Unseemly Ambition (3 page)

“
Thank you, Miss Wells,”
Miss Lovelace said, pushing the sled from the back. “It
is
rather big, isn’t
it?”

“
Why didn’t your companions
stay to help?”

“
We were running late, so I
sent them on ahead so the other girls wouldn’t be anxious, waiting
for their valentines.”

“
After we’re finished with
the valentines, I want to have a little chat with you,” Concordia
said.

Miss Lovelace paused, grimacing. “I
know. I’m sorry I left the reception early. I cannot abide that
girl, and to have to live with her, too….” She shrugged. “I saw it
was snowing, and I wanted the chance to try out the
sled.”

“
Well, you’re going to have
to make up for your lapse. You know better than that. I’ll be
assigning you additional chores.” Concordia looked down at the
sled. “Where on earth did this come from?”

“
The other girls and I made
it ourselves, during the winter recess,” Miss Lovelace explained.
“We modified the lever-driven steering mechanism, widened the
runners, and added a strong suspension for bumpy slopes. It worked
beautifully on Rook’s Hill.”

“
Impressive. I only wish
you hadn’t made it so…” Concordia grunted as she tugged at it again
“…large.”

Miss Lovelace chuckled. “We wanted it
big enough to carry all three of us. I hadn’t thought of the
problem of storage before now, though. It’s been in my uncle’s
shop. He brought it over this afternoon.”

As they propped it against the porch
railing, Alison Smedley poked her head outside. She scowled at Miss
Lovelace. “We have better things to do than watch you cavort in the
snow. You are holding us up.”

Concordia suppressed a
sigh.
Here we go again.

Miss Lovelace glared back at Miss
Smedley. “Go on without me. I don’t care.”

Miss Smedley tossed her
blonde head and sniffed. “No, I suppose not. I doubt you’ll have
any cards to open, anyhow.” She cast a disdainful eye at the sled.
“You’d better not be bringing that hideous contraption into
my
room.”

“
It’s
our
room,” Miss Lovelace muttered. She
brushed the snow from her coat, looking at her roommate with a
mischievous gleam in her eye. “Actually, once the sled is dry, I
plan to bring it up to our room for safekeeping. Maybe you can give
me a hand?”

Miss Smedley sucked in a breath. “Miss
We-ells!” she wailed, looking plaintively at the lady
professor.

Concordia raised an eyebrow in Miss
Lovelace’s direction. The girl laughed. “Don’t have a conniption
fit, Alison. I was only joking.”

Concordia collected the basket from
the hall table, noticing that last-minute contributions had made
their way in. It certainly was heavy.

The young ladies perched on the edge
of their seats, leaning forward, looking over one another’s
shoulders as Concordia distributed them.

In the interest of fairness, Ruby and
Concordia had written valentines of their own to each girl so no
one would feel left out. During her Christmas holiday shopping,
Concordia had snapped up a spool of lacy peach ribbon from the
sales tables. From it, she had cut lengths of the ribbon and tied
one to each card, knowing the girls could use it later for a brooch
or hair adornment.

“
Ooh, so pretty, Miss
Wells!” one girl exclaimed, holding it up. “Thank you!”

Looking at the stacks of cards beside
each young lady, it was easy to see who among them was the most
popular: Miss Smedley, of course, along with the ever-vivacious
junior Miss Yarrow, who was also the lead culprit in much of the
illegal cooking that went on.

Concordia was getting to the bottom of
the stack now. She had a fair number of missives with her own name
on them, one of which bore David Bradley’s handwriting. She blushed
when a student noticed her tucking that one in her
pocket.

“
Ah-ha, Miss Wells has one
she doesn’t want us to see!” the girl teased. “I wonder who it’s
from?” Of course, they all knew Mr. Bradley, a frequent visitor to
Willow Cottage.

“
Never you mind, young
lady,” Ruby admonished. But she gave Concordia a wink that made her
blush even more.

Later, in her own rooms,
she pulled out David’s valentine. Inside was a sketch of a lady
perched on a bicycle. Rough as it was, Concordia recognized herself
as the woman in the picture
.

Remembering the first time
we met,
he wrote, adding:
Never thought I would be so happy to be run down.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

Concordia smiled at the memory. She
had, indeed, nearly collided with him, when her thoughts—and the
machine—had strayed on a beautiful spring day almost two years
before.

Through her partly open door, she
heard two students talking in the parlor.

“
It’s nice that he gave
Miss Wells a valentine. Do you suppose she’ll marry him?” one of
the girls said.

Concordia dropped the card into her
lap and shamelessly listened.

“
Probably,” another said.
“Mr. Bradley is quite handsome and really nice, especially for a
Chemistry professor. Not like that gruff old Professor
Grundy.”

“
What will happen if she
leaves?”

“
They’ll simply assign
another teacher. But I know what you mean. I’ll miss her, too.
She’s a good egg.”

“
Couldn’t she still stay
after she gets married? To be our teacher, I mean. I know she
couldn’t
live
here
anymore, but—”

“
Don’t be a ninny. Married
women don’t teach. The school would never allow it.”

“
But there are male
teachers at the school who are married. They just go home each day
after classes, rather than live here.”

“
But they aren’t the ones
in charge of the household and the children, silly—”

The voice broke off at the rapid
approach of another student.

“
Has anyone seen my scarf?”
a girl asked urgently. It was Miss Lovelace.

“
No. I think you took it
off on the hill. You got too hot, remember?”

Concordia checked the clock. Almost
ten. Time to break up this little chat. She opened her door and
crossed the hall to the parlor. “Shouldn’t you ladies be getting
ready for bed?”

One of the few steadfast policies of
the college was the “ten o’clock rule”: students in bed, lights
out, by ten o’clock.

