by K. B. Owen
“We have decided upon January seventh, just after Twelfth Night,” Concordia said. Her mother grimaced.
Concordia knew exactly what she was thinking. A winter wedding was not at all fashionable, and could not be carried off as elaborately as a June ceremony.
Which was exactly why she had decided upon it.
“What an odd time of year!” Mrs. Fenmore exclaimed. “Where is it to be?”
“Memorial Chapel.” When the lady eyed at her blankly, Concordia added, “It is on the campus of Hartford Women’s College.”
Mrs. Fenmore’s lips thinned in a disapproving line. “I heard that you teach at one of those girls’ schools. Thank goodness you will soon lead a more respectable life.”
Concordia stiffened, but before she could retort, her mother stepped into the fray. “It is a women’s college, Mrs. Fenmore, not a female reformatory. It is eminently respectable. Young ladies from the best families in the area attend the institution.”
Concordia suppressed a sigh. Here they were, on the brink of the twentieth century, still having the same argument about respectability and women using their brains.
As frustrating as the conversation had become, it was gratifying to hear her mother defend her vocation. It was also delightfully ironic. Mother had originally opposed her pursuit of higher education and the teaching life. Eventually, she had come to understand that Concordia was also her father’s daughter, who embraced his love of scholarship. He had been the one to name her, after the Roman goddess of harmony. Had he lived long enough, he would have been proud to know she had become a teacher and scholar.
As Drusilla drew breath to reply, the butler came in to announce dinner.
David’s father jumped up from his chair. “Splendid.”
“Yes, let us go in,” David chimed in, offering Concordia his arm. “That was close,” he murmured.
The dining room table bespoke elegance without ostentation, laid with a smooth white damask cloth and heavy napkins at each place setting, folded in three-corner pyramids to hold a roll. The light from the chandelier reflected in the crystal goblets, silver cutlery, and tiny salt cellars of bone china.
As expected, wedding arrangements dominated the table conversation. Concordia had not imagined she would be as grateful for a discussion of such fripperies as she was now—anything to distract the opinionated old harpy seated across from her. Drusilla peered at her with hawkish eyes throughout the soup course, then mercifully turned to converse with David.
By the time the main course was brought out, Concordia knew her close-fitting bodice would not allow her to do more than sample the remaining dishes before breathing was impossible.
“Ah! David, Cook made your favorite, veal rissoles,” Mrs. Bradley said.
David smiled as the platter was presented.
“Concordia, I am sure Cook can give you the recipe for your use,” David’s mother continued.
Concordia hid her grimace. “Thank you, Mrs. Bradley.” She was not at all skilled in the kitchen and hoped they would have sufficient funds to hire a cook. She glanced at David, already digging in to a second rissole.
“Have you engaged any staff yet?” Drusilla asked. “You should not put it off much longer.”
Concordia shook her head, trying not to panic. The prospect was overwhelming. “We must find a house first.” Easier said than done. The ones they had seen thus far were either too small or too expensive.
David blotted his lips. “One in particular appears promising. Once we have it secured, we shall worry about staff.”
Concordia frowned. “This is the first I have heard of it.”
David flushed. “I planned to tell you about it later. Naturally, if after you see it you don’t like it, we will resume our search.”
Drusilla leaned toward Concordia with a pitying look. “No doubt your ladies’ college has accustomed you to doing things all your own way, dear. Out here in the real world, it is the man’s job to provide for his wife, and make these difficult decisions. It makes life much easier. You will see.”
John Bradley, sitting beside Concordia, was the only one to notice her hands clenched around the napkin in her lap.
Drusilla went on. “Did David give you the book?” She gave him a quick glance. “Men can often be forgetful.”
David kept his eyes on his plate, as if he had not heard.
Concordia nodded. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Fenmore. I have been reading it most…attentively.” She didn’t volunteer the fact that she and Ruby had been hooting over several passages of the stuffy book last night.
Drusilla’s face softened. “You must call me Aunt Drusilla, dear. We are to be family, after all.”
“What book?” Mrs. Wells asked.
Drusilla’s face became animated. “Manners and Social Usages, by Mrs. John Sherwood. It contains everything a new wife should know about proper etiquette.”
Concordia’s mother stiffened. “I have taught my daughter all about comportment in society. She needs no handbook, Mrs. Fenmore.”
Drusilla waved a placating hand. “No doubt, no doubt. However, I am sure a friendly guide is welcome, after your daughter’s time at such an...institution. I hear it is quite the hoydenish lifestyle in those places! We must set these young ladies on the right path in their married lives.”
Concordia opened her mouth to utter a retort. David gave her a pleading look across the table.
Georgeanna Bradley, attending to only part of the conversation, said, “Speaking of donating little items to the bride, I have an aquamarine brooch for you to wear on your wedding day, Concordia dear.” Her eyes became misty. “It was a gift from my own mother-in-law, God rest her soul—” her husband’s lips twitched in either a grimace or an aborted laugh as he coughed into his napkin “—and it has great sentimental value to me. Besides, it is lucky, you know, for the bride to wear something blue. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, a silver sixpence in her shoe, as the saying goes.”
