Dangerous and Unseemly

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Week 4, Instructor Calendar, February 1896

If you can look into the seeds of time

And say which grain will grow and which will not,

Speak then to me.

Macbeth, I.iii

In her sitting room, Concordia settled into a well-worn padded armchair to get re-acquainted with the Shakespeare play the seniors had selected for this year’s performance.

Macbeth. Also known as “the Scottish play” and “the unlucky play.” Unlucky for her, certainly. Concordia grimaced. She doubted that the elite of Hartford society were ready for a tale of gore, violence and witchcraft, not to mention a haranguing female as one of the leads.

There was a knock on her door.

“Come in!” she called.

Ruby Hitchcock leaned in. “A lady to see you, Miss Wells.” This was followed by a crash overhead. “I’ll see to that. They’re likely cooking fudge again,” she said, and hastily left, muttering, “I’m gettin’ too old for this nonsense.”

Concordia frowned as she headed for the front parlor. Indeed, the odor of burnt chocolate was strong out here. Thank heaven for Ruby. Concordia knew she would take a firm hand against illegal cooking in the rooms. Although the lady grumbled a good deal, Concordia had learned very little flustered her. Perhaps it came from being thrown back upon her own resources as a young widow after the Civil War, making her living however she could – as maid, cook, and seamstress, among other occupations – before becoming a fixture at Willow Cottage, when the seminary-turned-college abandoned its single-building dormitory system for the more domestic “cottage” arrangement. The years of hard work had roughened Ruby’s hands, certainly, but beneath matron’s crotchety exterior, she had a genuine fondness for the girls in her care.

Concordia straightened her collar and smoothed her hair before opening the door to the parlor.

“Sophia! What are you doing here?” she cried in delight, embracing the young woman in front of the fireplace.

Sophia Adams had been a childhood friend of both Concordia and her sister Mary. Mary, before her marriage, had occasionally helped with Sophia’s charity work. Sophia was also active these days in the suffrage movement that was gaining ground in the area.

Upon second glance, Concordia noticed that the pale skin under Sophia’s eyes was smudged with shadows, and her clothing, a simple walking suit of gray worsted, hung more loosely upon her slender form.

“You must be working too hard, Sophie. Have you been well?”

Sophia shook her head. “I’ve come to take you back to Mary. She’s quite ill.”

Concordia felt her stomach lurch. “But I thought she was better now.” She leaned against the writing desk. “How bad is it this time?”

Mary had been in ill health for several months, since her return from her three-month bridal tour in southern Europe. The bouts of abdominal pain and weakness usually abated after a course of medicine and rest. When Concordia had last seen Mary, just after the New Year, she seemed better.

“Doctor Westfield is calling it another ‘episode,’” Sophia answered, grimacing. “But I’m concerned that it’s something more. Mary cannot keep anything down now, and her fever is worse. I think even the judge is worried.”

That was certainly saying a great deal, Concordia thought, since Mary’s father-in-law viewed succumbing to physical illness as a lack of mental fortitude. A little indisposition would do him some good, in her opinion. Perhaps it would have a humbling effect.

Concordia dreaded her encounters with Judge Armstrong. The two of them disagreed fervently about women’s education, vocation, and right to vote, and had taken up battle during past visits. There would be no avoiding him now.

But that wasn’t the only person she sought to avoid.

“Has Mother been told?” Concordia asked.

Sophia shook her head. “She’s visiting Aunt Florence out in the country. They got a lot of snow yesterday, and I haven’t been able to get word to her.”

“But don’t worry,” Sophia added, misreading Concordia’s sigh as one of distress, rather than relief, “I’ll keep trying.”

After packing a valise and giving Ruby a note for Miss Hamilton, Concordia and Sophia set out for Mary’s home.

Hartford’s street rail had a stop within walking distance of the college. The trolley ride would take them along Main Street through the business district, and across Asylum Avenue, to stop a block from where Mary lived.

“Henry has the carriage. He’s still downtown,” Sophia explained. “I volunteered to bring you back on the trolley rather than wait.”

In Concordia’s view, the Hartford Street Railway was more efficient than navigating crowded evening streets in a private vehicle, especially now that the city had switched over all of its lines from horse-drawn cars to the new electric-propulsion. Within minutes of waiting, they caught a glimpse of the streetcar as it approached, the signature Tuscan red with cream-tinted trim gleaming in the dying light of winter dusk. She and Sophia gave the conductor their nickel fares, collected their transfer tickets to the Asylum Line, and settled themselves on the benches as the trolley lurched into motion.

From Main Street, Concordia saw the Connecticut River waterfront in the distance, dotted with smoke stacks from the Colt factory. The mingling smells of coal smoke and stagnant water had receded by the time they approached the City Hall Post Office stop. From there, they switched cars for the briefer trip along the Asylum Avenue line.

Concordia caught glimpses of the closely packed tenement buildings of the East Side, three- and four-story shoddy structures propped haphazardly alongside one another, with clotheslines stretched across narrow alleys and rear yards. Sophia worked with families in this section.

“How is your work going?” Concordia asked Sophia, to keep her own thoughts diverted.

Sophia made a face. “Frankly, not well. Oh, there have been small successes – the Harrity family was able to move out of those awful tenements and into a decent home. Our settlement house was able to find work for Mrs. Harrity – she’s recently widowed. But there are so many others. Women especially, and their little ones – with no schooling, not even reading and writing. The children can’t go to school because they have to earn money for the family. They get work in the thread and loom mills, but it’s back-breaking work for a child, and they are paid a pittance. Everyone in the family works, but it’s barely enough to keep body and soul together.”

Concordia could see Sophia’s distress, and was about to change the subject when Sophia continued in a fierce whisper, leaning closer:

“Do you know what some of these women have to resort to, just to put bread in their children’s mouths? Do you realize what peril they expose themselves to, from disease or brutality? And men use them—for sport, for pleasure, for some proof of manliness.” Sophia gave a hollow laugh. “We shun the women who act in desperation, but not the men who take advantage of them for amusement. And yet we consider ourselves genteel and civilized?”

Concordia shifted uneasily. She had no answer. She had always assumed that streetwalkers—there was no doubt whom Sophia was alluding to—were morally weak creatures, and perhaps too lazy to perform respectable work. She had never really considered the question before.

“These evils come home to roost. That is the way of things,” Sophia said softly, standing up as their stop approached.

Judge Armstrong’s house, like most others in Asylum Hill, was an impressive structure: asymmetrically proportioned, painted slate blue with creamy gingerbread trim, with peaked roofs and gables of the Gothic-revival cottage style once popular in the ‘40s. Before they reached the door, it was opened by a nervous parlor maid, ushering them in and taking their coats.

“Have Mr. Armstrong or the doctor arrived yet?” Concordia asked.

“No, miss. But Mrs. Armstrong is keen to see you.”

Sophia put a reassuring hand on Concordia’s arm. “I’ll wait in the parlor. I think Mary wants to see you alone.”

Concordia nodded. She was in for a long night.