by Owen, K.
She’d chosen a simple skirt of soft navy wool and her only ruffled-yoke white blouse. Over top she wore an apron of white muslin along with the bright red over-bodice that Ruby had lent her. It was a bit tight. While flattering to her figure – especially the bosom – it certainly wasn’t comfortable.
Concordia grimaced at her reflection. But it should work. To complete the effect she had brushed out her hair and plaited it into pigtails, with red bows at the ends. How odd it would feel to walk out of the cottage with her hair down. She draped the red cloak about her shoulders and sat to put on her boots.
The cottage doorbell rang.
Drat. With Ruby and the girls occupied in the kitchen making consolation treats, she was going to have to answer that. Concordia hobbled into the hallway and opened the door.
There stood David Bradley.
Concordia’s mouth opened of its own accord as she stood there and stared, balanced on one foot, boot in one hand and doorknob in the other.
He grinned as he took in the sight. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? I promise I’m not a wolf, Miss…Riding Hood?”
“Oh! I’m sorry. I had no idea you were back in town! Please, do come in.” She opened the door wider. “We can sit in the parlor. I have to leave in a minute, though –” she broke off when she noticed his attire. Her heart beat a little faster as she realized that he was dressed to attend tonight’s ball, too: not in costume, but in evening dress. The effect was quite handsome. His crisply starched white shirt, sharply creased and well-tailored trousers, and black tail coat fit him just as well as she remembered from last year’s Spring Dance, when her heart had been in her throat as he’d swept her along the dance floor.
“You are going? But the dance has been restricted to students and staff,” Concordia finally said.
“I am on the staff,” he said, smiling.
Concordia was confused. “How –”
He steered her over to a chair, then pulled a nearby stool closer and perched himself on it. “I should have written you about it first, rather than surprising you this way. It all happened rather quickly.”
He peered at her closely. “You don’t look happy to see me.”
Concordia shook her head. “It’s not that…I’m trying to understand, that’s all.”
She was glad to see him. Actually, a bit disconcerted by how glad she felt at the very sight of him. His presence always made her feel reassured, as if everything would turn out fine. She wasn’t sure whether to trust that feeling.
David gave her a long look before continuing. “When Amelia was sent away, I went back to Boston to teach my classes. But I was worried about her the entire time. And Sophia.”
Concordia noticed the And Sophia, and wondered yet again if he had formed an attachment to her friend.
“It was appalling to me that she was in prison and I was so far away. I couldn’t do anything for either of them,” David continued. “I never believed Sophia’s story. I’d just decided to give my classes back to the fellow who had taken them over before – and he was happy for the work, believe me – when I got word from Sophia that she and Amelia were back at the house. That decided it for me, and here I am.”
“You said you were on the staff here,” Concordia reminded him.
“Oh, yes, that. I didn’t like the idea of just kicking around Hartford, hovering night and day around Sophia and Amelia without anything else to occupy me, so I went to my old friend, Professor Grundy. You must know him, if only by name: he’s head of your Chemistry department. He put me on the staff just yesterday as his assistant. I’ll be running some labs for him and grading student work. And it appears that my timing is fortuitous. I get the distinct pleasure of attending your ball.” David Bradley looked at Concordia appreciatively. “You make a charming Red Riding Hood, my dear. Shall I call you ‘Red’ for short this evening?”
Red. Concordia’s cheeks grew hot and her hands grew cold. She trembled.
“Concordia? What’s wrong?” He gently took her hands in his.
It was too much. She burst into tears.
A moment later, Ruby walked into the parlor to a startling scene: that of Mr. Bradley – where had he come from? – with his arm around Miss Wells’ shoulders as she sobbed into his shirt.
The house matron, charged with the propriety of the ladies under her care, raised an eyebrow at the man. He grimaced apologetically at her over Concordia’s shoulder.
Ruby rolled her eyes, backed out of the room, and quietly closed the door behind her.
Sometimes, the rules have to be bent a little.
Once the storm was reduced to mere sniffles, David handed Concordia his handkerchief. “Better?” he asked, smoothing back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.
