Unseemly Ambition (11 page)

Concordia rolled her eyes. Quite a
leap in logic from a single teacher with a personal emergency to a
student revolt.

Miss Pomeroy flushed a mottled red,
but otherwise remained composed. “Mr. Maynard, the students of Miss
Wells’ cottage were well cared-for and properly chaperoned by the
cottage matron in the meanwhile. I’m confident Miss Wells ensured
that before she left.”

Concordia stayed silent, realizing
that she had not in fact done so. Thank heaven for the ever-patient
and understanding Ruby.

“
Be that as it may,”
Maynard said, “Miss Wells’ reputation precedes her. When I first
got here, I learned enough about this young woman to know I’d have
to keep my eye on her. The
lady
sleuth.
Climbing out of windows. Finding
dead bodies. Trapping an embezzler. Confronting a murderer, alone,
in the dark. Getting herself nearly strangled while confronting
yet
another
murderer.” He waggled a finger in Concordia’s direction. “You,
young lady, invite trouble.”

Concordia listened to the diatribe in
stunned silence. She had assumed the gossip about her had died out
long ago. Of course, he’d overheard the newspaperman’s comment at
the reception, so it was naïve of her to assume he would let it go.
The way Maynard characterized it, her conduct seemed most unsavory.
Certainly not decorous behavior from one’s teaching
staff.

But Maynard couldn’t know the urgency
that guided her actions at the time, the necessity of protecting
her students, her family, and herself. She knew she would do it all
over again.

“
And now,” Maynard
continued, when no one said anything, “you are no doubt involved in
another unseemly undertaking, and playing detective
again.”

Although this was uncomfortably close
to the truth, Concordia folded her hands and looked Maynard square
in the eye. “Indeed?” was all she trusted herself to
say.

Inwardly, she felt less than composed.
Having the dean closely monitor her activities would pose a
problem, should she and Capshaw persuade Miss Hamilton to come and
resume the search for Eli. Concordia planned to ask Miss Pomeroy’s
permission for Miss Hamilton to stay at DeLacey House, where the
women administrators and senior teachers lived. Perhaps that would
be too close for comfort. It would not do for Maynard to discover
that Miss Hamilton was a Pinkerton detective.

Maynard pounded his fist on the desk,
making both women jump in their chairs. “You aren’t paying me any
attention, Miss Wells.”

Miss Pomeroy stood, her expression
grim. Concordia stared, open-mouthed, as the lady principal stalked
over to Maynard and leaned close. Maynard shrank back, despite the
fact that he was a foot taller and at least eighty pounds heavier
than the diminutive old lady.

“
I will deal with my staff
as I see fit, Mr. Maynard,” the lady principal said sharply, “and I
shall not allow you to harass anyone in my charge. Are we clear?”
Her clear blue eyes held him in a glare.

Maynard flushed an angry red and
backed toward the door. “I—I only m—meant….” His voice trailed
off.

“
Are we clear?” Miss
Pomeroy repeated.

Maynard cleared his throat. “Yes, Miss
Pomeroy. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and made as dignified an
exit as he could muster.

Concordia saw a fleeting smile cross
Miss Pomeroy’s lips before she turned aside and sat back
down.

Both were quiet for a few moments.
Miss Pomeroy tucked a stray frizzy brown lock of hair back into her
bun and adjusted her spectacles.

“
Miss Wells,” she said at
last, “I have given you a certain amount of latitude in the past. I
would ask that you not take advantage of it, but take particular
care to fulfill
all
of your duties, including those of a domestic nature, most
meticulously in the future.”

“
Yes, ma’am,” Concordia
said meekly.

“
And further,” Miss Pomeroy
said, “I want you to obtain my permission first before you leave
campus in the future. Agreed?”

Concordia nodded.

“
If you could hand me those
papers,” Gertrude Pomeroy said with a sigh, “I believe I’ll do a
little translating to clear my mind.”

Concordia handed her the stack and
left her to it.

’
tis in ourselves that we
are thus
or thus.

Othello
, I.iii

Week 6, Instructor Calendar

March 1898

The day dawned crisp and clear, with
not as much chill as last week. The trees had begun to plump with
buds and the grass was changing over from its winter brown to a
tender green. A perfect day for a bicycle ride. Perhaps it would be
a welcome respite from the endless worry about Eli. Certainly the
fresh air would do her good.

Concordia was the faculty sponsor for
the college’s bicycling club, but it had been months since she and
her fellow club members had enjoyed weather temperate enough for an
excursion. She sent notes around to the girls, telling them to meet
her at the quadrangle at one o’clock. That should afford them ample
time for their excursion as well as dressing for dinner. She didn’t
want to incur Maynard’s wrath again, or to get Miss Pomeroy in
further trouble.

In the meantime, she sat
down to re-read
Othello.
Despite her preoccupation, she was soon caught up
in the story: a betrayed father, a cunning villain, a jealous new
husband, an innocent young wife, unaware of the slaughter to which
she was being led. The spectator could see it all, the net slowly
closing around the principals of the piece, helpless to do anything
except watch....

Concordia tossed it aside before she
finished. The smothering of Desdemona called to mind the
all-too-recent image of Florence Willoughby, flung across the bed
like a discarded rag doll, the mark from a garrote wire around her
neck.

Oh
,
where
was Eli? Had he seen something? Had
the murderer kidnapped him, or worse, killed him and hidden his
body? But that made no sense; why hide a second killing? Concordia
clung to that bit of logic, hoping Eli was still alive. She also
hoped that Miss Hamilton would reply to her letter soon, and take
on the investigation. It had been nearly a week since Concordia had
sent it, with no word yet.

The mantel clock struck the
three-quarter-hour.

