by K. B. Owen
David blotted his lips on a napkin. “I’ve actually been following recent developments with Sanders, his supporters, and his key opponent. I can explain some of it if you like.”
As much as Concordia would prefer to have a splinter removed than listen to political talk, she knew the best way to fulfill Miss Hamilton’s commission was to be more conversant about the principals involved.
Concordia inclined her head toward Sanders. “Who’s he talking to?”
David followed her glance. “That’s Dayton. A banker. From what I’ve heard, he’s involved in Sanders’ campaign because he wants to make sure the gold standard isn’t tinkered with. Those Silver Democrats make him nervous.” He nodded at the pudgy man seated beside Lily Isley. “That’s Merritt, the city’s head prosecutor and one of the Republican party’s staunchest supporters. He likes to back a winner. And Republicans are a safe bet these days. We’ve had Republican governors for the past six terms—if you don’t count Luzon Morris, who interrupted the streak—and the general assembly has sent only Republican delegations to the United States Congress for the last eighteen years.”
“Is that Merritt’s only motivation?” Concordia asked.
“Oh, he’s interested in getting generous funds for the city, and currying favor for a big political appointment later. That’s the case with many of the people here tonight, unfortunately.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Their reasons are more self-serving than altruistic. Frankly, I’m glad that women don’t have the vote. Politics can be a sordid business.”
Concordia bit back a retort. While she couldn’t argue with David’s assessment of the political sphere, she thought the arena would be far less sordid if women were an equal part of it. But that was a discussion for another time. For now, her thoughts were preoccupied with wondering how the Black Scroll was connected here. Had the organization strayed from what Miss Hamilton described as its philanthropic beginnings and become a political machine? Was it responsible for removing Lieutenant Capshaw from the investigation into Florence’s death? If the Black Scroll was powerful enough to change the course of a murder inquiry—although the why of it was still unanswered—she didn’t like to conjecture what else the organization was capable of. She shivered.
“Are you chilled?” David asked.
“No, no, I’m fine. What do you know about the Isleys?” Concordia asked, dropping her voice as one of the wait staff removed her barely-touched plate. “Mr. Isley told me that he and his wife support Sanders because it was essential to defeat the Democrats. But based on what you say, the Democrats are not really a threat. So are the Isleys involved in Sander’s senate bid because of the campaign issues, or from the desire to cultivate a powerful connection?”
David took a sip from his water goblet before answering. Concordia waited.
“I don’t want to be unfair,” he said at last. “This is only based upon impressions, and things I’ve heard….” He hesitated.
“Go on.”
“Mrs. Isley is very passionately involved, more than one merely cultivating an advantageous connection. Surprisingly engaged for a woman, in fact. I don’t know enough about her, though, to tell you what issue is close to her heart.”
Concordia nodded. “What about our bursar? Is he merely humoring his wife?”
“Even if that’s the case, such connections work to Mr. Isley’s advantage. Although to truly broaden his influence, he’ll want to cultivate friends beyond the state level. He’ll require federal connections. Leverage in the national legislative sphere would give him considerable power.”
“Is Barton Isley really that ambitious?” Concordia asked.
“I cannot say, but he has some international interests that would benefit from having friends in the government. From what I understand—keep in mind that this is from the rumor mill,” David cautioned, “most of the Isley wealth is tied up in mining interests abroad. I’ve heard something about mines in the southern part of Africa. No doubt he’ll have a splendid return on his investment eventually, especially if he can pull off a tariff exemption.”
Concordia remembered Miss Hamilton mentioning copper mines. “How could Sanders help Isley with that?” she asked.
“Connecticut’s general assembly is responsible for appointments to the United States Congress. There’s talk of changing that system eventually—state-wide elections being the fairest method—but that’s how it works at the moment.”
Concordia thought about that as plates came and went. She would have made room for some of the creme brulee, if she had noticed it in front of her before it was whisked away.
