Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  Miss Lovelace shifted uneasily. “Are you going to give them back to Miss Carey? Alison will know I took them. Things are tense enough between us.”

  “Actually, she will give them back. Leave that to me. Will you help?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Lovelace grinned. “Give me a few minutes.”

  The next morning, the fourth day after the prank, the young ladies of Willow Cottage were dressed and waiting by the door when Concordia joined them. “Everyone ready?” She turned to Miss Carey, whose hands were thrust in her jacket pockets. “No gloves yet?”

  “No, miss,” Miss Carey whispered, close to tears.

  “Don’t worry, dear, I’m sure they will turn up.” Concordia turned to Alison Smedley. “Miss Smedley, lend your gloves to Miss Carey in the meantime, if you please.”

  Miss Smedley started, involuntarily looking down at her fashionable—and quite expensive—white kid leather gloves trimmed in pearl buttons. “I’m not giving these to that...freshie.”

  The girls had stopped talking and stared. Ruby looked on in interest.

  Concordia leaned in close to Alison Smedley. “You will give her your gloves, or find the missing ones yourself. Right now.”

  Miss Smedley stared at the stern-eyed professor for a long moment, open-mouthed. She glanced around at her fellow cottage occupants. They waited silently. She would get no help from that quarter.

  “Now,” Concordia repeated.

  Miss Smedley ran up the stairs.

  The girls murmured among themselves as they waited, but all listened to the sounds overhead in the room Miss Smedley and Miss Lovelace shared: drawers being slammed, a trunk lid flung open, a stool pushed aside. Then silence, before they heard the young lady coming back down the stairs.

  “Well?” Concordia said.

  Wordlessly, Miss Smedley handed Concordia a pair of plain gray cotton gloves. Concordia held them up. “Are these yours, Miss Carey?”

  “No, they are not,” Miss Carey said, glaring at Miss Smedley.

  “I couldn’t find them,” Miss Smedley said in a subdued voice. She gave her roommate a sharp look. Miss Lovelace raised an innocent eyebrow.

  “How unfortunate,” Concordia said.

  “These are my spare pair,” Miss Smedley said. “She can wear them.”

  “No. Take off your gloves, Miss Smedley.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “But I just said that she—”

  “—and I say that you will wear the cotton gloves, my good miss, and Miss Carey will wear these nicer ones,” Concordia interrupted. “That should afford you plenty of time to look further for Miss Carey’s own gloves, and to reflect upon the ill-spirited nature of your actions.”

  Flushing an angry red, Miss Smedley pulled off her gloves in short, jerky movements. Concordia passed them to Miss Carey.

  Ruby opened the door. “All right, let’s go before we’re late to chapel. Come on now.”

  As the girls filed through the door, Concordia murmured to Ruby. “I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”

  Ruby gave an appreciative nod. “Nicely done, miss.”

  Once the door was closed behind them, Concordia ran up the stairs to Miss Smedley’s room. She pulled Miss Carey’s gloves out of her pocket and returned them to Miss Smedley’s trunk, where Maisie Lovelace had said they’d been hidden. With a sigh, she put on her coat and gloves and hurried to catch up with the others.

  After chapel and breakfast, Concordia set off for a meeting with the lady principal to discuss the senior play. She hoped it was good news. Directing the play was a substantial drain on her time, and there were usually problems aplenty. Concordia was a teacher, not a stage manager.

  But perhaps this year would be better. Miss Pomeroy had said that Lily Isley was indeed interested in helping. Perhaps Mrs. Isley would take complete charge of it? After all, the stage came naturally to that lady.

  The lady principal’s office was a familiar place to Concordia, as it was just down the hallway from her own. She’d had many occasions to visit it for some college business or other. Each lady principal had placed her own style and stamp upon the quarters. In Miss Pomeroy’s case, it wasn’t so much a stamp as a wading through of books, papers, and assorted knick-knacks, as the lady principal was...well, rather slovenly.

  Miss Pomeroy glanced up briefly from her work and waved Concordia into a chair. “Just a minute, dear. Let me get this down while I’m thinking of it.”

