Unseemly Ambition

Chapter 2-4

After dinner, two dozen excited girls gathered in the parlor of Willow Cottage. Ruby took a quick count. “We’re missin’ a few sophomores.”

“Miss Lovelace and her friends promised to be back in time for the valentines,” one of the students said. She paused. “I think I hear them now.”

Sure enough, the door swung wide as two girls stepped in, bringing a swirl of snow with them.

“Brr, get that door closed,” Concordia said. “Where’s Miss Lovelace?”

“She’s stowing the sled,” one girl answered, shaking snow from her scarf.

“You’re getting water on the floor,” Concordia said sternly. “Go hang those things by the kitchen stove to dry, and mop up this mess. You know better.”

They gave her a sheepish look and hurried to the kitchen.

Concordia threw on a shawl and stepped out to the porch to see what was keeping Miss Lovelace.

What on earth?

A snow-encrusted Maisie Lovelace was grappling with an enormous sled, obviously homemade and painted a bright-hued red.

Concordia grasped the rope. “Let me help you with this…leviathan.”

“Thank you, Miss Wells.” Miss Lovelace pushed 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 that, I want to have a little chat with you,” Concordia said.

Miss Lovelace grimaced. “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 cannot shirk your responsibilities when something more fun comes along. I’ll be assigning you additional chores.” Concordia looked down at the sled. “Where on earth did this come from?”

“My friends 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.

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 of valentines 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 had reached the bottom of the stack. 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?”

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?” It was Miss Lovelace.

“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 left it on the hill. I’ll run very fast.”

“Going out in the dark?” Concordia said skeptically. “That would be foolhardy in the extreme. It will still be there in the morning.”

The girl bit her lip.

“Miss Wells,” another girl 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, as 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 picked up 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? A thick muffler obscured his face. 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!” she 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.