Unseemly Pursuits

by Owen, K.

  He stood. “I have more packing to do – both for myself and for her – but I wanted to see you before I left. And to thank you. If she ever does recover, it will be because you found her so soon. I am grateful.”

  Just as Concordia watched Mr. Harrison step off the porch of Willow Cottage, she saw Lieutenant Capshaw approaching. The men stopped and conversed briefly along the path before parting ways, Capshaw heading straight for the cottage. Concordia held the door open.

  “Did you want to see me?”

  Capshaw was frowning and looking behind him. “What did Harrison want?”

  Concordia led him into the parlor. “Trying to make amends for his sister. He seemed to feel responsible for her, which I suppose is understandable. Why?”

  Capshaw shook his head. “As we investigate further, Mr. Harrison’s story is not holding together. No one can verify his whereabouts during the time before the meal, when we believe Miss Grant was strangled. He conducts himself in a nervous manner under questioning and the maid reported a heated exchange between him and Miss Grant only the day before.”

  Concordia remembered how pale and agitated Harrison looked when they were in the dining hall that day. It was peculiar, certainly, but not necessarily damning.

  “Further,” Capshaw went on, “the more I think about his theory that the attacker was after the amulet, the more skeptical I am. How would this person know the lady principal had it? The suspicion that she was a chronic thief would have circulated very quickly throughout campus.”

  Concordia shook her head. “I have a hard time believing that Mr. Harrison would attempt to murder his own sister, lieutenant! He has tried to protect her all this time.”

  “In my sad experience, Miss Wells, the assault or murder of someone in her own home is usually at the hands of a person she’s closest to.”

  What a sordid profession being a policeman was, Concordia thought. “What will you do?”

  “My men are keeping an eye on him now. I have asked him to come to the station for questioning once he’s finished packing. Even if we don’t have enough evidence to charge him, your president has promised me that he won’t be permitted to return to the college. For any reason. You are safe.”

  Chapter 26

  We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

  IV, v.

  Thanksgiving, 1896

  President Langdon arranged for a traditional Thanksgiving feast at Sycamore House. The few students who couldn’t travel because of distance or finances were invited, along with any faculty members and their guests who wished to attend.

  Concordia had extended the olive branch to her mother, inviting her to the college feast as well. In her opinion, such an occasion should be shared with many. It was certainly preferable to just she and her mother staring at each other over the enormous bowl of yams that the housekeeper insisted upon preparing each year. The gaiety of a larger group setting, too, might smooth any lingering awkwardness between them after their argument a few weeks ago.

  At first, Concordia thought she would have to wheedle and cajole her into accepting. Mother was usually lukewarm about attending college functions. But then Concordia realized that the Durands also planned to attend the college’s “quaint American celebration,” as Madame had put it, so the additional incentive was enough to convince her to come.

  As Concordia entered the dining room at Sycamore House, she saw that a number of faculty had decided to join them this year. Besides the president, who acted as host, she saw that Mr. Pierce, Miss Jennings, Miss Banning, Miss Pomeroy, and Miss Cowles were in attendance today. It promised to be a lively group.

  Even Eli was there, helping guests with their coats. Concordia looked around for the Cat, but thankfully it was nowhere to be seen. Probably terrorizing the kitchen.

  “Are you looking forward to the feast?” Concordia asked the boy, as he took her coat.

  “Oh, yes, they got so much food back there, miss,” he said, his eyes wide. “I’ll be having my dinner in the kitchen with Cook and the rest o’ them.”

  She ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately and he smiled up at her. Funny, how attached to him she had become. He looked sturdier these days; a succession of steady meals and a warm bed were helping him thrive. And she could swear he’d grown at least an inch since she had seen him last.

  “I better go hang these up,” he added. And off he went to the cloakroom, arms full, trying not to step on the dragging hems. Concordia watched him, wincing. Well, she could give her coat a good brushing later.

  The staff had succeeded in making the room look charmingly autumnal, with acorn wreaths, pinecone arrangements, and boughs of evergreen. A massive cornucopia on the table spilled over with gourds, nuts, and berries. Candlelight softened the whole scene. The aromas wafting from the kitchen made Concordia’s stomach rumble.

  For the first time in a long while, the general mood was relaxed and happy. Students talked animatedly, helping themselves to the punch bowl and hovering near the kitchen door to catch glimpses of the food preparations. Some of the girls were taking turns at the pianoforte, playing airs for the guests.

  It was wonderfully normal. No policemen, no forecasts of doom, no mean-spirited administrator. Concordia exhaled and smiled to herself.

  “Concordia.”

  She turned in surprise to see David Bradley, looking at her with warm brown eyes. She flushed at his appreciative glance, glad she’d chosen her nicest dress for the occasion, an at-the-shoulder green silk with a fitted bodice and sashed waist. How she was going to be able to eat anything was another issue, of course.

  “David, how nice to see you! You’re not dining with your family today?”

  “What, and miss all this?” he gestured toward the pianoforte, where President Langdon and Dean Pierce were now lending their enthusiastic baritones to the song. “My brother is still abroad, and my mother and father decided to extend their visit with friends in New York.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” She smiled.