She observed the others as David chatted with an elderly lady on his other side. Across the room, Sanders was conversing heatedly with another gentleman. “…Cooke is playing his cards too close to the vest...re-election to another term? Unheard of. Violates gubernatorial tradition. Time for him to cede the field to another.”
The other man set aside his napkin. “I disagree. Surely it is better the devil you know—”
“Gentlemen!” Barton Isley interrupted good-naturedly, “Shall we leave such subjects to the after-dinner conversation in the library? I’m sure the ladies don’t appreciate such a boring topic.”
Concordia couldn’t agree more.
“Speak for yourself, Barton,” Lily Isley shot back.
Isley laughed indulgently. “Yes, dear.”
The murmur of conversations resumed.
Concordia turned back to David. “I was wondering, did you know Florence Willoughby at all?”
He knitted his brow in concentration. “I’ve heard of the Willoughby family, of course. They dominate the Register in New York, Boston, and Providence. I’ve never met Florence. Why do you ask?”
Concordia hesitated. “I met her, but she was killed a few weeks ago.”
David leaned in to speak more quietly. “You’re not getting involved in another murder investigation, are you? I understood it was personal for you when Sophia was accused of murdering her father—who could stand idly by and do nothing when one’s best friend is in trouble? But surely, Florence Willoughby’s death can’t possibly concern you.”
“No, no, it’s not like that,” Concordia protested in a low voice. It was Eli’s disappearance that was getting her involved this time, but she couldn’t explain that right now. There were too many people close by to overhear.
“Just trust me, David,” Concordia said. “Do you see any Willoughbys here?”
He sighed in resignation and surveyed the room. The final plates were being removed from the tables as guests got up from their chairs.
“I see none of the Willoughbys here tonight,” David said, “but those two over there—” he discreetly motioned to the left, where two men had stood to help their female companions out of their chairs “—are connected to the family. That fellow is old man Willoughby’s banker, and the other is the family’s minister.”
Miss Hamilton had said the Willoughbys would be attending, but perhaps they had declined at the last minute because of Florence’s death. That would be the decorous thing to do. Concordia casually turned her head to look at the men associated with the family. She’d never seen them before. Could one or both of them have attended the meeting in the library? She would need to hear their voices at close range to be able to tell.
But that would have to wait until they were all together again. Now was time for the ladies to enjoy after-dinner coffee in the parlor—the Marlowe Room, Concordia amended—and the men to talk in the library over brandy and cigars.
The doorbell rang and a maid hurried to answer it. Concordia lingered in the hallway, curious about the latecomer. To her immense surprise, in the open doorway stood her mother, on the arm of Robert Flynn. The maid took the gentleman’s hat.
“Concordia!” Mrs. Wells said delightedly. She embraced her. “How lovely to see you, dear. Have you seen Sophia since she’s returned from her honeymoon trip? Yes? Oh, do tell me all about it.”
Robert Flynn bowed. �
�‘Tis a pleasure, Miss Wells.” He touched Mrs. Wells’ elbow. “I’ll see myself to the library to join the gentlemen.”
Concordia watched him walk away before turning back to her mother.
“I’m so surprised that you’re here!” Concordia exclaimed. “What–”
Concordia broke off as Lily Isley rushed up to greet her mother. “Letitia, dear, so happy you could come! I know you are only just returning from the Cartwright benefit; how unfortunate that it coincided with my dinner party.”
Mrs. Wells made a face. “I am sorry I couldn’t get away sooner, Lily, but you understand I was already committed to it. We came over as soon as we could decently get away. I do hope I’m not inconveniencing you?”
“No, no, not at all,” Lily assured her. “Let me get you some coffee and introduce you. We have the most fascinating ladies in our group tonight.” She turned mischievously to Concordia. “And of course, you know your own charming daughter. It is so lovely to work with her on the seniors’ play this year,” she purred.
Mrs. Wells gave Concordia a look, and Concordia stifled a laugh into a hiccup. Obviously, her mother was familiar with Lily Isley’s effusive ways and found them amusing. Even though Concordia and her mother approached the world differently—her mother as a well-bred society widow and Concordia as an unconventional lady professor—they’d come to realize they shared the same sense of humor and perceptions about people. She looked forward to regaling her mother with stories of Lily Isley and the senior play preparations. Later, of course.
