Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  “How much money did they give you?”

  “Were you nervous?”

  “Let’s see the plaque...did they spell your name right?”

  “Ooh, what a pretty skirt you’re wearing today!”

  “What did the newspaper man ask you?”

  “What sort of food was there?”

  Ruby turned a flustered red and held up both hands in surrender. “Enough!” she cried. “You’d think I was the blinkin’ President of America, the way you all are carrying on.” Her expression softened at the sight of the banner. “I’m real grateful for the trouble, lambs, but there’s work to be done around here, and this parlor i’n’t going to clean itself.” She gave one of the freshmen a meaningful look, and the girl hurried to get the duster.

  “You heard Ruby,” Concordia said. “You all have chores and other things to do, so go on, let the poor woman catch her breath. Anna, take the broom out to the porch and clear off the snow. Has anyone seen Miss Lovelace or Miss Smedley?”

  “I haven’t seen Alison,” one young lady volunteered, “but Maisie came in to change and then left again. She said she was going coasting on Rook’s Hill with a couple of the other girls.”

  Concordia looked through the window. With the snow coming down at this rate, she had no intention of chasing after Miss Lovelace.

  Ruby frowned at Concordia. “Somethin’ going on with those two again?”

  Concordia pulled her away from the girls. “They left the reception much earlier than they were supposed to,” she murmured. “The dean was the one who pointed it out.”

  Ruby sighed. “Land sakes, of all people to notice. I think some extra chores are in order, once they show up.”

  Concordia nodded.

  “When will we get to read the valentines?” one girl asked, motioning to the hall basket, filled to overflowing with homemade cards and small, tissue-wrapped packets.

  “You know we distribute them after dinner, and not before,” Concordia said firmly. “Go on, now.”

  The girls pouted but shuffled off to their tasks.

  At that moment, Alison Smedley walked in. She hesitated at the sight of Concordia and Ruby.

  “Oh. Miss Wells…” she began.

  Concordia gestured to the girl’s sodden boots and coat. “Hang up your things to dry, then join me in my quarters.” She looked over at Ruby. “I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you rest for a while?”

  Ruby gave her a grateful look as she headed for the kitchen.

  Concordia regarded Miss Smedley in silence as the young lady perched uneasily on the only other chair in Concordia’s study, nervously smoothing back her pale hair in its bun and settling the folds of her burgundy-velvet-trimmed cashmere skirts.

  Concordia knew that Alison Smedley came from the Philadelphia Smedleys, a family of blue-blood wealth with powerful ties to steel and railroad magnates. Here at Hartford Women’s College, Miss Smedley enjoyed a bevy of admiring girls who sought her favor. When it suited her, she could be a pleasant young lady. It did not always suit her. Particularly where her roommate was concerned.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Miss Smedley said, breaking the silence. “I was supposed to help during the entire reception, and I didn’t stay.”

  Concordia waited for more. “Why did you leave?” she finally asked. It was like pulling teeth.

  Miss Smedley gave a dramatic sigh. “Maisie was useless. If she wasn’t staring out the window at the snow, she was rearranging the table, and I’d have to change it back. I worked hard to get it just right. The spoons should never go to the left of the saucers in a proper afternoon tea configuration, nor should the cups be stacked.” She rolled her eyes.

  “So that’s why you left?”

  “No,” Miss Smedley said through gritted teeth. “Maisie abandoned me first. To play in the snow. I suppose one can’t expect much from such an ill-bred girl. I left after that. After all, why should I stay and do all the work?”

  “Because we were even more short-handed, and needed you,” Concordia retorted.

  The girl shrugged.

  They were getting nowhere. Concordia stood. “I will have a list of chores for you in the morning, Miss Smedley. You may go.”

  Miss Smedley raised an eyebrow in surprise, no doubt expecting a long-winded lecture. “What about Maisie? She should get more chores.”

  “There will be plenty of work for both of you,” Concordia assured her.

  After dinner, two dozen excited girls gathered in the parlor of Willow Cottage. Ruby took a quick count. “We’re missin’ a few sophomores.”