She nodded. “I’m s-sorry for losing my composure. The past few weeks have been dreadful.” She looked at the closed door. “Did someone come in? Oh, dear. Not one of the girls, I hope.”
David smiled. “Just Ruby, don’t worry.”
Concordia sighed, and dried the last of her tears. “Your shirt is wet.”
“It will dry,” David said. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”
So she did. She started with the suspicion centered upon Amelia, and Capshaw’s investigation of enemies from the colonel’s past. This brought her to the surprising Egypt connection between the colonel and her father and the puzzle he’d left. She described her discovery of a second amulet, her father’s papers, and the man named Red.
“Something untoward happened on the expedition, but I don’t know what. The account is written in some sort of shorthand. My mother refuses to discuss anything about Papa’s Egypt days. And Miss Phillips has been too ill to work on decoding the journal entries.”
“I can write to a friend of mine in Boston who may be familiar with that shorthand system,” David offered. “Just in case Miss Phillips is not up to the task.” He looked at her closely. “But it’s fair to say there’s more going on, isn’t there, Concordia? Not just trying to solve Colonel Adams’ murder, although that’s bad enough. This is the most agitated I’ve seen you. It doesn’t look as if you’re getting much sleep lately.”
He knew her better than she realized, Concordia thought.
“Yes, there’s more.” She told him about Madame Durand’s pervasive influence upon her mother, the railing scare of nearly losing Eli over the side, and Miss Grant’s hostility towards her.
“The woman hates me,” Concordia added.
“Aren’t you exaggerating just a bit?” David said gently.
Concordia gave a bitter laugh. “This is only your second day, David. Give her time. You’ll see. On top of everything else, she has punished all of the students here at the cottage for a – well, maybe not mild infraction, there was a fire –”
David looked startled. “You had a fire here?”
“Just a little one. As a result, the entire cottage has been prohibited from attending tonight’s ball.”
“I imagine that isn’t popular.”
Concordia shook her head. “The students in the other cottages were quite upset when they learned about it. There’s a great deal of ill-feeling toward Miss Grant these days.”
There was a discreet knock before the parlor door opened and Ruby walked in. “It’s getting late, miss. And the girls want to see you before you go.”
“Mercy!” Concordia exclaimed, jumping up. Miss Grant wanted the chaperones in place ahead of time. She was going to be late, again.
David held out an arm. “Shall we?”
At least she had an ally to help her beard the dragon in her den. Or, more aptly, the big bad wolf.
The decorating committee had outdone itself this year, Concordia reflected as they approached Sycamore House. It was dusk, but the walkway was illuminated by cheery pumpkin lanterns placed along both sides. The students had liberally festooned the entrance with seasonal décor: cornstalks, bittersweet vines, and chestnut branches. Ribbon-and-raffia swags were affixed along the ro
om and around the supper buffet tables, which would be laid for the meal later. At the moment, only horn-of-plenty centerpieces graced the table tops. Lanterns and candelabras illuminated dark corners and added to the cheeriness of the room, but Concordia knew they would soon add to the heat of it once the room was fully occupied.
The musicians tuned their instruments while clumps of faculty and staff, many in costume, chatted and looked around. Concordia spotted Lady Principal Grant, dressed as a queen – Elizabeth, she presumed, judging by the ornate ruff and white face powder she sported along with a truly monstrous farthingale-hooped skirt. Miss Grant, at that moment, fixed glowering eyes upon her from across the room. Whether Miss Grant disapproved of Concordia’s lateness, her costume, or the presence of a man she didn’t recognize standing beside her, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was all three. Miss Grant began her advance upon them.
David followed her stare. “Is that the lady principal?” he murmured.
Concordia could only nod, watching Miss Grant in fascination as she maneuvered around the growing crowd. The extreme side hoops of her costume had a will of their own and whacked more than one person in the lady’s path.
In a moment, she was upon them. “You are late,” Miss Grant snapped. She turned to David. “And who are you?”
Miss Grant had made an unfortunate costume choice, Concordia thought. Setting aside the hooped-skirt malady, the face powder was already forming creases along the lady’s forehead, mouth and eyes. Ill-temper and heat would only make that worse by evening’s end.