  He leaned closer, taking her gloved hand and bowing over it in mock formality. “As am I,” he murmured.

  Mercy, was it getting warm in here?

  Miss Jennings approached, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Here, try these, they’re delectable. I believe that asparagus is involved.”

  “Have you joined the wait staff?” David teased.

  “Everything is coming off the burners at once, so I’m helping out. If I like it I may make a career change,” Miss Jennings said with a smile.

  I wonder what can be keeping my mother,” Concordia said, looking around. “I thought she’d be here by now.”

  “I just saw her come in with the Durands,” Miss Jenkins said. “The boy is helping with their wraps.” She pointed.

  Concordia craned her neck. Ah, there they were. Her mother, eyes bright and her cheeks becomingly flushed, was conversing with Madame Durand. Concordia had not seen her mother this happy and animated in a long while. Since Mary had died.

  Concordia heaved a disappointed sigh. Her mother used to have an abundance of common sense. Why was she deliberately abandoning it and chasing an illusion?

  But seeing her in the company of Madame Durand today, Concordia had niggling doubts. If this made her mother happy, was that so bad? Who was she to try to take away that hope?

  But false hope is no hope at all, she reminded herself. The disillusion would be more crushing the longer the lie continued.

  For now, Concordia put on a smile as her mother approached.

  “Concordia! Happy Thanksgiving, my dear,” Mrs. Wells said warmly. She kissed her cheek, which startled Concordia no end. Rarely was her mother this affectionate in public.

  “And Mr. Bradley. So good to see you again,” Mrs. Wells added, turning to David. David gave a little bow. “You are well, I trust?”

  “Indeed, yes,” he answered, nodding to the Durands as well.

  Jacques Durand inclined his head in greeting but said nothing. His
wife, however, was voluble.

  “Miss Wells!” Madame cried, seizing Concordia’s arm. “Your mother has been telling me so many stories about you growing up. And especially about the special bond between you and your father. How charming! What a unique man he must have been. After the time his spirit spoke to you in our little session I had been hoping that in my work with Madame Wells” – here she smiled at Concordia’s mother – “we would hear from him once again.” She gave an elegant shrug. “Alas, it has not happened yet, but one has hopes!”

  David looked quite startled by Madame’s casual mention of communicating with spirits as if they were but a railway trip away. He raised an eyebrow in Concordia’s direction. She gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes.

  The ring of the dinner bell spared Concordia from further details of how Madame planned to summon long-dead members of the Wells clan. Madame Durand took Mrs. Wells by the arm and led her toward their seats, chattering all the while. The medium looked back at Concordia with a triumphant smile.

  Concordia clenched her hands together. It was obvious that Mother was deeply enthralled by the oh-so-charming Madame. Where would this lead? How was Concordia going to get her mother to come to her senses? It seemed a battle of wills between her and Madame Durand, with her mother as the prize.

  President Langdon had spared no expense in providing a true Thanksgiving bounty. The table nearly groaned with the weight of it all. Besides the usual roast turkeys, each prepared a la Reine style with oyster stuffing, there was cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, baked yams, cold celery-and-olive trays, cheeses, nuts, and pies of mincemeat and pumpkin. Concordia was full before they were half done.

  Just before the dessert course – which she would certainly have to forgo – she felt something snuffle under her skirts and then twine around her ankles.

  The Cat.

  Thank goodness she wasn’t the jump-and-shriek sort of lady. Perhaps she had grown accustomed to the beast. So long as the feline didn’t claw her best stockings. Otherwise, she’d make a fur collar out of him.

  As Concordia might have expected, Eli came bursting out of the kitchen door, looking anxiously around the room. She caught his eye and pointed under the table.

  Concordia’s fellow diners couldn’t help but notice the boy from the cloakroom diving under the tablecloth at her feet. He gently disentangled the animal from under her skirts as Concordia bent over – at least, as much as she was able, in her tight corset – to help. Both Cat and stockings suffered no ill-effects.

  Eli flushed a deep red when he saw all eyes were upon him. “Sorry. He got away,” he muttered, retreating with the Cat to the kitchen.

  Over the general chuckles, Madame said, “That creature, he follows the young man everywhere, doesn’t he?”

  “Two vagrants finding each other,” Dean Pierce said sarcastically.

  Concordia looked at him in surprise. That was an oddly disparaging remark, particularly from someone who most likely suffered condescension himself. Of course, he didn’t know Eli as she did.

  Soon the meal was over, the dishes cleared, and post-feast fatigue began to set in.

  Concordia got up from the table and touched her mother on the elbow. “I should go back,” she said, “but can we talk for a moment first?”

  Puzzled, Mrs. Wells followed her to an inner corridor near the front hall.

  “We haven’t spoken in a while,” Concordia began. “I’m so sorry about our argument before. How are you feeling?”

  Mrs. Wells smiled and patted her daughter’s arm. “Better than I’ve felt in ages, thanks to Madame Durand. Thank you for your concern. All is forgiven, dear.”

  “I’m glad. But Mother, I’m still worried about your growing attachment…to Madame Durand.” There. She said it. She waited for the angry outburst.

