Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  Mrs. Wells moved to the settee beside her daughter and embraced her. The strain that had been there too long gave way at last. Concordia buried her face in her mother’s arms and cried.

  After a few minutes, Letitia passed her a handkerchief. “Better?”

  Concordia sniffed and nodded.

  “Let me tell you something about men.”

  Concordia looked skeptical.

  Letitia smiled. “This is what mothers are for, dear. You can’t learn it in school. Don’t worry about taking the time you need with David. Waiting is good for a man. It builds character. Heaven knows men could use more character-building, if our politicians are any indication of the general population.”

  Concordia smiled through the last of her tears. “Does that mean you’re in favor of women’s suffrage, Mother?”

  Mrs. Wells grimaced. “Don’t be impertinent,” she said mildly. “If David is half the man I believe him to be, he’ll wait—and count himself lucky to do so. You won’t lose him.”

  Concordia sat up straighter. “You really think so?”

  “I’m sure of it. I’m surprised he didn’t come to me first, since your father has passed away, before proposing. David strikes me as old-fashioned that way. But if he had, I would had told him the same thing.”

  Concordia felt the tightness in her chest ease. She laughed. “I thought I was too old to need a mother. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Wells patted her hand. “A daughter is never too old to need her mother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Spring Recess

  April 1898

  Concordia spent the rest of the college recess at her mother’s house. She helped Mother shop for her upcoming trip, browsing through the latest dinner dresses suitable for a steamer voyage. In addition, they toured the current exhibit at the Atheneum and enjoyed a quartet performing in Keney Park.

  Alas, not all of their activities were congenial. Several women of Mrs. Wells’ social circle, learning Concordia was here for a visit, stopped by for tea.

  Most were well-meaning elderly ladies, indulging idle curiosity about their friend’s spinster daughter who worked for a living. A lady professor was a novelty.

  The cattier among Mother’s acquaintances, however, were less well-intentioned, having come to pry and jibe, preening the feathers of their self-importance in the process.

  Mrs. Griffiths was one of these. The triple-chinned matron was both firmly corseted and firmly fixed in her opinions of this woeful world.

  “So, my dear, you are still teaching at that...girls’ school?” Mrs. Griffiths inquired politely. Her eyes glittered with barely-disguised disapproval as she finished off her scone.

  “It’s a women’s college, and yes, I am,” Concordia answered.

  “How disappointing for you, Letitia,” the woman said, looking to Mrs. Wells, her voice dripping in false sympathy. “No doubt you expected your daughter to have married and produced grandchildren to console you in your old age.” She made a clucking noise, which unsuccessfully masked the alarming creaking sound of her corset’s elastic-and-coraline boning as she leaned forward to pluck the last cucumber sandwich from the tray. The woman hadn’t popped a seam yet, but Concordia was waiting for the day.

  “Not much chance of that, now—she’s not getting any younger,” Mrs. Griffiths continued. “A pity, too. We need a larger population of our own kind, lest we be overrun by the foreigners in our city. They are breeding with abandon!” She fixed both women with a glare.

  Mrs. Griffiths was in fine form today, Concordia observed. The woman’s remarks had the effect of buckshot, hitting the widest possible radius wherever it was pointed. She had belittled Concordia’s profession, relegated her to empty-wombed spinsterhood, placed Mrs. Wells firmly in her dotage, and had disparaged the entire immigrant population of Hartford, all within five minutes. It was enough to make one want to jump into the Connecticut River, pockets bulging with rocks.

  Judging from the pained look on her mother’s face, Concordia knew she was dying to tell Mrs. Griffiths more about the current state of her daughter’s love life.

  “Well, Agatha, actually—” Mrs. Wells began.

  “Mother, would you mind ringing for more of Mrs. Houston’s excellent cucumber sandwiches?” Concordia interrupted, passing her the empty plate and giving her a warning look.

  Mrs. Wells gave her a sheepish smile and rang the bell.