  Concordia found a chair beneath a stack of translations of La Chanson de Roland and sat with the pile in her lap, for want of a better place to put it.

  Besides serving as lady principal, Gertrude Pomeroy had taught at the college as one of its foreign languages professors for nearly twenty years. The lady was a brilliant, well-respected scholar, fluent in six languages, with a sharp memory of every text she had translated. The position of lady principal had been unexpectedly thrust upon her last year, with the unfortunate retreat of her predecessor.

  She’d accepted the change with good grace; however, her absent-mindedness and indecisiveness were qualities ill suited to an administrator. Concordia could see it was a struggle for her to adjust.

  Miss Pomeroy eventually set aside her pencil and looked up at Concordia, her eyes china-doll-blue through her wire-framed spectacles. “So glad you came, my dear, we need to get this play underway...now where is my….”

  “Is Mrs. Isley joining us today?” Concordia asked.

  The lady principal leaned forward, spectacles perilously close to the end of her nose. Concordia resisted the impulse to push them up the lady’s face. “Indeed, yes! Mrs. Isley wants to direct the play. We’ll still need you to help, of course, since she’s new to the school...not really part of the faculty, either….” Miss Pomeroy’s voice trailed off again.

  They were interrupted by a knock.

  “Yes?” Miss Pomeroy called out.

  Mrs. Isley entered in a wake of lavender fragrance.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Wells,” Mrs. Isley said, extending a delicate gloved hand in Concordia’s direction.

  The woman tugged upon her double-breasted jacket of buffalo red melton and adjusted the fox fur stole draped over her shoulders. Rather than sitting, she paced the cluttered confines of the room – no easy feat, given the obstacles in her path – turning with a self-conscious grace to face one or the other occupant. “I am happy to be of help in my own little way,” she added.

  “I’m sure it will be more than ‘little,’ Mrs. Isley,” Concordia said. At least, she hoped so. The more work the lady could take on, the better.

  “Oh, please, call me Lily.”

  “Then you must call me Concordia.”

  “Ah! Concordia...what a charming name. After the Roman goddess of harmony, is it not?” Lily inquired.

  “Few people are aware of that,” Concordia answered, surprised.

  “I am conversant in all of the mythologies and classical stories of our age, my dear Concordia. As you know, I was a student of the stage before I married. Classical theater was my playground: Shakespeare, Cowper, Molière, the Greeks—they were all my playfellows!”

  Concordia could tell that, while Lily may have left the stage, the stage had by no means left Lily. She suppressed a smile. “Indeed?” she said.

  “Oh my, yes,” said the lady. “I studied with some of the greats of our time: Irving, Bernhardt…at the risk of seeming immodest, I must say that my performances drew adoring crowds. Had I not retired early from the stage, I would have had a marvelous career. Nothing could keep me from my Barton, of course, although I do miss the footlights at times.”

  “I can imagine,” Miss Pomeroy put in absently, her glance straying to the stack of papers in Concordia’s lap.

  “So you see, my dears,” Lily continued—Concordia almost choked in laughter at the my dears...did all stage people speak in such an extravagant fashion?—”I would be privileged to produce this little college play. And I have so many ideas! But I was wondering...perhaps the
re would even be a part for me?”

  Concordia was willing to give Lucifer himself a part in the play in exchange for less work and aggravation. “Absolutely.” She turned to Miss Pomeroy. “The play is Othello, is it not?”

  “Hmm?” Miss Pomeroy came out of her daydream. “Oh, yes, indeed—it’s Othello.”

  “Well, then, I’d imagine you would be perfect as our Desdemona,” Concordia said recklessly. Whatever senior had dreamt of having that part, a pity. Besides, Desdemona gets smothered in the end, and Concordia couldn’t wait to see their theater expert handle that.

  “Excellent!” Lily exclaimed, clasping her hands together in excitement.

  “Well then, we are agreed,” said Miss Pomeroy, who promptly reached for the stack of papers in Concordia’s lap and shooed them out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I pray you, sir, go forth,

  And give us truth who ’tis that is arrived.

