by K. B. Owen
“That’s enough outta ya,” Clyde growled.
Concordia shivered and wrapped her shawl more firmly about her as she walked back to Willow Cottage. She had some questions for Ruby.
Ruby barely returned in time to help escort the students to the dining hall that evening. She rushed in, arms full of parcels. “Lemme jes’ put these away; I’ll be right out,” she said breathlessly, scurrying down the hall.
Concordia and the girls waited patiently until Ruby re-emerged. “Sorry,” she said, smoothing her hair back. “I’m ready now.” She grinned. “Wait ’til I show you the bargains I snapped up at Sage Allen’s white sale.”
As the girls walked briskly ahead on the path, eager to get to their suppers, Concordia touched Ruby on the arm. “A man came looking for you today.”
Ruby frowned. “A man? I weren’t expectin’ anybody. Who was he?”
“He didn’t give his name, but he asked for you specifically.”
“Me? Wot did he want?”
“He said to tell you he was back, and he waved a scrap of newspaper at me, referring to you as the famous Mrs. Hitchcock. I think he was referring to the newspaper article about your award.”
Ruby shook her head. “I never did like the idea o’ that newspaperman writin’ about me. Wot did the man look like?”
“He was a rather disagreeable character. Drunk and ill-mannered. I’m not sure about his age, but close to sixty, I’d guess. Short, broad-shouldered, bushy gray beard, blue eyes. Large hands. He was nearly bald, with a big scar across the top of his forehead.”
“It don’t sound like any man I know, thank goodness,” Ruby said, her face growing pale.
The girls were holding the dining hall door open for them. Concordia and Ruby walked briskly to catch up.
“Oh, and one other thing I noticed about him,” Concordia added, “part of his left ear lobe was missing.”
Ruby hesitated at the door, stiffening. “Ya don’t say? Well, let’s hope Clyde stops him at the gate next time. It don’t sound like a man I want to know.” Without a backward look, she went inside.
CHAPTER SIX
There are many
events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
Othello, I.iii
Week 3, Instructor Calendar
February 1898
The next morning brought the usual bustle of students dressing for classes, and a time-pressed Concordia gathering her lecture notes and graded themes. Drat. Where were her pages on Elizabethan drama?
There was a tap on her door.
“Enter!” she called. She hoped it wasn’t someone with a problem.
One of the students stuck her head in. “A lady to see you, Miss Wells. I know you’re leaving, and I told her so, but she was most insistent.”
Concordia grabbed her satchel and followed the girl into the hall, where the head of Hartford Settlement House waited.
“Martha, what a surprise!” Concordia exclaimed.
The woman’s worn face seemed more deeply lined than usual. “I understand you’re on your way to class, but it’s about Eli, and with Sophia being away….” Her voice trailed off.
Concordia’s stomach clenched. “Is he hurt?”
“No, no,” Martha assured her, “but—”
“Can you walk with me?” Concordia asked.
As they passed clumps of student groups on the paths, Martha explained. “A woman came to see us yesterday. At first, I thought it was someone in need of our services. She was so thin and pale, and seemed quite apprehensive, looking over her shoulder, shifting in her chair...but what she had to say was a complete shock to me.”
“What was it?” Concordia asked, sidestepping a slushy pile of snow.
“She says she’s Eli’s mother. She wants to take him.”
Concordia stopped dead on the path, causing several students to bump into her. “Sorry,” she muttered. She stepped out of the way and dropped her voice. “His mother? Are you sure?”
Martha pulled at her lip, troubled. “No, I’m not. She has the same coloring as Eli, but that’s no way to tell. He doesn’t recognize her at all, says she looks nothing like the mother he remembers, whom we’ve never been able to find and assumed was dead. This woman claims to be on speaking terms with the settlement house’s primary benefactors, and has threatened to complain to them if we don’t give him up. I don’t know what to do. Could you talk to her?”