  Her mother gave a little laugh. “Oh, how well Madame can predict these things! She told me that you would be stubborn in this regard. You are too preoccupied with the world of the intellect, Concordia. There is room for little else beyond what you can see and measure.”

  Concordia, flustered, was silent.

  “Let me see if I can put it in a way you would understand, dear. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  Splendid. Now Mother was quoting Shakespeare to her.

  “While that may be true,” Concordia said, “and there might be legitimate spirit mediums out there, how do you know that Madame Durand is one of them? Many of these people have been proved the worst of charlatans. I don’t want you to nurture false hopes that you will be able to communicate with…Mary.”

  Mrs. Wells turned hurt eyes to Concordia. “I can see that we are at an impasse. You do not know Madame as I do. Believe what you like, but I will listen to no more of it.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Concordia sighed and turned toward the cloakroom, briefly locking eyes across the room with Madame Durand who was still seated at the table. The medium raised her water glass to Concordia in a mocking salute.

  Chapter 27

  A dream itself is but a shadow.

  II.ii

  Week 12, Instructor Calendar

  December 1896

  The mood on campus was significantly improved when the students returned from their longer-than-usual recess, ready to resume their studies and activities in earnest. Lady Principal Pomeroy reinstated all events, including the play rehearsals, and – whatever her private objections to Madame Durand – the Spiritualist Club.

  Madame Durand wasted no time in calling a meeting of its members – of which there was a growing number. Concordia, to her dismay, found their play practice numbers were significantly depleted as a result. Whatever spirits Madame could conjure were apparently more engaging than the ghost of Hamlet’s father. She would have to speak with Miss Pomeroy about that.

  Preparations for the Christmas season had begun in earnest, too, as the girls crafted gifts for family back home and for each other – in great secrecy, of course. The detritus of bright wools, colored papers, paint boxes, fabric scraps, and craft implements littered students’ rooms and spilled over into the common area. Concordia was inevitably asked to hold a finger on a bow, mend a tear, locate scissors or paste, or untangle knots. It was difficult to get any work done.

  Finally, after the tenth knock on her sitting-room door in the past hour, Concordia scooped up the rest of her ungraded student themes. “Ruby, I’ll be in my office,” she called toward the kitchen. Before anyone else could intercept her, she shrugged on her jacket and left.

  Once settled in the quiet of her office, Concordia made short work of the stack of papers. She had nearly finished when there was a tap on her office door.

  “Enter!” she called.

  Eli walked in, glancing around the room as if searching for something. Concordia looked for the inevitable four-pawed shadow behind the boy, but the Cat was nowhere to be seen. Probably in an alley fight, she thought.

  Concordia noticed that Eli was quieter, preoccupied.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Have you seen him, miss?”

  “Cat?” She thought back. “Why no, actually, not since the holiday dinner several days ago.”

  “It’s been that long since I seen him, too,” Eli said. “I’m worried. He’s never gone more than overnight. I was hoping he was here.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell you if I do see him. I know it’s worrisome to have a – pet – go missing. Have you looked in all his usual places?”

  The boy nodded, then sniffed.

  Concordia got up and put an arm around his thin shoulders. “I’ll ask some of the girls to help look. Try not to worry.”

  Shortly after Eli left, the sound of coughing along the hallway alerted her to Miss Phillips’ presence. She got up and opened the door. “Miss Phillips, come in!”

  Dorothy Phillips was looking much better. She had a healthy tint to her cheeks and moved once again with her former ene
rgy and grace. Only the occasional cough or wheeze gave her away.

  “You’ve finished with my father’s journal?” Concordia asked eagerly.

  Miss Phillips’ expression was somber.

  “Something’s wrong,” Concordia said.

  “You’d better read it first,” Miss Phillips said, sitting down and sliding the packet toward Concordia.

  Concordia pushed her glasses more firmly up her nose and picked up the first sheet.

  2 November 1873

  Not even the heat and fatigue I feel can suppress my elation over finding the tomb of Meyra, high priest of the sun god, Aten. Now we must dig it out ever-so-carefully. It will be both back-breaking and meticulous work.

  8 November 1873

  We have the tomb open! Both time and supplies are running low, so Adams and I can only make a quick inventory, sketch the important pieces, and make corrections to the map before we head back to the boat. But what an incredible find! As proof of our discovery, I’ll be removing a pair of heart amulets from the tomb. They are unlike any I have seen before: made of a dark stone, rather heavy, with unusual magnetic properties.

  We are resting at our encampment as I write this. When we return, I shall visit Mariette in Boulaq and share news of our find. I also have the unpleasant task of turning over the evidence I possess regarding Red’s plundering.

  I grow tired of the chase, and wish to return to my family as soon as I may.

  ____________________________

  15 November 1873

  I write this in my cabin aboard a Cook’s tourist steamboat headed back down the Nile to Cairo. My head has been bandaged, but is still pounding. The doctor on board says that I need to rest. But I must write about the events of the past seven days while they are fresh in my mind. As it is, my head injury is causing gaps in my memory. I fear I shall lose what I have if I don’t write it down now.