Unseemly Ambition

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Week 2, Instructor Calendar, Valentine’s Day 1898

Hartford Women’s College

Why must fancy shoes inevitably pinch during long speeches? Professor Concordia Wells pondered this and other unanswerable questions as President Langdon droned on in front of a crowd in the Sycamore House dining room. At least today Langdon was droning on about her dear friend and cottage-mate Ruby Hitchcock, so the discomfort was worth it.

Concordia, not blessed with tall stature, stood on tiptoe to see President Langdon, Lady Principal Pomeroy, and Ruby on the platform. The guest of honor looked lovely today, beaming and dressed in her best Sunday-church outfit, a soft white pleated shirtwaist with a two-toned tweed skirt of fawn and navy.

“Today we give Ruby Hitchcock this Outstanding Staff Member Award for her more than twenty years of faithful service to Hartford Women’s College,” Langdon said. His smile reached his eyes, soft with paternal sentiment. “But our Ruby is not simply the matron of Willow Cottage, keeping house and acting as chaperone to the students who live there. She, along with Miss Wells, are the heart and soul of that little domicile, acting as surrogate mothers to the girls in their care, fostering kindness, cooperation, and refined womanly behavior.”

Ruby looked across the room at Concordia and rolled her eyes. Concordia grinned, then glanced back at Miss Smedley and Miss Lovelace, the two Willow Cottage girls assigned to help serve the refreshments today. Each girl stood as far from the other at the dessert table as she could manage, exchanging unladylike scowls. Concordia wished that “kindness, cooperation, and refined womanly behavior” would assert itself soon. It might make it easier for the two to share living quarters.

Concordia turned her attention back to Ruby, who was extending a gloved hand to accept the plaque and envelope. After a hearty round of applause, the room fell quiet, waiting.

“Ah, um....” Ruby hesitated. A dusky flush crept up her neck.

Concordia hid a smile behind her glove. How ironic that a woman perfectly at her ease when dressing down a wayward student in her charge should find it daunting to address a crowd of teachers, administrators, and trustees. Perhaps the presence of the newspaperman jotting notes made Ruby nervous.

“This is right kind of you, Mr. Langdon,” Ruby said finally. “Thank you.”

The reporter raised a hand.

“Yes…Mr. Rosen.” Langdon pointed with a pudgy finger.

“How do you like your job, Mrs. Hitchcock…it is Mrs., isn’t it?” the man asked, pushing his bowler further up his head as he checked his notes. “Widowed, ma’am?”

Ruby stiffened and her right hand twitched. Concordia remembered the milkman’s boy had gotten a sound cuff on the ear last week for asking how old the matron was. Luckily the reporter was out of range.

“Yes, her husband died in the war, more than thirty years ago,” Langdon added quickly.

“Ah. My sympathies.” He made a note. “So what can you tell me about cottage dormitory life?”

Ruby took a deep breath. “We-ell, them girls can be right mischievous. I have my hands full keeping up wi’ them.”

Concordia glanced again at Miss Smedley and Miss Lovelace. They now stood beside each other, and close proximity between those two rarely ended well. Miss Smedley appeared to be re-positioning the cups and cutlery, while Miss Lovelace gripped one lone spoon in her white-knuckled fist, either to thwart the other girl’s arrangement or to shove it up her nose...it was difficult to tell.

Right mischievous, indeed.

“But they’re good young ladies all the same,” Ruby added hastily, watching the reporter scribble on his pad.

“What do you like best about being here?” he asked.

“I suppose the girls keep me young, too.” Her eyes softened. “I remember them all. I’ve even bounced some o’ their babes on my knee, when they’ve come back to visit.” She cleared her throat awkwardly.

Satisfied, the reporter tucked away his notepad. “The story will be featured in the paper’s College Miscellany section this Friday,” he said.

Langdon beamed his approval, then gestured to the back table. “Everyone, help yourselves to refreshments.”

Ruby breathed a sigh as she and Concordia moved to a buffet table laden with a bounty of sweets: madeleines, scones, linzer tarts, meringues. The sharp tang of raspberry reminded Concordia of summertime on this blustery winter day. She offered Ruby a cookie plate. “Here, try the jammy ones, they’re delicious.”

Ruby shook her head. “I’m jes’ parched, miss. I could do wi’ a cup of tea. Can we go home now?”

“Not quite yet. The lady principal said something about posing for a picture. But I’ll get you that tea in the meantime. Why don’t you find us seats?” The matron was looking pale. Concordia wasn’t so sure this award business was doing her any favors.