Concordia took a deep breath. “I’m not sure how persuasive I can be, but I could at least get more information. What’s her name?”
“Florence Tooey.”
The bell rang. Concordia touched Martha’s arm in reassurance. “I have to go. I can come to the settlement house tomorrow at noon. Just get her and Eli there, and I’ll see what I can do.” Martha nodded as Concordia hurried into class.
CHAPTER SEVEN
By heaven, I’ll know thy thoughts.
Othello, III.iii
Week 3, Instructor Calendar
February 1898
The trolley ride from Hartford Women’s College to the Main Street stop near Hartford Settlement House gave Concordia the chance to think, but it didn’t seem like nearly enough time to come up with a plan. Who was this woman? Where did she come from? And why had she come for Eli now? Without any real information to go on, Concordia would have to innovate as she learned more. If the woman were indeed Eli’s mother, would she not care enough about his emotional well-being to refrain from abruptly uprooting the child?
Concordia walked the last few blocks to the settlement house and up the stone steps, dodging the children playing hoops near the entrance, her steps and her heart heavy.
She’d known Eli more than a year now, from the time he’d arrived as a homeless, raggedy ten-year-old who couldn’t read or write his own name. But he was thriving here at the settlement house, going to school, settling into a routine.
Concordia approached the young girl at the front desk. “I’m here to see Martha.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Wells, she’s been expectin’ you,” the girl said. “This way, if you please.”
Concordia stepped into the office, where Martha, Eli, and familiar-looking woman waited. Of course—the stranger from Sophia’s wedding, the one who couldn’t stop staring at Eli.
Florence Tooey was a woman of petite stature. She was plainly attired in a dark worsted dress, worn gray coat, and water-stained shoes. Her soft, wavy dark hair framed a face made gaunt by some unknown strain. She had the same piquant chin as Eli’s, and the same luminous eyes.
With a drop of her heart, Concordia knew she was looking at Eli’s mother.
Martha stepped forward to make the introductions. “Miss Wells, this is Mrs. Tooey.”
“Call me Florence, please,” the woman said, her voice quiet, the accent refined. Concordia was startled; this was no servant who had gotten herself in trouble and had to turn to the streets to raise a child on her own. And yet she was dressed in a shabby coat and worn shoes. Who was she?
During this interchange, Eli eyed the adults, limbs shaking, mouth quivering. He sidled up to Concordia and grasped her hand. “Please, miss—doan’ let her take me away.”
Concordia’s heart lurched at the sight of Eli’s pale face. He had saved her life last year. Although the scars on her wrists had long healed, the bond she and Eli shared remained irrevocable. She must save him now.
Concordia patted Eli’s hand. “Let me talk with Mrs. Tooey alone. We’ll work things out.” She tried to make her tone sound as reassuring as she could, although she felt less than confident.
Martha put a hand on Eli’s shoulder. “We’ve got some bread and jam for you in the kitchen, okay?”
Eli gave a dejected nod and followed Martha out.
Concordia sat and motioned the woman into the other chair.
“Can you tell me a little about yourself, Mrs. Tooey? Where do you come from? How did you come to be separated—” she was careful to avoid the word abandon “—from Eli? You can see he
’s in very good care here, and Martha wants to be sure to do what’s in the boy’s best interests.”
Mrs. Tooey bristled. “It’s in his best interests to be with his mother, not in some charity ward. Obviously, not being a mother yourself, you wouldn’t understand. I’m determined to take him, and I’ll go to your sponsors if I have to. Where will your precious settlement house be without funds?”
Concordia ignored the threat. “It doesn’t take a mother to know that Eli is much better off now than when he was found—dirty, hungry, and alone—trying to fend for himself in the world. What mother would put him in such a position?”
“That was not in my control at the time,” the woman shot back.
“Which brings us back to my original question. How did Eli come to be alone? He told us that his mother had disappeared. He certainly doesn’t recognize you as that woman. Surely you can see why it is necessary for us to understand this tangle, before we could consider turning him over to your care?”