Concordia hid a brief smile of her own. “How kind.” Given the smirk on her future father-in-law’s face, she prayed the brooch in question was not too hideous.
By the time she and David had left the Bradleys, her mind was reeling with thoughts of flowers, ribbons, dressmakers, and the inevitable appointments to come. She was dreading the whole. She leaned back against the cushions. “Would you consider eloping?”
David chuckled. “We are through the worst of it, you will see.”
They would shortly discover he was dead wrong.
Chapter 6
Week 3, Instructor Calendar October 1898
A woman who cannot make bread or cook a decent dinner is a fraud. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Concordia thumbed through Ruby’s tattered copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Cookery Book and Household Guide as she sat in the sunny white-and-yellow kitchen of Willow Cottage. The splatter stains on certain pages made clear which recipes the house matron favored.
With Ruby and the girls attending a matinee concert in town, she had the entire cottage to herself. It was the perfect opportunity to do a bit of cooking. She’d been tempted to try her hand at the veal croquettes David liked, but in the end decided upon apple pie. She had seen Ruby prepare it on several occasions. It should be simple enough.
As she flipped the pages, she browsed a section called Kitchen Maxims:
Salt or cold water makes scum to rise.
A stew boiled is a stew spoiled.
Water boils when it gallops; oil when it is still.
She frowned. What on earth did galloping water look like? Shaking her head, she skipped the rest and turned to the page she needed.
After an hour, she was ready to concede that simple and tedious were not mutually exclusive. She had flour in her hair, eyebrows, and nearly everywhere else, just from making the pastry. She skeptically eyed the dough she had rolled out and set in the pie dish. It was rather crumbly. It didn’t resemble Ruby’s at all.
She started to peel and chop
the apples. Ugh, the paring knife was duller than Maynard’s sense of humor.
At last, after much sawing and muttering under her breath, she had the apple-and-sugar mixture bubbling in a pot on the stove. She swiped at stray hairs that clung to her damp forehead. A bit of a rest was in order.
She pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table with The Ring and the Book, a recent gift from David. He knew she enjoyed Robert Browning, though perhaps it was a peace offering for putting up with Drusilla Fenmore last week.
Browning was a master of dramatic monologue, and Concordia soon found herself engrossed in Pope Innocent’s weighty decision to condemn a man to death:
Once more on this earth of God’s,
While twilight lasts and time wherein to work,
I take His staff with my uncertain hand,
And stay my six and fourscore years....
Once more appeal is made
From man’s assize to mine: I sit and see
Another poor weak trembling human wretch....
Abruptly, she lifted her head and sniffed. Something smelled like…burning sugar.
“Oh!” She ran to the stove. The sticky apple mixture was boiling over with great abandon. She frantically rummaged for a tea towel to wrap around the hot handle, picked up the smoking mess, and carried it outside to the back stoop.
The contents of the pot were blackened, irrecoverable. She glanced back toward the kitchen. The stove wasn’t much better. Ruby would surely take her to task for making a mess of her pristine kitchen.
She straightened. If she was lucky, she could get things cleaned up and aired out before Ruby and the girls returned. No one need know.
“Miss Wells!” a voice called from the path. The slight figure of Frances Kimble came into view. The lady crossed the grassy yard with rapid, energetic strides. Concordia froze, pot still in hand. So much for that plan.
“Do you need help?” Miss Kimble peeked into the pot, then coughed and waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh dear. What was it supposed to be?”
Concordia felt her face flush as she set the pot on the step. “Apple pie filling.”
The bursar had the grace not to laugh, though her long, thin nose twitched in amusement. “Once the pot is cool, you should give it a good soak.” She turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll help you get the stove cleaned up before everything hardens.”
Concordia followed her in, propping the door ajar. Miss Kimble was already tugging open windows. The woman was a whirlwind of decisive energy.
As they scrubbed the stove, countertop, and floor—at least the walls and ceiling had been spared—Miss Kimble nodded toward the book on the table. “I take it you were distracted?”
Concordia grimaced. “I am not suited for cooking.”
Miss Kimble laughed. “You are a teacher. You don’t have to be a cook, too.”
“I’m to be married in a few months.”
Miss Kimble lifted an eyebrow before applying her sponge to one last stubborn spot. “Ah. Well, if you are truly set on cooking, I’m sure you will learn eventually.” She smiled. “But next time, start with something simpler, and leave the poetry elsewhere.”
Concordia waved her into a chair. “I appreciate you helping me. Do you have time? I’ll make some tea. I can manage that, at least.”
Miss Kimble blew out a breath and sat at the worn oak table. “Most kind of you. I could do with a cup.” She drummed on the table with restless fingers.
“I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” Concordia said.
Miss Kimble rolled her eyes. “I have little enough to do these days, with May-Not appropriating my duties. I’ve not been able to convince Mr. Langdon to step in.” She paused. “Neither of them trusts me.”
There was a depth of hurt in that last sentence. “Surely President Langdon trusts you,” Concordia said. “He hired you, after all. He is merely trying to pacify Mr. Maynard at the moment.”
“But why does Maynard treat me so?” Miss Kimble protested.
