Dangerous and Unseemly

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Week 4, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

A few days after the memorial service, Concordia had her long-delayed meeting with the lady principal.

Miss Hamilton made one brief mention of the pond rescue that preceded the discovery of Miss Lyman.

“We will not be taking any more chances,” she said, with a meaningful look at Concordia, “will we?”

Miss Hamilton sat tirelessly straight, her crisp white shirtwaist showing not a sign of crease or wrinkle. Concordia surreptitiously smoothed her skirt and tugged at her cuffs. “Miss Patterson would not have lasted much longer. I had to act.”

“Perhaps,” Miss Hamilton said, “and I am grateful to you for rescuing her, at considerable risk to yourself. However, it strikes me as reckless and ill-considered on your part. I expect my staff to comport themselves with more decorum. Leave the heroics to others, Miss Wells. We certainly don’t wish to lose more staff.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Concordia answered meekly.

“This is your first year, is it not?” the lady principal asked, in a change of subject.

“It is my first year here,” Concordia said. “I held a teaching post before at my alma mater. Mr. Young recommended I apply for this position.”

Nathaniel Young, a family friend, was on the board of trustees for Hartford Women’s College.

“But Hartford is the city of my childhood, so I am not new to the area,” she added.

In general, Concordia was glad to be back in Hartford. She had missed the familiar haunts, the bustle of the downtown district, and the handful of friends she had left behind. Her younger sister Mary, now married, lived in affluent Asylum Hill, barely two miles from the college. To the surprise of both, their renewed communication had begun to produce a friendship that had eluded them as children.

But Concordia’s homecoming was not entirely congenial, which was to be expected. Her mother, widowed years ago, still lived in their childhood home, also nearby. Concordia had made one obligatory attempt to visit, only to be coldly rebuffed. She had not made a second attempt.

Miss Hamilton broke into her thoughts. “It is difficult for someone new, the adjustment. Especially for an administrator. This too is my first year at the college, as you know, and I have had to learn about the people I work with; determine who is reliable, who is not, and make best use of people’s strengths.”

There seemed to be no good response to this, so Concordia didn’t offer any.

“You are no doubt aware that Miss Banning is too ill to return to teaching,” Miss Hamilton continued.

“I hear her rheumatics are troubling her in this weather,” Concordia said. Miss Banning had taught history at the college since its inception nearly twenty years ago. Her retirement was almost certain now, but the lady seemed to dither about whether she was really retired or not.

“We have been able to borrow professors from Trinity College to teach her classes,” Miss Hamilton continued, “but we have found no one to take charge of the senior play. I was hoping you could—”

“But I am only a junior instructor,” Concordia protested, knowing now where this was leading. “Really, I know very little about directing student plays.”

Leading the senior play would not have been the job of a new professor, as it was considered a prestigious duty. Hartford’s elite attended the performance, and the seniors thought of it as the crowning glory of their college years.

In Concordia’s mind, it was a prestigious pain in the neck.

“Nonsense,” Miss Hamilton said, “I have reviewed your background. You had stage experience as a college student, besides having taught the Shakespeare play they will perform. I will give you Miss Banning’s address in town, should you need to confer with her. She is well enough for visitors, I hear.”

Concordia thought frantically of possible excuses as Miss Hamilton rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a key. “Ah – here, Miss Wells,” she said, passing it over, “I am promoting you to temporary senior faculty status for the rest of the term. This unlocks the auditorium and most of the common buildings.”

Concordia looked down at the key; it was heavy and ornate, with a medallion of the college’s seal attached to it. She experienced conflicting sensations of pride and alarm.

But she wasn’t ready to concede defeat, yet. “There must be someone else, surely? I already supervise the literature club and the bicycling club. How would I have time for the senior play?”

The lady principal’s lips twitched at the reference to the bicycle club. Except for winter weather, the avid cyclists took to the paths regularly. President Richter was less than enthusiastic—dismayed might be a better word—to see the young ladies wobbling about the campus on their machines, clad in bicycling suits of shortened skirts and bloomers.

“An upperclassman can lead the literature club, Miss Wells. I’m sure you know of someone adequate for the position. As for the bicycling,” Miss Hamilton added with a straight face, “no doubt you will still find the time.”

Concordia walked back to Willow Cottage, lost in thought. Miss Hamilton was a difficult woman to refuse.

Directing the senior play would be a substantial drain on her time. In addition to her teaching duties, her responsibilities as live-in chaperone—surrogate mother, really – made the concept of leisure seem laughable. With the term beginning inauspiciously enough with Miss Lyman’s death, Concordia could tell it was going to be a difficult semester.

Events would prove her prediction to be painfully correct.