Mrs. Tooey pressed her hands together until the knuckles were white. It was the closest Concordia had ever seen to someone literally wringing her hands in distress.
“When he was just a baby, he was kidnapped. His nurse had charge of him at the time, and had wheeled him in his carriage to the park for some fresh air. She sat on a bench and fell asleep, careless girl! When she awoke, the perambulator was empty, the baby gone.”
“But that must have been...nine or ten years ago,” Concordia countered skeptically. It sounded like a penny dreadful one would read on a train. “Why did it take so long for you to find him? And how do you know Eli is yours? Babies change a great deal as they grow up.”
“He has a strawberry-colored mark on his left wrist,” Florence said. “We made a thorough search when he disappeared, of course, but discovered nothing. Then, a few weeks ago, a friend of mine living in this area noticed the boy’s resemblance to me—he was running an errand for her. She knew about the birthmark, and there it was. I came as soon as she wrote to me.”
Concordia had noticed the mark on Eli’s wrist, so that part rang true. Yet the story sounded far-fetched. If Lieutenant Capshaw were here, he could easily check it.
“Where is the boy’s father? Is Eli a natural child?” Concordia asked.
“I’m not interested in giving you my life story—it is not your concern,” the woman snapped.
“Perhaps not, but what sort of home will you be giving him? A couple wants to adopt the boy—the Capshaws. They and Eli share a mutual affection. Would you be so selfish as to snatch that from him?”
Florence’s lip trembled. “Eli’s father is dead. The child is all the family I have left.”
Concordia realized with a sinking heart that for this woman, Eli was a memento, a piece of something she’d lost, rather than a child with needs. There had to be a way to stop her, but she needed help to do it.
She stood. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Concordia found Martha pacing in the hall. “Any success?” Martha asked eagerly.
“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Tooey seems determined to take him.”
Martha’s face fell. “I’d hoped you could persuade her.”
Concordia smiled ruefully. “It seems my powers of persuasion don’t run that deep.”
“What are we to do? Eli’s threatening to run away rather than leave with that woman.”
“I have an idea,” Concordia said. “We can stall for time until the Capshaws return. Then the lieutenant can look into her background and find out more. Her story sounds...melodramatic.”
Martha’s face brightened. “We could even offer her room here, to stay while she waits.”
Concordia shook her head. “I don’t think that’s wise. She may put pressure on Eli and cause him to do something rash. Do you have any money? I only have a little with me. But perhaps between us we can give her enough to rent a room at Mrs. Hofferman’s boarding house for the week. Once Sophia and the lieutenant are back, they’ll know what to do.”
Martha went to the lock box and checked. “I think this should be enough; let’s see if she’ll agree.”
When they returned to the room, Florence was buttoning her jacket. “I want to see Eli. Alone.”
Concordia held up a hand to interrupt whatever Martha was going to say. “Very well, on one condition; that you do not take him away with you until the Capshaws have returned next week. We’ll pay for your room and board at respectable lodgings nearby.”
Florence locked her brown eyes upon Concordia, staring at her shrewdly. “What sort of lodgings?”
“Oh, Mrs. Hofferman’s is very comfortable,” Martha interjected quickly. “It’s along a quiet street, out of the way of traffic. I can have one of our girls show you.”
Florence glanced down at the bills in Martha’s hand, then relented. “Very well. But I want to talk with Eli now.”
A trembling Eli was brought in. With some reluctance, Concordia and Martha waited outside the door.
“Why do you suppose she wants to see him alone?” Martha asked.
Concordia shrugged. “Perhaps she thinks she can persuade him to go with her? If so, she’s sadly mistaken.”
After about ten minutes, Eli and Florence came out of the room. Florence hugged Eli’s stiff shoulders, then fixed a steely gaze on Concordia. “One week.”