Concordia reached the tea table, a visual confection of lace and the thinnest, gold-rimmed bone china. As every surface was spoken for, she struggled to pick up the teapot while balancing plate, cup, and saucer. Randolph Maynard, the school’s dean, watched her across the table. “Mr. Maynard, would you mind?” She inclined her head toward the teapot.

The dean raised a heavy black eyebrow. “I’m not on the wait staff, Miss Wells,” he growled in a deep voice.

Concordia bit back the impertinent retort that sprang to mind. It would not do to squabble with the administrator, difficult though he was. Despite being at the school for a year now, Maynard remained stiff and distant, even downright grumpy. He got along better with the horses in the school’s stable, where he spent much of his free time.

“Speaking of which,” Maynard continued, his scowl deepening, “where are your students? Aren’t they supposed to be helping here at the table?”

Oh, no. She had seen them just a few minutes ago. Concordia turned away to look up and down the dining room, praying the girls weren’t off in a corner quarreling. Miss Lovelace and Miss Smedley were nowhere in sight. Why had they abandoned their posts? When this was over and she returned to the cottage, she would give them an earful.

“Here, miss, let me help you with that,” said a voice at her elbow. Mr. Rosen picked up the heavy pot and poured the tea.

“Oh!” Concordia was more distracted than she realized. “Thank you.”

Rosen dropped his voice. “I haven’t seen you since that...unpleasantness last year. You know, with Colonel Adams’ death.”

Concordia frowned. “Of course I remember. But that’s long past. Best not to bring it up again.” She glanced in Dean Maynard’s direction. He was scowling into his cup, mercifully oblivious.

“I couldn’t help but notice your role in solving the case, Miss Wells,” Rosen continued.

Concordia waved a dismissive hand. “I’d say you played a more significant part in helping Lieutenant Capshaw track down the culprits than I.”

Rosen beamed. “I got quite the scoop out of it. Certainly a feather in my cap at the Courant. But I was wondering...could I interview you about your experience?”

“Me? There’s hardly anything to tell that you don’t already know.”

“But it’s a terrific angle,” Rosen said enthusiastically. “You know, the lady sleuth, and all that. I understand there had been another incident at the school, a semester earlier. I only just learned about it. Lots of material there. My readers love that sort of thing.”

To Concordia’s dismay, she noticed Maynard, on the far side of the table, had taken on a posture of attentive stillness, which typically comes from trying to look as if one is not eavesdropping. Time to squash this, before the dean heard more about her past as a lady sleuth.

“Certainly not, Mr. Rosen,” Concordia said. “I have no interest in that sort of self-aggrandizing. If you’ll excuse me.” She turned away, awkwardly balancing the teacups and plate.

Rosen slid his card under a cookie. “In case you change your mind. And if there’s ever anything you need, feel free to contact me.”

Concordia found Ruby seated on an ottoman beside the window. “Quick, take something before I drop it all.”

Ruby grabbed the topmost cup. After setting everything down, Concordia collapsed into a wing chair. She looked over at the matron and smiled. “How does it feel to be the guest of honor?”

Ruby pursed her lips as if tasting something sour. “A lot of folderol, if you ask me. I prefer a clean kitchen and a quiet spot by the fire. O’ course, I don’t get much in the way of clean and quiet at the cottage, either.”

Concordia laughed. All too true. “At least the reporter didn’t keep you long with a lot of questions.” She passed Ruby a napkin.

“Mighty nosy, all the same.” Ruby snorted. “Wot does he care if I’m a widow or not?”

“I suppose they get carried away. Asking questions is their business, after all. I hope it didn’t bring up bad memories.”

Ruby shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Land sakes, that was more’n thirty years ago. I was a new bride when Johnny went off to war. After he died, it was hard to make a living. But I managed, even though the widow’s pension was pitiful.”

Concordia nodded. Ruby’s hobbling gait, graying hair, and short stature implied a frail old lady, but the matron was far more resilient than her appearance let on.

“Now that we’re talking ’bout brides,” Ruby said, dropping a sugar cube in her tea, “when is your friend Miss Adams getting married to that policeman?”

“Next week,” Concordia said. “I’m grateful for your help in hemming my dress. Now it’s perfect.”

Ruby smiled. “You’ll make a lovely maid of honor. Will Mr. Bradley be there, too?”

Concordia nodded.

Ruby’s smile broadened. “Then you might want to tuck away those spectacles of yours before the ceremony.”

“I happen to be fond of seeing where I step, thank you very much,” Concordia retorted, self-consciously adjusting her glasses.

“With a man’s arm to hold onto, who needs to see?” Ruby asked mischievously.