Miss Lovelace turned to
Concordia, eyes pleading. “I know it’s late, but can I go back and
get my scarf,
please
? I’ll run very fast.”

“
In the dark?” Concordia
said skeptically. “That would be foolhardy in the extreme. It’s not
going anywhere, dear. It can wait until morning.”

The girl bit her lip.

“
Miss Wells,” one of her
friends said, “it’s the scarf her grandmother made her last
Christmas. It’s very special.” The young lady’s voice grew subdued.
“Her grandmother died only a few weeks ago.”

Concordia threw up her
hands in surrender. “All right, but
I’ll
go. Tell Ruby I’ll be back
shortly. And
get to bed
.”

Miss Lovelace nodded her thanks. “You
can’t miss it—it’s bright red wool.”

Well, apparently it
could
be missed, since the
heedless girl had failed to bring it back with her, but Concordia
was too tired to argue the point. She bundled into her jacket and
brought a lantern, setting out for the path to Rook’s
Hill.

The air was bitterly cold.
Thankfully, it had stopped snowing and a nearly full moon had
risen, making it easier for her to search as she trudged up the
hill.
Ah
, there it
was, huddled beside a shrub. She picked up the scarf, stopping a
moment to catch her breath.

A moving shadow caught her eye.
Looking up, she saw the silhouette of a man walking along the crest
of the hill.

The figure was of medium height and a
slender build. A youth, perhaps? Concordia couldn’t see his face,
as he was wrapped up in a thick muffler. He walked at a brisk pace,
pulling his collar more tightly against the chill air. Suddenly he
stopped and bent down to look in the snow at his feet.

Concordia’s mouth set in a grim line.
Strange men shouldn’t be strolling the grounds of a women’s
college. How had he gotten past the gatekeeper?

“
Hello? Who are you?” she
called out, with as much breath as she could muster. She puffed up
the hill toward him, avoiding the slick coasting tracks.

The figure turned toward the sound,
hesitated, then ran.

“
Wait!” Concordia called
out, trying to run after him. However, racing up a snowy hill in
full skirts does not allow one much speed—or solid footing. Soon
she went sprawling, landing on her stomach with a decided
oomph
.

Drat.
She hastily got to her feet and clambered to the top of the
hill. She looked around, but even with the moonlight on the snowy
landscape, the man was nowhere to be seen.

What had he been looking for? She
crouched down in the snow, probing with mittened hands. Then she
felt something. The moonlight picked up the sheen of a brass pin,
though she could see little else in this light. She stuck it in her
jacket pocket to look at later, and trudged back to Willow
Cottage.

I am bound to thee for
ever.

Othello
,
III.iii

Week 3, Instructor Calendar

February 1898

Concordia’s first
impression, when she peeked through a side door into the
nave,
was that of a profusion of blooms.
Sophia’s family must have raided every hothouse in Hartford.
Lilies, oleander, and chrysanthemums spilled over from vases tucked
into alcoves, beside doors and windowsills. While beautiful, the
sheer volume of floral sweetness was overwhelming. Concordia held a
gloved finger under her nose to hold back a sneeze.

She had left a restless Sophia in the
anteroom. Although Concordia had never before been a maid of
honor—and hoped never to be one again—she knew Sophia well enough
to see that her friend craved solitude before the ceremony. After
all, marriage was a big step for any woman, but especially one such
as Sophia, who had carved out an unconventional life as a tireless
advocate for women and the poor at Hartford Settlement
House.

So, once Sophia was dressed and ready,
Concordia ushered Sophia’s stepmother and little sister out of the
room and left her alone.

Concordia checked her watch. Just a
few more minutes. From her vantage point, she saw several women
from Hartford Settlement House being escorted to their seats by
David Bradley. The church was getting crowded now. Someone had
pulled open several windows to dispel the stuffy air.

David looked quite dashing
today. Instead of his customary lumpy-pocketed houndstooth jacket
with the worn elbows, he wore a tailored morning coat and pinstripe
trousers, with a crisp white shirt that set off his dark eyes and
wavy black hair. His hair curled just at his collar in a way that
made her want to smooth it with her fingers. She smiled.
Land sakes,
weddings were
rife with romantic impulses.

As she surveyed the congregation, she
saw that Mother and her escort were seated near the front.
Concordia craned her neck for a better look at the man. She didn’t
know much about Robert Flynn, except that he was a native of
Ireland, worked as an attorney for the prestigious law firm of
Barrows and Hodge, and was younger than her mother. His
exquisitely-tailored jacket fit him beautifully. His neatly-trimmed
mustache and beard, heavy eyebrows, salt-and-pepper hair and steady
gray eyes bespoke intelligence and reliability.

Mother had only recently told her
about Mr. Flynn, describing him merely as a friend who accompanied
her to various social functions. Concordia hoped she could learn
more about his intentions. Her mother was an attractive widow,
though only of modest means. Still, one could not be too
careful.

Concordia became aware of movement in
the chancel. Opening the side door a bit wider, she recognized the
tall, gaunt figure of the groom: police lieutenant Aaron Capshaw,
his bright red hair and mustache unmistakable. Gone today was his
perpetual gloomy expression, and his habit of walking with a slight
stoop, as if looking for clues he had missed. Instead, his carriage
was ramrod straight, with a spring in his step. He took his place
next to the minister and his best man, eleven-year-old
Eli.

The boy looked exceptionally
presentable today, although one stubborn cowlick refused to stay
slicked down in his wavy hair, and his wrists and ankles showed
beneath the ill-fitting borrowed suit. He looked across the nave,
smiling when he noticed Concordia. She gave him a little wave
before he turned back to Capshaw with luminous eyes, waiting to
respond to any direction he’d give.