  “Miss Lovelace and her friends promised to be back in time for the valentines,” one of the students said. She paused. “I think I hear them now.”

  Sure enough, the door swung wide as two girls stepped in, bringing a swirl of snow with them.

  “Brr, get that door closed,” Concordia said. “Where’s Miss Lovelace?”

  “She’s stowing the sled,” one girl answered, shaking snow from her scarf.

  “You’re getting water on the floor,” Concordia said sternly. “Go hang those things by the kitchen stove to dry, and mop up this mess. You know better.”

  They gave her a sheepish look and hurried to the kitchen.

  Concordia threw on a shawl and stepped out to the porch to see what was keeping Miss Lovelace.

  What on earth?

  A snow-encrusted Maisie Lovelace was grappling with an enormous sled, obviously homemade and painted a gaily-hued red.

  “Let me help you with this…leviathan,” Concordia said, grasping the rope.

  “Thank you, Miss Wells,” Miss Lovelace said, pushing the sled from the back. “It is rather big, isn’t it?”

  “Why didn’t your companions stay to help?”

  “We were running late, so I sent them on ahead so the other girls wouldn’t be anxious, waiting for their valentines.”

  “After we’re finished with the valentines, I want to have a little chat with you,” Concordia said.

  Miss Lovelace paused, grimacing. “I know. I’m sorry I left the reception early. I cannot abide that girl, and to have to live with her, too….” She shrugged. “I saw it was snowing, and I wanted the chance to try out the sled.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to make up for your lapse. You know better than that. I’ll be assigning you additional chores.” Concordia looked down at the sled. “Where on earth did this come from?”

  “The other girls and I made it ourselves, during the winter recess,” Miss Lovelace explained. “We modified the lever-driven steering mechanism, widened the runners, and added a strong suspension for bumpy slopes. It worked beautifully on Rook’s Hill.”

  “Impressive. I only wish you hadn’t made it so…” Concordia grunted as she tugged at it again “…large.”

  Miss Lovelace chuckled. “We wanted it big enough to carry all three of us. I hadn’t thought of the problem of storage before now, though. It’s been in my uncle’s shop. He brought it over this afternoon.”

  As they propped it against the porch railing, Alison Smedley poked her head outside. She scowled at Miss Lovelace. “We have better things to do than watch you cavort in the snow. You are holding us up.”

  Concordia suppressed a sigh. Here we go again.

  Miss Lovelace glared back at Miss Smedley. “Go on without me. I don’t care.”

  Miss Smedley tossed her blonde head and sniffed. “No, I suppose not. I doubt you’ll have any cards to open, anyhow.” She cast a disdainful eye at the sled. “You’d better not be bringing that hideous contraption into my room.”

  “It’s our room,” Miss Lovelace muttered. She brushed the snow from her coat, looking at her roommate with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Actually, once the sled is dry, I plan to bring it up to our room for safekeeping. Maybe you can give me a hand?”

  Miss Smedley sucked in a breath. “Miss We-ells!” she wailed, looking plaintively at the lady professor.

  Concordia raised an eye
brow in Miss Lovelace’s direction. The girl laughed. “Don’t have a conniption fit, Alison. I was only joking.”

  Concordia collected the basket from the hall table, noticing that last-minute contributions had made their way in. It certainly was heavy.

  The young ladies perched on the edge of their seats, leaning forward, looking over one another’s shoulders as Concordia distributed them.

  In the interest of fairness, Ruby and Concordia had written valentines of their own to each girl so no one would feel left out. During her Christmas holiday shopping, Concordia had snapped up a spool of lacy peach ribbon from the sales tables. From it, she had cut lengths of the ribbon and tied one to each card, knowing the girls could use it later for a brooch or hair adornment.

  “Ooh, so pretty, Miss Wells!” one girl exclaimed, holding it up. “Thank you!”

  Looking at the stacks of cards beside each young lady, it was easy to see who among them was the most popular: Miss Smedley, of course, along with the ever-vivacious junior Miss Yarrow, who was also the lead culprit in much of the illegal cooking that went on.