  After Mrs. Griffiths left and they were recovering from the experience, Concordia asked her mother about the lady. “That woman has gotten more churlish with age. Why do you put up with her harpy ways?”

  Mrs. Wells made a face. “I had been letting the acquaintance lapse, but she’s a fixture among Robert’s social set, so there’s really no avoiding her. Ever since my involvement with this charity project, I’ve been obliged to humor the woman.”

  “You mean she has donated money for Irish orphans?” Concordia asked incredulously.

  “I pointed out that they needn’t emigrate here if they weren’t starving over there.” Her mother smiled.

  “Ah, nicely done,” Concordia murmured.

  “Speaking of the Irish Aid Society,” Mrs. Wells added, “we are holding a charity luncheon tomorrow. I was hoping you could join us. You already know several of the attendees: the Dunwicks, the Isleys, Mr. Maynard, and Miss Pomeroy.”

  “I didn’t realize the plight of Irish orphans was such a popular cause,” Concordia said. But it did sound promising; many of the same people who had attended the Isley dinner party would be at the luncheon. Perhaps she could learn something more to tell Miss Hamilton when she returned. Concordia sent up a silent prayer, hoping Miss Hamilton was close to finding Eli. There had been no word from her yet.

  Letitia Wells smiled. “Ever since the announcement that Candidate Sanders will be our guest speaker, we have doubled our ticket sales for the event. So you’ll come?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Concordia said.

  The benefit luncheon had been moved to the Yacht Club to accommodate the larger crowd, and they rode there in Mr. Flynn’s carriage.

  “Begor, you look absolutely lovely, Letitia,” Flynn said with a smile. “I’ll have a time of it, with other fellows trying to get a look-in.” He turned to Concordia. “And how nice ’tis to see your charming daughter. You two could be sisters, you both look so young.”

  Concordia’s stifled snort came out as a cough. They didn’t look anything alike, and neither of them were what one would call “young” any more. What was the word used to refer to an Irishman’s false flattery—blarney? Most definitely.

  As they pulled up to the building, Concordia stared at the structure, appreciating the grandeur of the marble pillars—adorned with banners of the club’s colors—flanking the wide steps and reaching to the vaulted windows of the building’s mezzanine level. “Impressive,” she murmured to her mother, as Mr. Flynn helped each of them out of the vehicle.

  “The interior is equally remarkable,” Mrs. Wells said. “We were fortunate to get this venue at the last minute. Thank heaven the regatta season has not yet started.”

  The dining hall was tastefully decked out for the event. Concordia had expected a nautical theme—seashells, rope nets, semaphore flags and the like—but was pleased to see crisp white linens, swathes of pale green tulle, and generous vases of bright spring blooms adorning each table. Not a seashell or barnacle in sight.

  Mrs. Wells had arranged for Concordia to be seated with Miss Pomeroy and Randolph Maynard, although the rest of her table companions were unfamiliar to her. She attempted a cordial exchange with Dean Maynard, but he merely grunted and turned to the man on his left.

  “Excuse me, miss—you dropped this,” said a familiar voice.

  Startled, Concordia turned to see Ben Rosen at her elbow, holding out a slip of paper. Yes, of course: he must be here to do a story on the event. The newspaperman gave her a quick wink and left it on her saucer. She watched him walk over to Mr. Sanders a
nd Mr. Flynn, pulling out his notebook and pencil stub from the rim of his bowler.

  Miss Pomeroy looked at her curiously. “I didn’t notice you drop anything.”

  Concordia glanced quickly at the scrap before putting it in her purse. “I’m always dropping something,” she said with a sheepish laugh.

  Gertrude Pomeroy nodded sympathetically as she pushed her spectacles back into place. “So am I, dear.”

  But all through the salad and entree courses, as Concordia made small talk with the lady principal, she kept thinking about Rosen’s note.

  Have urgent information. Can’t reach Miss H. Watch for my signal and meet me at the gardener’s shed.

  Perhaps he’d learned something about the Inner Circle? She chafed at the wait.