Concordia followed them into the parlor.
“Ah, Lady Dunwick, may I present Mrs. Wells?” Lily Isley said. “She unfortunately could not join us for dinner, but has graciously taken the time from her charity benefit to pay us a visit over coffee.”
“Charmed, Mrs. Wells.” Lady Dunwick extended an age-mottled, bony hand that clinked with multiple bracelets. Though by all appearance a petite, thin-boned old lady, she examined everything beneath hooded eyelids, missing little.
“And this is her daughter, Miss Concordia Wells,” Mrs. Isley added.
Lady Dunwick peered at Concordia with close interest. “Oh, I have heard of you, my dear.”
Concordia was startled. “Me?”
“Oh my, yes,” continued Lady Dunwick. “My niece is Charlotte Crandall, who graduated from your college. Nearly two years ago, I believe.”
“Charlotte! Why, of course I remember her,” Concordia said, smiling. “She was Head Senior and did amazingly well. Quite a composed and studious young lady.” Except for that one incident in the garden with a young man, but the less said about that the better. “How is she?”
“Actually, rather at loose ends at the moment,” Lady Dunwick answered. “Her school has been shut down and its staff dismissed after a scandal last month. It seems the headmaster eloped with one of the students. The society matrons are all in a dither over that. Not Charlotte’s fault, of course, nor any of the other instructors. She has a glowing reference but nowhere to go, since it’s mid-term at all the schools.”
Mrs. Wells sat down and smoothed her skirt. “What a shame.”
Concordia joined her mother on the settee. “Let me talk with our lady principal,” she said to Lady Dunwick. “We’re short-handed at the moment. Perhaps we can use her.”
Lady Dunwick clapped her hands together, making the bracelets clink once more. “Wonderful! Charlotte has just come to town for a visit. I know she would be delighted to see you and hear all the news.”
“Don’t say anything to her yet,” Concordia urged. “I wouldn’t want to raise her hopes until I’m sure. But I would love to see her again.”
“Oh, my dear, come visit us, any time you wish.” Lady Dunwick took out one of her cards, and scribbled on the back. “We even have one of those new-fangled telephone contraptions, so I’m writing the number on here. However,” she added darkly, “I don’t think much of them—one can barely hear the party at the other end. Sounds like there’s cannon-fire going off in the background.” She shuddered. “So much for modern improvements.”
Concordia smiled. She remembered calling Capshaw at the police station once, and it was just like that.
The parlor door opened, and the gentlemen came in. Several rejoined their companions while others headed for the card tables, including Sanders and Sir Anthony.
Maynard, Isley, Flynn and David Bradley were clustered together in earnest debate. Maynard glanced across the room, noticing Concordia for the first time that evening. As she had predicted, the dean scowled in her direction. She resisted the urge to scowl right back.
Lily walked over and tucked her arm in her husband’s. “Barton, darling, come join us.” She beckoned to the other men in the group. “We’ll have a cozy chat over coffee.”
Robert Flynn and a smiling David Bradley complied readily. Maynard gave Concordia another black look and reluctantly pulled over a chair.
Concordia looked away. Why did the dean hate her so?
“Barton, this is Letitia Wells, the lady I met at the Atheneum last month. She’s a friend of Mr. Flynn.”
My pleasure, Mrs. Wells,” Isley said, bending over her gloved hand.
A servant came over with the tray of coffee and sweets. “Delightful, thank you,” Lily said. “Shall I pour?”
“Please,” Concordia said. While she was more of a tea-drinker, the coffee smelled heavenly, and perhaps might serve to sharpen her wits, which felt dulled by the late hour. It was well past her ten o’clock bedtime.
“How is the play coming along?” Barton asked, looking at his wife and Concordia.