  Othello, II.i

  Week 5, Instructor Calendar

  March 1898

  At last the Capshaws returned from their honeymoon. Although Martha had no doubt left them a message, Concordia wasted no time. As soon as she finished with classes for the day, she hopped a trolley and got off at Retreat Avenue, walking the last few blocks to the Capshaws’ new residence on Alden.

  It was a working class neighborhood, quite different from the nearby Governor’s Row section of wealthy families in which Sophia had grown up. However, it wasn’t run-down or crime-ridden, as some poorer neighborhoods could be. Here, a mixture of children, languages, and walks of life were plentiful; merchants ran small shops and kept their sidewalks well swept; people smiled and greeted each other as they passed. Not a bad neighborhood at all to start a life together, Concordia thought.

  Soon she found number fifty-nine and rapped on the worn brass knocker. A young girl answered it promptly. She was clean and presentable, but her apron was too large for her thin frame, and her cap was crookedly perched on her head. Concordia smiled when she recognized Sadie from the settlement house.

  Sadie’s eyes lit up when she saw Concordia, but she maintained her role.

  “Yes?” the girl asked politely.

  “Are the Capshaws at home?” Concordia asked.

  “O’ course, Miss Wells,” she said, opening the door wider and stepping aside. “Let me take your coat for you.”

  “This way,” she said, turning down the narrow corridor. Concordia followed, looking around curiously as she passed. This was the first time she’d been in Sophia’s new home. The bare hallway, cramped rooms and peeling wallpaper were a stark contrast to her friend’s childhood house of wealth and privilege. And yet the creaky wood floors had been well-scrubbed, and not a cobweb or speck of dust was anywhere to be seen.

  The parlor had a good fire going, a welcome sight after the chilled walk from the trolley stop. Concordia sat and stretched out her hands.

  Sophia came in soon after. “Concordia!” she exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you.”

  Sophia was naturally tall and angular of figure, but her angles seemed to have softened. The new bride wore her hair in a relaxed chignon at the nape, instead of her usual no-nonsense topknot. Her face was glowing, her brow relaxed.

  “Look at you,” Concordia said with a smile, “you are simply beaming. Marriage suits you.”

  Sophia blushed as she joined Concordia beside the fire and gave her a hug. “I’m so happy. I’d recommend it to anyone.”

  “Where’s the lieutenant?” Concordia asked.

  Sophia smiled. “I think you can call him Aaron now. You’re family to us.”

  Concordia grimaced. “We’ll see. I’m not sure I can get used to that. Is he home?”

  Sophia nodded. “He’s finishing a staff interview. Our funds are small, as you might imagine, but we’re hiring a woman from the settlement house who’ll come in to clean and cook. You saw that Sadie’s here already. It helps all of us that way. They will develop a respectable work history and references when they are ready to move on, and we get affordable help from women we know.”

  “It sounds like a wonderful arrangement, Sophie, but I’m actually here on an urgent matter,” Concordia said. “You haven’t checked your correspondence since you’ve returned? Talked with Martha?”

  Sophia shook her head. “We were back so late last night; there’s been no time. We haven’t even seen Eli yet. But what is it that’s so urgent? You look worried.”

  “Something happened while you were gone, but I’d rather wait until L—Aaron comes in, so I can tell you both—”

  “Tell us what?” Capshaw walked into the parlor. “It’s good to see you, M–Concordia.” He sat beside Sophia. “What’s happened?”

  Concordia perched on the edge of her chair and told them about Florence Tooey, her claim to be Eli’s mother, and her determination to take Eli with her.

  “She has reluctantly agreed to wait until you were back from your trip.” Concordia turned to Capshaw. “We need to find out more about her.”

  “Which I certainly will,” Capshaw said grimly. Sophia had paled during Concordia’s narrative. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He turned back to Concordia. “Where is she now?”

  “Staying at Mrs. Hofferman’s boarding house. We couldn’t get any useful information from her. She was spinning stories the whole time.”