  The luncheon drew a varied gathering: society ladies, the usual philanthropic well-to-do families…and politicians. Always politicians. Even Mr. Sanders’ opponent, Mr. Quint, attended the function, though he was a bit late. Concordia saw both Flynn and Isley glare at the man when he came in. Quint hesitated, glancing uncertainly their way before being seated. The plight of Irish orphans must be close to the man’s heart for him to risk straying into Sanders’ territory, Concordia thought.

  After the main course came the speeches: from her mother, thanking the volunteers and attendees, from Mr. Sanders, speaking of the privilege of service to others, and from Mr. Flynn, talking about the desperate plight of orphaned children back in his homeland. Listening to Flynn, in his lilting Irish brogue, she felt as if she were really there, breathing in the smoky peat fires, feeling the sharp hunger pangs of the children. She was embarrassed to find that her eyes prickled with tears.

  Concordia sniffed into her handkerchief and observed the Isleys, who sat next to her mother at the head table. Both were absorbed in the speech: Lily, mouth parted in a half-smile, hand stroking her water glass; Barton leaning forward, chin resting thoughtfully on his palm. If Flynn could coax money out of Isley, his charm knew no bounds.

  After a round of enthusiastic applause, it was time for a break before the dessert course, giving guests the opportunity to mingle and perhaps put money in the ribbon-wrapped pails distributed throughout the room. Flynn got up to circulate among the crowd.

  Concordia made her way over to congratulate her mother. “You spoke beautifully.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Dunwick was at her elbow. She extended a gloved hand. “Letitia, such a lovely function. It looks to be a rousing success.”

  Mrs. Wells blushed.

  Lady Dunwick turned to Concordia. “I want to thank you for recommending my niece to your lady principal. Charlotte starts at the college next week.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Concordia said. It would be nice to see Charlotte Crandall again.

  Lady Dunwick patted her on the arm. “If you should ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.”

  “Thank you.” Concordia said, catching sight of Rosen across the room. The man raised his bowler hat in her direction before stepping outside.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said to her mother, “I think I’ll get a little fresh air before the dessert course.”

  Mother, engrossed now in conversation with Sir Anthony, gave barely a nod as Concordia headed for the exit.

  But fresh air was not easily come by, as the press of people made navigating the room exceedingly difficult. She found herself dodging tables, chairs, waiters clearing plates, and elderly patrons who moved at a snail’s pace. As she tried to squeeze past one lady in an enormous floral hat, Concordia’s parasol caught on a table skirt. The tea service came along with it and crashed to the floor.

  Mercy, why was she carrying this blasted thing anyway?

  “I-I am s-so sorry,” Concordia stammered. A waiter hurried to clear the mess with a resigned sigh.

  By the time Concordia reached an exit, it had been several minutes since she’d seen Mr. Rosen. She hoped they would have time to talk before she was missed.

  Now to find the shed. She followed the gravel path to the arbor, looking around. On such a temperate day, many others were out as well, strolling along the paths or seated on benches, admiring the sweep of tulip beds.

  Where was the shed?

  Stepping off the path, Concordia found it a few minutes later, tucked behind a lattice fence. She glanced quickly behind her before going through the gate. It would not do to be seen alone in such a secluded spot, as if she were keeping a lovers’ tryst.

  “Mr. Rosen?” she murmured into the gloom. Silence.

  The shed door was already open, and she pulled it wider. She smothered a yelp as she stumbled over a shovel in the dim light. Then she noticed something dark at her feet. Mr. Rosen’s bowler.

  She picked up the hat and brushed it off. She had a bad feeling about this. “Mr. Rosen?” she called a little louder, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. She raised her parasol handle, ready to swing it if need be.

  Then she saw him, slumped over a wheelbarrow. “Mr. Rosen!”

  The man was unconscious, the back of his head encrusted with dirt and blood. Concordia tentatively leaned closer. He was still breathing, but barely.

  “Stay calm,” Concordia said, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I’m going for help.”

  She turned toward the door just as a very tall shadow crossed through it. She squeaked in fright.