Mercy!
She’d better hurry. Concordia pulled out her bicycling outfit
and gave it a good shake. She should have given it time yesterday
to air out. It smelled strongly of mothballs. Planning ahead was
not her strong suit.

She felt the familiar rush of
anticipation as she put it on—the leggings, shortened over-skirt,
blouse and vest. She glanced in the mirror as she tucked her hair
under the matching cap. It did show a bit more leg than people were
accustomed to seeing.

She wrangled her machine from the
shed—never an easy task, as the bicycle was quite heavy—and set out
for the quadrangle.

Four girls waited impatiently as
Concordia braked in front of the fountain.

“
Isn’t this a beautiful
day, Miss Wells?” Maisie Lovelace said eagerly.

Concordia smiled. “Indeed it
is.”

“
Shall we take the path
over to the old railroad line?” Miss Lovelace asked.

Concordia shook her head. “That might
be too arduous for our first ride in months. After a few more
excursions we could try it. We’ll stay on the sheep tracks down to
there—” she pointed to the stream, below Rook’s Hill “—and circle
back, behind the pond. That should be an hour’s ride, more than
enough for today. Miss Lovelace, will you lead us?”

The girl grinned broadly.

It felt wonderful to be riding again.
Concordia delighted in the sensation of the breeze on her face, the
smell of damp earth and new growth, and the hush that settles upon
a group engaged in a physical task. For a long while, there was
just the huffing of breath and the whirring of gears.

Concordia felt her mind drift as she
pedaled in rhythm with the girls. They were about to crest the
hill. This was the part she loved, where one could feel the tug of
gravity in the spine, pulling one down faster, faster, before
touching the brakes.

As pleasant as the ride was, her
thoughts drifted back to her letter to Miss Hamilton. Why hadn’t
she heard anything? Concordia had a sinking feeling—more than the
rush of her machine down the slope—that Miss Hamilton was not in
Chicago, but away on a case. If so, what would they do?

“
Watch out,” Miss Lovelace
called out, as they got to the bottom. “This part’s quite
boggy.”

As they successfully maneuvered around
the obstacle, Concordia felt the gear slip under her pedal. “Oh,
dear.” She jumped off the bicycle as the others braked to a
stop.

“
What is it?”
Miss Lovelace
asked.

Concordia struggled with the slippery,
muddy chain. “I’m having trouble getting the chain to engage with
the gear teeth.”

Heedless of her skirts in the damp
grass, the girl knelt down for a better look. “Ah. I have just the
thing.” She ran off to grab a pouch from her basket.

“
What’s that?” Concordia
asked, as the other girls crowded around.

“
My tool kit,”
Miss Lovelace
said
nonchalantly. “My uncle owns a clock-maker’s shop. He had some
spare tools he was willing to lend me. I thought they would come in
handy on long rides.”

“
How resourceful,”
Concordia murmured, watching the young lady wield the pliers with
ease. “What is it you’re doing?”

“
A link…is…bent. It must
have happened as the chain slipped off.” The young lady grunted
with the exertion, not looking up from her work. “It’s close to
coming apart. Beth, would you mind?” She gestured to the pouch.
“The spool of wire, if you please.”

Another girl rummaged around and
passed the wire over.

“
I’ve bent it back in
place, Miss Wells, and the wire should hold it together for the
return trip,” Miss Lovelace explained, standing up and pulling out
a rag from her kit to clean her hands. “I’m afraid you’ll need a
machine shop repair, though.”

Concordia was impressed. “Thank you,
dear. Did you learn this from your uncle?”

The girl nodded, gesturing
to two other girls. “His shop is where we made the sled, too. We
love making and fixing mechanical things. In fact, there are
several of us here at the school who want to study engineering. But
it isn’t offered here, or at
any
women’s colleges. We want President Langdon to
start one.”

“
Really?” Concordia said in
surprise. “You understand that such a move requires approval by the
board of trustees, and a faculty sponsor?” Not a light-hearted
undertaking. Of course, these young ladies had certainly
demonstrated a knack for such pursuits. The sled must have been
difficult to make.

“
Professor Merriwether
agreed to be our sponsor,” Miss Lovelace said. “He’s already
spoken to the president, twice. But Mr. Langdon
says such a course of study isn’t suitable for young ladies.” The
other girls gave glum nods.

“
Mr. Isley is dead set
against it, too,” someone else chimed in. “In fact, we think he’s
the one who convinced the president to reject our petition.
Professor Merriwether had been sure he could get President Langdon
to agree.”

Concordia suspected the bursar’s
motive was more about finances than propriety. No doubt instituting
such a program would be costly. “I suppose the dean was against the
plan as well?”

The girls shrugged. Apparently,
Maynard had not made known his opinions on the subject. Concordia
found that surprising, as he didn’t hold back his views in other
matters. She winced, remembering the meeting in Miss Pomeroy’s
office.

“
I’m sorry. I suppose
there’s nothing more to do about it this year,” Concordia
said.

Miss Lovelace thrust out a stubborn
chin. “We’ll think of something.”

The group headed back
around the pond, keeping to a slower pace
so as to not risk breaking Concordia’s chain.

They had just rounded the bend and
were approaching the benches when Concordia braked to a sudden
stop, her knees weak with relief.

There, just under the willow that
overhung the pond, Penelope Hamilton stood, watching their
approach. Everything about the lady spoke of elegance, directness
of purpose, and action: the sleek blond hair, coiled in a braided
coronet under a jaunty carmine hat that matched her suit; the
upright posture; the strong jaw-line; the no-nonsense piercing gray
eyes that missed little.

During much of Miss Hamilton’s time as
lady principal at Hartford Women’s College, Concordia had found her
remote and intimidating. Now, having come to know her better, she
found her decisiveness reassuring.