  “We’ll see what we can do about that,” Capshaw said mildly, although Concordia recognized a steely glint in his eye that didn’t bode well for Mrs. Tooey.

  “Can we go with you?” Sophia asked anxiously.

  Capshaw hesitated and looked at Sophia. “I don’t suppose I could stop you, even if I were to refuse?”

  Sophia smiled and turned to Concordia. “You see how smoothly a marriage can proceed when a husband and wife have an understanding?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Put out the light, and then put out the light.

  Othello, V, ii.

  Week 5, Instructor Calendar

  March 1898

  Although the trip was only six blocks, the Saturday afternoon shopping traffic slowed them down. Concordia perched on the seat’s edge the entire time, anxious to get this over with. At last, they reached the boarding house.

  “We’d like to see Mrs. Tooey,” Capshaw said to the maid.

  She escorted them to the visiting parlor, where the landlady allowed her boarders to receive company. “I’ll let ’er know yer here.”

  They waited. What was taking so long, Concordia wondered, checking her watch.

  The maid returned. “I’m sorry, but she’s not answering, and ’er door’s locked. I suppose she’s out.” She pursed her lips. “Funny, though. She said she was goin’ to lie down ’cause she weren’t feeling well. I was sure she was still here.”

  Capshaw’s brow creased. “Fetch Mrs. Hofferman.”

  Soon the landlady came in, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. She eyed the group suspiciously. “Wot d’yer want?” she demanded. “I’m all full up; no rooms to let.”

  “We’re not here for rooms,” Concordia said, interrupting Capshaw before he could identify himself as a policeman. “We want to talk to our friend, Florence. The maid thought she was in her room, but she’s not answering the door. Please, we’re very concerned for her. Lately she has been—unwell. Could you unlock the door, just so we can make sure she’s all right?”

  Mrs. Hofferman’s face softened. “Ah, well, I suppose. As long as you don’t go in without me there, mind.” She pulled out a ring of keys. “This way.”

  They followed her up two flights of narrow wooden back steps, probably what was originally a servant’s staircase in the days when this was the affluent part of town. Reaching the second door of the hallway, she tapped on it.

  “Missus Tooey? Visitors for ye!” she sang out. No answer. Capshaw nodded to the woman, who reluctantly unlocked the door.

  With a murmur of thanks, Capshaw pushed open the
door and went through first, Sophia and Concordia right behind him, as the landlady brought up the rear.

  Concordia gave a small shriek as an all-too-familiar furry animal darted through her skirts and ran out the door. Eli’s cat?

  “Land sakes!” the landlady exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth and pointing with the other toward the bed.

  Concordia turned and gasped.

  Florence Tooey lay on her back across the thin mattress.

  It was painfully obvious—by the purple of her face, the open eyes staring at the ceiling, and the mark of a red livid line around her neck—that she was dead.

  Capshaw promptly pushed the ladies out the door. “Do you have an errand lad here with quick feet?” he asked the landlady. “Good. I’m a policeman—Lieutenant Capshaw.” He pulled out his identification. “Send your messenger to the Pratt Street station right away. Ask for Maloney. Tell him Capshaw needs him, now.” He took in the sight of Concordia and Sophia, each pale and gripping the other for support. “You two go back to the parlor and wait for me. I expect a good strong cup of tea would do you all some good, Mrs. Hofferman. Would you mind making some?”

  The lady scurried off, while Sophia and Concordia found their way back to the parlor.

  “Who do you suppose did this? And why?” Sophia asked, her composure returning as she and Concordia sat in the visiting parlor. Maloney had come within a few minutes, and he and Capshaw were going through the murdered woman’s room.

  Concordia shook her head. “I could get very little from Mrs. Tooey when I spoke with her last week. My impression was of a woman with a troubled past. Perhaps that past caught up with her?”

  “If so,” Sophia said, “why now? And why here?”

  That’s what worried Concordia. Why now? Why here? The only variable she knew of was...Eli. She set aside her cup. “I think we should talk to Eli.”