  “What in blazes is going on here?” demanded a voice.

  Concordia’s knees went weak with relief as she recognized it. “Mr. Maynard, thank goodness. It’s Mr. Rosen. It looks as if he’s been attacked.”

  Maynard crossed into the light of the shed’s window. He gave a snort. “Come now, Miss Wells, let us not be overly dramatic.” He went over to Rosen and felt his pulse. “He’s still alive. It was most likely an accident, but just in case—we cannot put our young lady professors in danger from marauders—I’ll stay with him while you go get help. Doctor Ruggers is at table six; bring him back with you. But for heaven’s sake, be discreet about it. There are nearly two hundred guests. We don’t need a panic—or a scandal.” His jaw clenched. “Later, you can tell me what one of our respectable teachers was doing in a secluded shed with a newspaper reporter. Go!”

  Concordia ran.

  By the time Concordia returned with the doctor, Maynard had shifted Rosen to a prone position on the dirt floor, carefully supporting the man’s head with his rolled-up jacket. The doctor set his bag down and crouched as best as he could within the cramped confines of the shed.

  He looked up at Concordia. “When did this happen?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I saw him walking this way not more than half an hour ago.”

  “Should we summon an ambulance?” Maynard asked.

  After a careful examination, the doctor shook his head and put his instruments back in the bag. “His skull is fractured. There was nothing more we could have done.”

  “Was?” Concordia repeated.

  “The man is dead.” The doctor stood and brushed off the dirt from his knees. “Have you called the police? This was no accident.”

  Maynard gave Concordia a startled glance. Concordia nodded, though the sight of the dead newspaperman chilled her. The gardener would never leave a shovel lying upon the ground to be tripped over, and it was too much of a coincidence that Rosen had been anxious to pass along information to her but now could not.

  Rosen, who had winked at her just an hour before. She swallowed.

  It was the Inner Circle. She was sure of it.

  In the gloom of the shed, she gripped the door and took a slow breath to steady her knees.

  The perceptive doctor was quick to support her elbow. “Here, miss,” he said kindly, leading her over to a stone bench beyond the gate. “You rest here. We’ll take care of everything, although I suppose the police will want to ask you a question or two. Try not to worry.”

  Concordia made no protest, but sank onto the bench. The cool stone felt like the only solid th
ing she had to cling to.

  The next hour was a flurry of people coming and going; the gardener and building custodian, to watch over the body until the police arrived; Maynard and the doctor, bringing Flynn back with them; uniformed policemen, talking with the men and giving Concordia an occasional curious glance; stretcher-bearers, to remove the now-shrouded form. Concordia watched it all with a sense of detachment, as if a play-acting scene were going on. How odd, this sensation of feeling nothing.

  Concordia had hoped that Lieutenant Capshaw would come, but a different policeman arrived. He was a short, thin man, with a youth’s complexion and a hesitant manner, dressed in a uniform that seemed two sizes too large for him.

  He approached her.

  “You are Miss Wells?” he asked, his Adams’ apple bobbing along his throat.

  Concordia nodded.

  “Sergeant O’Neil, miss. I need to ask you a few questions.” He paused. “Can I get you some water? You look pale.”

  She shook her head.

  “How did you know Mr. Rosen?”

  “He was a newspaper reporter, and frequently came to our school functions to cover events for the Courant.”

  “Your school, miss?” the man asked in confusion.

  “Hartford Women’s College. I teach there.”

  “I see.” He scribbled a note and then observed her more carefully. “I never met a college lady before.”

  As there didn’t seem any good answer to that, Concordia stayed silent. The man was obviously young. Why hadn’t they sent someone with more experience to investigate a murder?

  “And what brought you to the shed, Miss Wells?”

  Concordia had been dreading the question ever since she saw O’Neil. If it had been Capshaw in charge, she would be eager to share everything she knew. But she remembered her conversation with Miss Hamilton:

  If the Black Scroll membership includes men in law enforcement, could it be behind the removal of Capshaw from Florence’s murder investigation?