David gave a formal bow. “Mr. Bradley, ma’am. I was recently hired to assist Professor Grundy.”
“Hmph. Well, I suppose that’s acceptable,” Miss Grant said grudgingly. “Your before-supper chaperone assignment will be right here, in the ballroom. Are you competent enough to make sure these heedless girls don’t knock over any candles and start a fire? Good. We’ve had enough fires to last us a while, haven’t we?” she added, giving Concordia a coy look. Concordia flushed.
“You will be on rotation, Miss Wells,” Miss Grant continued, “assisting the smaller groups in their activities. Pay special attention to Miss Pomeroy. She had to step in at the last minute to replace Miss Phillips, who is still in bed. She is in charge of the apple-bobbing game on the back porch. The woman doesn’t know her head from a hole in the ground, if you ask me.”
Charles Harrison, the mathematics professor, walked up to them. “Miss Grant, the band doesn’t know if they are supposed to start with a quadrille or a two-step. I cannot find Mr. Langdon or Mr. Pierce to ask. And the kitchen staff wants to know when to lay supper.”
The lady principal shook her head, clearly harried. She turned away without a backward glance and stomped toward the musicians’ platform.
“I begin to see what you mean,” David whispered.
“Who are you supposed to be, Mr. Harrison?” Concordia politely enquired, noting the man’s curled wig, dark frock coat, and white cravat.
Mr. Harrison looked surprised. “Blaise Pascal, of course,” he answered.
David nodded. “The famous philosopher and mathematician.”
“Ah,” Concordia said. She would never understand the appeal of mathematics. But she had to admit that Charles Harrison was surprisingly competent as the director of the Shakespeare play. The students were coming along nicely.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to help Madame Durand set up in the parlor,” Mr. Harrison said, and left.
“I suppose I should check on Miss Pomeroy,” Concordia said reluctantly.
“See you at supper, then. But watch out for wolves,” he added.
“I intend to.”
Concordia struggled across the ballroom to reach the hallway. The room was rapidly filling with girls, in all manner of dress: elegant, imaginative, and even bizarre. A headdress of spangled bats adorned one girl’s head. It quite spoiled what would have been a pretty effect, as her gown was a charming black Brussels net over orange silk.
One sight stopped Concordia dead in her tracks just as she was about to clear the ballroom floor. At least a dozen girls had just entered the room dressed in identical costume.
“Are they supposed to be knights of some sort?” Concordia asked Miss Jenkins, who had just walked by.
Miss Jenkins glanced back at the entrance. Each student in the group was wearing a simple red tunic under a white cape decorated in a gold fleur de lis pattern; each wore a mock sword strapped around the waist and a coif of shimmery material over the hair. The effect, multiplied, was stunning. Except for variations in height and build, one couldn’t tell the girls apart.
“How odd,” Miss Jenkins said. “I think each girl is supposed to be Joan of Arc. See the fleur de lis on the capes? Much like the standard carried into the Battle of Orleans.”
“Really? A dozen Joan of Arcs? Or would it be Joans of Arc, I wonder? Why would they dress as the same historic figure?” In Concordia’s experience, the young ladies took great pains to avoid duplication, rather than actively plan for it.
“Ever since that series about Joan of Arc came out in Harper’s last year – you remember, the one that turned out to have been written by Mr. Clemens – she has become quite a popular figure,” Miss Jenkins said. “Still, it looks a little silly, a dozen of them dressed exactly the same.”
“And suspicious,” Concordia added.
Miss Jenkins nodded. “They’re up to something. But I have to go. I’m late for my tea-leaf readings.”
Concordia laughed. “Do you know anything about reading tea leaves?”
Hannah Jenkins snorted. “What is there to know? I’ll make it up as I go. Miss Banning will be doing ‘readings,’ too,” she added. “Probably channeling quotes from dead statesmen and philosophers for her predictions.”
They parted ways in the hall. Just outside the porch, Concordia found a number of students lined up for the apple “dookin.”
“Miss Pomeroy isn’t here yet?” she asked one girl.