  Concordia was getting to the bottom of the stack now. She had a fair number of missives with her own name on them, one of which bore David Bradley’s handwriting. She blushed when a student noticed her tucking that one in her pocket.

  “Ah-ha, Miss Wells has one she doesn’t want us to see!” the girl teased. “I wonder who it’s from?” Of course, they all knew Mr. Bradley, a frequent visitor to Willow Cottage.

  “Never you mind, young lady,” Ruby admonished. But she gave Concordia a wink that made her blush even more.

  Later, in her own rooms, she pulled out David’s valentine. Inside was a sketch of a lady perched on a bicycle. Rough as it was, Concordia recognized herself as the woman in the picture.

  Remembering the first time we met, he wrote, adding: Never thought I would be so happy to be run down. Happy Valentine’s Day.

  Concordia smiled at the memory. She had, indeed, nearly collided with him, when her thoughts—and the machine—had strayed on a beautiful spring day almost two years before.

  Through her partly open door, she heard two students talking in the parlor.

  “It’s nice that he gave Miss Wells a valentine. Do you suppose she’ll marry him?” one of the girls said.

  Concordia dropped the card into her lap and shamelessly listened.

  “Probably,” another said. “Mr. Bradley is quite handsome and really nice, especially for a Chemistry professor. Not like that gruff old Professor Grundy.”

  “What will happen if she leaves?”

  “They’ll simply assign another teacher. But I know what you mean. I’ll miss her, too. She’s a good egg.”

  “Couldn’t she still stay after she gets married? To be our teacher, I mean. I know she couldn’t live here anymore, but—”

  “Don’t be a ninny. Married women don’t teach. The school would never allow it.”

  “But there are male teachers at the school who are married. They just go home each day after classes, rather than live here.”

  “But they aren’t the ones in charge of the household and the children, silly—”

  The voice broke off at the rapid approach of another student.

  “Has anyone seen my scarf?” a girl asked urgently. It was Miss Lovelace.

  “No. I think you took it off on the hill. You got too hot, remember?”

  Concordia checked the clock. Almost ten. Time to break up this little chat. She opened her door and crossed the hall to the parlor. “Shouldn’t you ladies be getting ready for bed?”

  One of the few steadfast policies of the college was the “ten o’clock rule”: students in bed, lights out, by ten o’clock.

  Miss Lovelace turned to Concordia, eyes pleading. “I know it’s late, but can I go back and get my scarf, please? I’ll run very fast.”

  “In the dark?” Concordia said skeptically. “That would be foolhardy in the extreme. It’s not going anywhere, dear. It can wait until morning.”

  The girl bit her lip.

  “Miss Wells,” one of her friends said, “it’s the scarf her grandmother made her last Christmas. It’s very special.” The young lady’s voice grew subdued. “Her grandmother died only a few weeks ago.”

  Concordia threw up her hands in surrender. “All right, but I’ll go. Tell Ruby I’ll be back shortly. And get to bed.”

  Miss Lovelace nodded her thanks. “You can’t miss it—it’s bright red wool.”

  Well, apparently it could be missed, since the heedless girl had failed to bring it back with her, but Concordia was too tired to argue the point. She bundled into her jacket and brought a lantern, setting out for the path to Rook’s Hill.

  The air was bitterly cold. Thankfully, it had stopped snowing and a nearly full moon had risen, making it easier for her to search as she trudged up the hill. Ah, there it was, huddled beside a shrub. She picked up the scarf, stopping a moment to catch her breath.

  A moving shadow caught her eye. Looking up, she saw the silhouette of a man walking along the crest of the hill.

  The figure was of medium height and a slender build. A youth, perhaps? Concordia couldn’t see his face, as he was wrapped up in a thick muffler. He walked at a brisk pace, pulling his collar more tightly against the chill air. Suddenly he stopped and bent down to look in the snow at his feet.

  Concordia’s mouth set in a grim line. Strange men shouldn’t be strolling the grounds of a women’s college. How had he gotten past the gatekeeper?

