.”

  Now that was the pot calling the kettle black, Concordia thought. She wondered if Miss Pomeroy had wandered through any mis-marked doors today.

  “I was hoping you would attend the spiritualist meeting with me this evening,” Miss Pomeroy continued. “You could see for yourself, and give me your opinion.”

  So here they were, sitting in the front row (Miss Pomeroy had said nothing about that), staring at a dimly-lit platform. A curtain had been drawn across the deep end of the space. In the foyer, they had walked by a basket with a sign: Please leave a personal item here. It will be returned this evening. There was an assortment of keys, gloves and handkerchiefs in the basket already when they passed it by. Both Concordia and Miss Pomeroy declined to donate an item, but Concordia wondered at the reason for such a request.

  More than prospective student members were in attendance tonight; the curious, the wary, and those seeking entertainment on a Thursday evening also filled the room. Concordia noticed that many of the faculty were here. The newspaper reporter from the exhibit opening was here, standing in the corner, scribbling notes as he spoke with students. Was the event really so newsworthy?

  Concordia turned toward the soft sound of creaking wood and rattan. Dean Pierce had wheeled himself into the aisle space beside her. He smiled.

  “Good evening, Miss Wells.”

  Augustus Pierce was another new member of the college staff, having replaced Dean Langdon when that gentleman took over as the college’s President. There were several new faces this year, but Pierce was their first staff member in a wheelchair. Over the summer, ramps had been installed and doorways widened to accommodate his chair. The school was happy to have him, as he was considered quite a catch. Dean Pierce’s last two schools had increased their enrollments by at least twenty percent during his tenure; in addition, he possessed glowing references from his time as a museum curator for a prestigious collection in London.

  It must have taken something quite devastating to put Pierce into a wheelchair, Concordia thought; he had a powerful upper body and a restless energy that she wouldn’t normally associate with a chronic invalid.

  “You are interested in the occult, Dean?” Miss Pomeroy said, leaning across Concordia.

  Pierce threw back his head and laughed, which drew startled looks from those nearby. “Hardly, Miss Pomeroy. Madame Durand seems to be a charming young lady.” He looked over at Concordia. “Not much older than yourself, Miss Wells. I was curious.”

  The lights were dimmed and the students whispered excitedly. All waited for the medium to appear.

  Very quietly and without fanfare, a slightly-built woman of average height walked through the curtain and faced the audience. Despite her delicate physique, she walked with a confidence that made clear her possession of the stage. She was attired in a dress with long, flowing sleeves wh
ich partially fell over her hands. A flash of jewels in the light revealed rings on several fingers. Jewels also bedecked her neck and hair, which was dark and lustrous.

  Undoubtedly, the lady’s profession was a profitable one, Concordia thought.

  But Madame Durand’s eyes were her most striking feature: the sort of pale blue that made others feel as if she could see right into their souls. Concordia, for one, wished she could sit farther back.

  “Welcome, students and friends, to the first meeting of the Spiritualist Club,” Madame Durand began. Her voice was soothing, hypnotic, and heavily accented. To Concordia’s ear, it merely sounded exotic; she couldn’t distinguish the inconsistencies that Miss Pomeroy had noted. “For those interested in the world beyond, prepare for a journey of wonder this year. What you know, or think you know, about this mortal world will be challenged. Tonight I will give a small demonstration of what mediums can do.”

  Madame Durand gestured toward a man standing in the shadows beside the back corner of the platform. Concordia started; she hadn’t even noticed him. He was tall and thin to the point of gauntness, with flat black eyes and graying dark hair. His face and hands looked extraordinarily pale, as if he hardly stepped into the sunlight.

  The man brought forward a small table and a chair, and helped seat the woman.

  “We require two volunteers from the assembly, to act as witnesses.”

  A number of hands were raised. Madame’s assistant walked through the audience, and touched two people on the shoulder: President Langdon and…Concordia’s mother. Concordia blinked in surprise. What was her mother doing here?

  Although she lived nearby, Mother rarely attended any college functions. In fact, until the death of Concordia’s sister Mary last spring, the rift between Concordia and her mother seemed irreparable. Mary had always been Mother’s favorite, while her relationship with Concordia had been tense at best. Concordia had been most at ease in her father’s company; he was the one who had encouraged her love of books. In fact, it was her father who had given her the name Concordia, after the Roman goddess of harmony.