Concordia blushed. “That will be quite enough of that sort of talk.”

They looked up to see Lady Principal Pomeroy approaching. “Ruby,” she said, in her high-pitched, breathy voice, “the photographer is ready for you.”

“Um, Miss Pomeroy….” Concordia gestured toward the lady principal’s frizzy brown flyaway hair, coming out of its bun.

“Oh!” Gertrude Pomeroy reached up to anchor the straggling pins. “Thank you, dear.” She gave a wink, her eyes bright blue behind crooked spectacles.

Ruby stood and tugged at her cuffs. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Concordia offered. “We can go back to the cottage together.”

With a nod, Ruby followed Miss Pomeroy toward the platform.

Concordia sipped her tea. Over by the French doors, Miss Jenkins, the school’s infirmarian and physical training instructor, conversed with Bursar Isley and his wife, Lily.

Concordia found her attention drawn to Lily Isley—an attractive woman, though on the nearer side of fifty. Today her elegant figure was shown to great advantage in a godeted skirt of deep-red velvet, which drew a number of admiring glances from the men in the room. Mrs. Isley was no doubt accustomed to such looks from her days as a stage actress.

Though Mrs. Isley had obviously abandoned the footlights since her marriage, Concordia hoped she could be coaxed to take over the senior play. It had by default become Concordia’s responsibility once again this year.

Miss Jenkins detached herself from the group and poured herself a cup of tea. Concordia caught her eye, gesturing to the rocking chair beside her, and Miss Jenkins crossed the room.

“Whew!” Miss Jenkins settled into the chair. “Between the warm room and the non-stop talking, I was beginning to feel as if I were on the basketball court with my students.”

Although Hannah Jenkins was getting on in years—her white hair and deeply-lined face from hatless years of outdoor activity made that clear—she carried her trim figure with an ageless vigor that astounded her colleagues. Concordia, decades younger, couldn’t imagine keeping up with a gymnasium full of students day after day.

“I thought you kept the girls running around too much to have breath for chit-chat,” Concordia said with a grin.

Miss Jenkins pursed her lips. “You’d be surprised. If mindless chatter were a school subject, these girls would pass with flying colors.”

“What were you speaking to the bursar and his wife about? It seemed a lively conversation.”

“It was entirely one-sided, I can assure you,” Miss Jenkins said. “First, Isley complained about the cost of this reception, but of course it’s not surprising that he’d been overruled. One cannot come between ladies and their sweets. I’m surprised all his years of marriage haven’t taught him that.”

Concordia smiled. “He’s quite near with a dollar.”

“Stingy is more like it,” Miss Jenkins retorted, setting her empty cup aside. “Oh, I’m not saying the college’s financial condition hasn’t improved considerably under his tenure, but when the president of the school can’t even get a new buggy to replace the old one that’s beyond repair, it gets ridiculous.”

“But I heard we are getting a new buggy, and that you had something to do with it,” Concordia said.

Miss Jenkins smiled. “It wasn’t easy. A friend of mine works for the Hartford Carriage Company, and I was able to wheedle a college discount on last year’s Buckeye buggy. The model didn’t sell as well as expected. The deep discount swayed the bursar in the end.” She sighed. “The sight of Edward Langdon riding to town in the custodian’s farm cart should never be repeated.”

Concordia smothered a laugh, remembering Langdon’s expression of painful dignity last week as he rode through the front gate on the rickety old wagon.

“Then our conversation shifted to politics,” Miss Jenkins went on, plucking a meringue from a nearby tray. “I didn’t realize how active the Isleys are in the state senatorial campaign. Particularly Mrs. Isley, which was a surprise.”

Concordia raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Regrettably, I couldn’t shift the topic to women’s suffrage, so that’s when I—” Miss Jenkins hesitated as Ruby approached them.

“All done with the photographer?” Concordia asked Ruby.

The matron nodded. “And more’n ready to go home.”

Concordia checked her lapel watch. “My, yes, it’s getting late.” She stacked their dishware, giving a little nod of goodbye as Miss Jenkins turned to leave as well.

“Wot’s this?” Ruby asked, pulling Mr. Rosen’s card off the plate.

“What is that, indeed?” a testy male voice chimed in.

Concordia’s heart sank as she turned to see Randolph Maynard’s tall figure looming over her. The dean’s imperious tone had attracted the attention of others standing nearby: Lady Principal Pomeroy, President Langdon, and the Isleys.

Maynard glanced at the card Ruby clutched. “Hmm. What does a newspaper reporter want with one of our teachers?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or do you prefer ‘lady sleuth,’ Miss Wells?”