Lily smiled and set down her delicate cup to free her hands. Concordia noticed she was fond of gesturing as she spoke. “Wonderfully, dear. Don’t you think so, Concordia? For someone with little experience on the stage, this young lady professor has quite a knack for drawing out the best in the girls. And we have discovered a gem of a senior for our Iago. We only have to get her a teensy bit out of her shell, and she will be perfect.”
Both Maynard and Flynn reached for their cups in a half-hearted attempt to conceal their disinterest in a mere student play.
“You are doing Othello?” Isley asked, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that a bit...dark? I would think a lighter comedy of the bard’s would suit better.”
Concordia smiled. “The seniors get to choose. Over the past two years, they seem drawn to the ‘darker’ plays. Last year was Hamlet; the year before that was Macbeth. This one is no worse than those, really.”
“Egad,” Flynn chimed in, “‘tis rather indelicate to play-act at a woman being...strangled...onstage.” His face flushed in his agitation.
Irishmen went red quite easily, Concordia noticed. Mr. Flynn seemed rather stuffy, even for Mother.
Concordia and Lily exchanged a glance, and Lily spoke with some spirit. “Smothered, actually,” Lily said blithely. “I will be playing Desdemona, Mr. Flynn. I have dramatized more dire roles than this, I can assure you.”
Now Barton Isley turned red. “You are in the play? You didn’t tell me that. I was under the impression you were solely helping to direct.”
“It was...recent,” Lily lied glibly.
“And we’re so fortunate to have such talent at our disposal,” Concordia interjected quickly. Her mother’s mouth was twitching, either in amusement or disapproval; she couldn’t tell which.
But it was Lady Dunwick who smoothed the waters. “Wonderful! I look forward to your performance. I’m sure the addition of such a celebrity will sell a great many tickets, too, Barton.” She winked.
At last, Lady Dunwick had found an appeal close to Bursar Isley’s heart. “Yes, of course,” he said gruffly.
Concordia hid a smile behind her coffee cup.
In a pointed change of subject, Lady Dunwick turned toward David, seated beside Concordia. “Mr. Bradley, I’ve heard wonderful things about you as well. You teach Chemistry at both Hartford Women’s College and Trinity, do you not?”
“Yes, ma�
��am,” David said.
“And I hear that the young ladies are showing an avid interest in the subject.” Lady Dunwick waved her fan coquettishly in his direction. “I wonder why that would be?”
David flushed pink. “I cannot say, Lady Dunwick.”
She laughed, “My dear boy, don’t play coy with me. I would have given my eye-teeth to have a tutor as handsome as you!”
David cleared his throat. “We have several students who have shown quite an interest—and ability—in the mechanical sciences, actually,” he said. “A number of them have petitioned our president to seek board approval for a mechanical engineering program at the college.”
“Mechanical engineering?” Mrs. Wells interjected. “That doesn’t seem a suitable employment for a young lady. Can you imagine these girls wearing overalls and tramping down mine-shafts?”
“Mother,” Concordia said. She didn’t want to open this Pandora’s box.
David turned to Mrs. Wells. “It would only be a certification program, not a major course of study. I wouldn’t be teaching it, naturally. Professor Merriwether has agreed to be the program’s faculty sponsor, and I know of professors at neighboring colleges who would be willing to work with the young ladies on an independent study basis. They would need access to equipment—but the local thread mill would do, to start.”
“I’ve already told Langdon that I’m against it,” Barton Isley interjected, puffing out his chest in self-importance. “Besides the cost and the unfeasibility of the enterprise, these young ladies, while hard-working and eager, need to understand boundaries— what’s suitable and what’s not.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Wells, nodding.
“With all due respect, Bursar Isley, it’s not your decision to make,” David said firmly.
“Perhaps not, but I have convinced the president to heed my advice, and to not even bring this nonsense before the board,” Barton Isley said with a smug look.
Concordia resisted the impulse to ask Isley if the president’s buggy had been removed from his office yet. It had been nearly a week. The last she had heard, they had not found anyone skilled enough to safely disassemble the vehicle and remove it. No one had come forward to confess, either.