“You must admit, you don’t compromise, either.”
A smile tugged at Miss Kimble’s lips. “True enough.”
“Maynard’s quite protective of this institution. The last woman bursar we had two years ago did not work out well.” That was putting it mildly, as Ruth Lyman had embezzled funds from the college over the course of years before discovery. “He was not dean at the time, but it took some time for the scandal to die down.” Concordia frowned. The last male bursar, Mr. Isley, didn’t work out well, either. Mercy, they seemed profoundly unlucky when it came to bursars. She certainly hoped the streak had ended with Miss Kimble.
Miss Kimble pressed her lips together. “I heard about that. Unfortunate, to be sure, but not my doing.”
They sat in silence after that, sipping their tea and eating shortbread straight out of the tin. Frances Kimble’s glance strayed to the window. Although her posture appeared relaxed, the set of her chin and the tight muscles of her neck suggested otherwise. Concordia remembered Mrs. Jenkins’ notion that there was more behind the conflict between the bursar and dean. Could those two have been acquainted before she was hired? The animosity between them strikes me as more personal….
Was that the reason for the friction, rather than a mistrust generated by a string of corrupt bursars? Concordia decided to take a chance. “Had Mr. Maynard been like this before?”
Miss Kimble turned to her with narrowed eyes. “Before?” she echoed. “Before when?”
“Before you came to Hartford Women’s College. Miss Jenkins had the impression you two already knew each other.”
Her eyes widened. “Indeed? Whatever gave her that idea?”
Concordia tugged at her lip. “I…I do not know. I am sorry to intrude.”
Miss Kimble waved a dismissive hand, though the tension in her face did not ease. “No matter, Miss Wells. My issue with Dean Maynard is very much current.” She tapped a finger to her chin, lost in thought. “Although we are each a product of our past lives, aren’t we?”
Concordia shrugged. It was a truism with an obvious answer.
The lady stood. “I must be going. Thank you for the tea.”
After she left, Concordia was so preoccupied with the puzzle of Miss Kimble and May-Not that she forgot to soak the pot.
Chapter 7
Week 3, Instructor Calendar October 1898
As for the conduct of the betrothed pair during their engagement, our American mommas are apt to be somewhat more lenient in their views of liberty to be allowed than are the English. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Founder’s Day started out cool and dry, but one glance at the dark clouds in the distance told Concordia they had better finish with the outdoor part of the festivities soon.
They had already attended chapel, where the school’s anthem, “Forward, Woman, to Thy Calling,” was sung, and this year’s student benediction poem was read aloud. Alison Smedley beamed proudly during President Langdon’s recitation. He had transposed the last two lines, but no one besides Concordia and Miss Smedley noticed. After a hurried recessional, the girls tossed their gloves in a communal heap beside the fountain and started working on the chrysanthemum chain that would adorn the balusters of the dining hall. Miss Kimble, Miss Jenkins, and Miss Pomeroy formed them into groups and divided the flowers among them.
Concordia watched the girls cavort in delight. Freshman or sophomore, junior or senior—today, the pranks and rivalries did not matter. She breathed in the distinctive sharpness of bruised chrysanthemum stems, mingled with the scent of impending rain. Her chest tightened. How she would miss these traditions.
A few drops of water landed on her nose. Uh oh. It would be an unholy mess to move the operation indoors. The young ladies did not care if they got wet, of course, but it would not do for them to take a chill.
Concordia smiled to herself. Mercy, now she was thinking like Aunt Drusilla. Would she be wrapping David in mustard plasters after they married?
Where was David? He’d
had ample time to check on his experiment and return. She stood on tiptoe to check the crowd. More drops fell.
Latecomers approached the periphery of the group, the Sanbournes among them. Peter Sanbourne was immaculate as usual—hair neatly combed and parted down the middle, tie knotted precisely and shoes carefully polished—but his smothered yawns and shadowed eyes revealed his exhaustion. Rachel Sanbourne watched her husband, a worried frown tugging her brow. Concordia could imagine her distress. How long could the man maintain such a rigorous work schedule?
“Concordia,” a low voice murmured behind her.
She turned. “David! What kept you?”
He held up a wooden box. “Guryev asked me yesterday for these tools, but he’s not in his workshop. I thought he may be here.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.” She gestured toward Sanbourne. “Perhaps he sent him on an errand?”
“I may as well give them to Sanbourne. Be right back.”
She watched as David navigated the crowd. She saw him shake hands with Sanbourne, pass over the box, and lean in to converse.
Soon he returned, eyes narrowed. “Sanbourne has not seen Guryev since they locked up the laboratory last night.”
“Someone must know where he is.”
“Sanbourne says he has a few ideas. He is none too happy about any of them.” He nodded toward the man, box tucked under his arm, now rapidly making his way out of the quadrangle toward the front gate.
Concordia frowned. “He said nothing else?”
David shook his head.
She took off her spectacles and polished off the drops. The drizzle had become impossible to ignore. Miss Kimble and Miss Jenkins were hustling the girls and their barely-completed chrysanthemum chain into the dining hall.
David and Concordia followed.
“After lunch, I have something to show you,” he said.