The girl sighed and pointed around the corner. There stood Miss Pomeroy on a stool, looking down at a number of girls crowded around a washtub. Strands of her hair were coming loose and her glasses slid perilously close to the tip of her nose.
“Oh, Miss Wells, thank goodness,” she said, climbing down.
Concordia could see the problem. She tapped one of the girls who was bent over the tub. She straightened, teeth triumphantly clenched around an apple stem. Her shirtwaist was soaked.
“Miss Drury, go to the kitchen. Have the staff bring back towels, extra washtubs, and pitchers of water to fill them. This should have been set up already.”
The girl hurried off.
Soon the situation was under better control, with simultaneous groups of girls clustered around the basins, hands behind backs, trying to catch an apple. Towels sopped up the spillage.
During the next hour, Concordia saw several of the Joan-of-Arc-costumed girls. When she asked one about it, the young lady confirmed she was, indeed, Joan of Arc, but merely shrugged when asked why so many girls had identical costumes.
Undoubtedly up to something, Concordia decided.
The students tried to get Concordia to give the “dookin” a try, but she declined. Miss Pomeroy, however, was game, except she forgot to remove her glasses in advance. They promptly slid off her nose, and with a little splish, dropped right into the tub.
“Oh. Oh, my,” Miss Pomeroy blinked uncertainly. One of the girls fished them out.
“Thank you, dear,” Miss Pomeroy said.
Eventually, the room emptied as the girls moved off to other games and dancing. Concordia felt a little restless.
“Can you manage when more come?” she asked Miss Pomeroy.
“Of course. You run along and see what the others are up to. You’re supposed to be a floater, are you not?”
Once she was in the hallway, Concordia paused. Where should she go next? The tea-leaf reading? The nut-burning?
The sounds of raucous laughter penetra
ting the music decided her. Nut-burning it is, then.
The parlor was crowded with girls, each eager to try her hand at throwing nuts – or “nits” as they were referred to in Scotland, where the tradition started – into the fire. The ever-patient President Langdon was overseeing the activity, and was so occupied with keeping the ladies out of the hearth that he didn’t notice Concordia come in. He was dressed in evening attire that was just as ill-fitting as his customary day wear: trousers rumpled, shirt beginning to pull away from his pear-shaped middle, once-shiny patent leather oxfords scuffed and dull. He made an unlikely-looking administrator, but there was more to him than met the eye. Concordia had long admired his compassion and quick intellect.
She took off her cloak almost at once and set it aside. Although every window was open in the room, the fire, candles, and press of bodies made it unbearably warm. Sweat was glistening on Langdon’s face and he had abandoned his jacket long since, but he was still good-naturedly playing along. He handed one girl a couple of nuts. “So, who will it be, my dear?”
“Stephen,” the girl murmured, but not softly enough, for one of the girls chimed in: “Ooh, I know him! Madge is sweet on Steph-en!” which led to more laughter.
The girl threw them in. They all quieted, watching the nuts within the flames, absorbed by the play of light. Concordia found herself drawn into the game, too. Would they burn side by side, which meant the couple was destined for marriage? Or would one pop and crackle, meaning the man was faithless? Funny how we look for signs of our future in the most unlikely places, she thought. She tried not to consider what her romantic future held; for a woman, a romantic future and a professional future were mutually exclusive. Which did she really want? She thought she knew the answer.
One nut caught and burned brightly. The other at first did nothing but smoke; then it, too, caught fire, leaning into the first. The girls clapped their hands in delight.
Concordia noticed movement in the back of the room. A burly, broad-shouldered figure separated from a gloomy corner and moved toward her. Mr. Rosen, the newspaper reporter. Although he’d no doubt been invited for the sake of writing an account of the college event, he was dressed in proper evening attire – black trousers, jacket, tie, and white shirt with the customary high collar points. The whole looked a trifle dusty, though, as if it had sat in someone’s closet for too long. Without his usual bowler atop his head, Concordia could see he had a full head of thick, wavy gray hair. He wiped his reddened face as he moved closer to the light. She caught a hint of reddish stubble along his chin.