  “Hello? Who are you?” she called out, with as much breath as she could muster. She puffed up the hill toward him, avoiding the slick coasting tracks.

  The figure turned toward the sound, hesitated, then ran.

  “Wait!” Concordia called out, trying to run after him. However, racing up a snowy hill in full skirts does not allow one much speed—or solid footing. Soon she went sprawling, landing on her stomach with a decided oomph.

  Drat. She hastily got to her feet and clambered to the top of the hill. She looked around, but even with the moonlight on the snowy landscape, the man was nowhere to be seen.

  What had he been looking for? She crouched down in the snow, probing with mittened hands. Then she felt something. The moonlight picked up the sheen of a brass pin, though she could see little else in this light. She stuck it in her jacket pocket to look at later, and trudged back to Willow Cottage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I am bound to thee for ever.

  Othello, III.iii

  Week 3, Instructor Calendar

  February 1898

  Concordia’s first impression, when she peeked through a side door into the nave, was that of a profusion of blooms. Sophia’s family must have raided every hothouse in Hartford. Lilies, oleander, and chrysanthemums spilled over from vases tucked into alcoves, beside doors and windowsills. While beautiful, the sheer volume of floral sweetness was overwhelming. Concordia held a gloved finger under her nose to hold back a sneeze.

  She had left a restless Sophia in the anteroom. Although Concordia had never before been a maid of honor—and hoped never to be one again—she knew Sophia well enough to see that her friend craved solitude before the ceremony. After all, marriage was a big step for any woman, but especially one such as Sophia, who had carved out an unconventional life as a tireless advocate for women and the poor at Hartford Settlement House.

  So, once Sophia was dressed and ready, Concordia ushered Sophia’s stepmother and little sister out of the room and left her alone.

  Concordia checked her watch. Just a few more minutes. From her vantage point, she saw several women from Hartford Settlement House being escorted to their seats by David Bradley. The church was getting crowded now. Someone had pulled open several windows to dispel the stuffy air.

  David looked quite dashing today. Instead of his customary lumpy-pocketed houndstooth jacket with the worn elbows, he wore a tailored morning coat and pinstripe trousers, with a crisp white shirt that set off his dar
k eyes and wavy black hair. His hair curled just at his collar in a way that made her want to smooth it with her fingers. She smiled. Land sakes, weddings were rife with romantic impulses.

  As she surveyed the congregation, she saw that Mother and her escort were seated near the front. Concordia craned her neck for a better look at the man. She didn’t know much about Robert Flynn, except that he was a native of Ireland, worked as an attorney for the prestigious law firm of Barrows and Hodge, and was younger than her mother. His exquisitely-tailored jacket fit him beautifully. His neatly-trimmed mustache and beard, heavy eyebrows, salt-and-pepper hair and steady gray eyes bespoke intelligence and reliability.

  Mother had only recently told her about Mr. Flynn, describing him merely as a friend who accompanied her to various social functions. Concordia hoped she could learn more about his intentions. Her mother was an attractive widow, though only of modest means. Still, one could not be too careful.

  Concordia became aware of movement in the chancel. Opening the side door a bit wider, she recognized the tall, gaunt figure of the groom: police lieutenant Aaron Capshaw, his bright red hair and mustache unmistakable. Gone today was his perpetual gloomy expression, and his habit of walking with a slight stoop, as if looking for clues he had missed. Instead, his carriage was ramrod straight, with a spring in his step. He took his place next to the minister and his best man, eleven-year-old Eli.

  The boy looked exceptionally presentable today, although one stubborn cowlick refused to stay slicked down in his wavy hair, and his wrists and ankles showed beneath the ill-fitting borrowed suit. He looked across the nave, smiling when he noticed Concordia. She gave him a little wave before he turned back to Capshaw with luminous eyes, waiting to respond to any direction he’d give.

  Concordia scurried down the hall and rapped on the anteroom door. An anxious Sophia poked her head out. “Is it time?” she whispered. “Thank goodness.”