Martha gestured to the girl waiting to escort Florence Tooey. She passed her the bills. “Give my regards to Mrs. Hofferman.” The girl nodded, and Florence followed her out.
“Are you all right?” Concordia asked Eli.
He held up a pocket watch. “She gave me a present. That’s nice, but I still ain’t goin’ with her.”
“Don’t worry,” Concordia said, ruffling his hair. “We’ll figure out something.” She hoped she was right, especially when the boy turned a trusting, relieved face in her direction.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone
Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
Othello, I.iii
Week 4, Instructor Calendar
March 1898
Concordia loathed Glove Night, with a passion typically reserved for war, famine, and pestilence.
She reluctantly groped her way up the stairs in the early morning light, toward the sounds of freshmen wailing overhead.
The sophomores never seemed to tire of their pranks on the freshmen, and Glove Night was their favorite. It was astonishing to contemplate the organization required for sophomores from all six cottages on the same night to slip into freshmen rooms, steal their gloves, hide them throughout the grounds, and return to their own beds without detection. If only they would apply such cunning and forethought to their work.
The upstairs corridor was crowded with freshmen girls in various states of distress and dishabille. A nightrobe-clad, felt-slippered Ruby was trying to usher them back to their rooms. “There now, no need to tear the rooms apart. You know the gloves won’t be here. You can search the grounds after chapel and breakfast.”
Ruby’s unfortunate mention of chapel provoked a round of fresh wailing. Though the sound set her teeth on edge, Concordia could sympathize. For a lady, going about bare-handed was akin to walking barefoot. It was simply not done. Attending chapel without one’s gloves was particularly frowned upon. The administration, of course, would exercise leniency while the freshmen hunted for their gloves.
And hunting was often required, as the sophomores looked on and snickered at the hapless “freshies.” It seemed no place was out of bounds for the gloves: the fountain (drained in winter, mercifully), the library, the arboretum, and once even dangling from the beams of the chapel. This year, Lady Principal Pomeroy had extracted a promise from the sophomores that they not hide any gloves in the stables. For some reason, it spooked the horses.
“But Miss Wells, I was ever so careful. I don’t know how they found my hiding place,” one freshman girl complained, as Concordia coaxed her back to her room.
“Don’t
worry, dear,” Concordia soothed, “we’ll find them.” And quickly, she hoped.
By the third day, nearly all of the freshmen had recovered their gloves. Peace was once again restored in the cottages, without the horses being traumatized this year.
The single gloveless exception was Willow Cottage’s Miss Carey. Concordia strongly suspected Miss Smedley had something to do with that. She had noticed glances exchanged between Alison Smedley and her sophomore cohorts each morning before chapel, as if enjoying a private triumph.
Concordia could have lent Miss Carey a pair of her own gloves, but that wouldn’t solve the bigger problem. She had an idea. That afternoon, when Miss Smedley was out of the cottage, she called Miss Lovelace to her quarters.
“Yes, Miss Wells?” Maisie Lovelace sat primly in the hard back chair, her hands neatly folded in her lap.
“Does Alison Smedley have Miss Carey’s gloves?” Concordia asked bluntly.
Miss Lovelace scowled. “I don’t know that for a fact, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”
Concordia raised a skeptical brow. “I find it hard to believe, as a sophomore yourself, that you didn’t participate in the prank.”
“Well, it’s true,” the girl said defensively. “I intended to, but Alison put herself in charge of the whole thing. I stayed out of it.”
“I see.” Concordia hesitated. “I need to ask you a favor, but it violates the roommate code of ethics. You are free to decline.”
Miss Lovelace’s eyes widened, but she waited.
“I need you to search Miss Smedley’s belongings—discreetly, so that she is unaware it has been done,” Concordia went on, firmly squashing a twinge of guilt. “Would you recognize Miss Carey’s gloves if you saw them? Yes? Good. Give them to me and tell me where they were hidden. But say nothing to anyone else.”