Beloved and Unseemly

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Week 2, Instructor Calendar September 1898

A certain exclusiveness must mark all our matinees and soirees; they would fail of the chief element of diversion if we invited everybody. ~Mrs. John Sherwood, Social Manners and Usages, 1897.

The windows of Sycamore House lit up the evening dusk. Gaily colored Chinese lanterns greeted the reception guests in the entryway, along with strains from the student quartet playing in the parlor. A hand-painted banner with the greeting Welcome Mr. Sanbourne and Mr. Guryev! adorned the mezzanine railing. Within the ballroom, electric lights gleamed through sparkling leaded-glass wall sconces. It would be hot in here soon. Concordia left her wrap in the foyer.

A cluster of her girls had gathered around a man in the center of the ballroom. At first she could not see who it was, as he was only of a height with the taller students in the group. Then she caught a glimpse of longish, straight black hair, rakishly swept across his forehead. Ah, Ivan Guryev. He was attracting the ladies like flies to honey.

She went over to join them.

“Ooh, Miss Wells, have you met Mr. Guryev?” Maisie Lovelace asked.

Concordia inclined her head politely. “Not formally. A pleasure to meet you.”

Guryev gave a deep bow. “The honor, it is mine.” His speech was moderately accented. “You are a student here?”

Concordia suppressed an unladylike snort. “Hardly. I teach literature and rhetoric.”

“She’s also our teacher-in-residence at Willow Cottage,” another girl chimed in.

“Ah.” The man grinned. “But so young you look….” His voice trailed off.

Concordia knew perfectly well that, on the far side of twenty-nine, she was in no danger of being mistaken for one of her pupils. “One could say the same for you, sir,” she countered.

The gentleman could not be much more than twenty-five years of age. His trim figure, smooth chin, and lively dark eyes set under heavy brows spoke of youth and vigor. He shrugged, a smile curving his full lips.

“How are you settling in?” she asked politely.

“The visitor quarters here are quite comfortable, thank you.” He turned and smiled as a stooped, elderly lady approached.

Guryev smiled. “Ah, Matushka.” He solicitously adjusted the shawl over her shoulders and gestured to the group. “My mama, Nadya Guryev. She is here in Hartford this month.” He leaned over and spoke quietly in what Concordia assumed to be Russian. She recognized Wells and realized she was being introduced.

The woman gave her a sharp-eyed appraisal before putting forward a delicate, bony hand. Concordia clasped it gently, afraid of crushing it.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Guryev.” Concordia could see the resemblance, in the shrewd brown eyes and prominent brows, though her mouth had lost its fullness with age.

The lady nodded and answered in a torrent of Russian.

“What did she say?” Concordia asked Guryev in a low murmur.

“Sorry…it is difficult for her to speak English,” he said. “She is confused by…a ladies’ college. Does not understand the need for it.” He gave a small laugh as Mrs. Guryev gave a nod and headed for the refreshment tables. “She thinks you should find a husband.”

Concordia cleared her throat. A change of topic was in order. “Have you been working for Mr. Sanbourne very long?”

Guryev’s face lit up in animation. “Eight years I know him, first as a student at Boston Tech when I come on scholarship. Then I become apprentice and decide not to return to St. Petersburg. Mama was not happy about that.” His gaze strayed to the far side of the room, where Miss Kimble was helping the lady pour from the teapot. “After that, I was promoted to assistant for Mr. Sanbourne and Mr. Reeve, when they designed hydraulic pump.”

“Hydraulic pump?” she asked, regretting the question as soon as she uttered it. More engineering talk was sure to follow.

“A mining tool. To more efficiently fracture shale,” he said, gesturing in excitement. “Mr. Sanbourne, he is brilliant man. Unlike his competitors—they were working on same kind of device—he came up with a way to—”

“Where is our guest of honor?” a voice interrupted.

Her rescuer was Randolph Maynard, immaculately attired in a well-fitting black tailcoat and trousers, the white stand-up collar nearly to his chin. Instead of waiting for a reply, the dean peered down along his nose at her, his heavy brows drawn. “I did not expect you at such a gathering, Miss Wells. I thought your interests lay along the literary line.” He dropped his voice for her ears alone. “When you are not sleuthing, of course.”

She flushed. It was true she had become involved in some disagreeable matters in the past, and had even been helpful upon occasion. But really, Lieutenant Capshaw of the Hartford Police had done all of the hard work. She had been especially grateful for Capshaw’s efforts this summer, when he tracked down the remaining Inner Circle members who had been monitoring her movements.

Still, she was in no mood to trade barbs with the dean, or to defend her sleuthing history within earshot of the present company.

Apparently Maynard had not expected a reply. He shook his head, gesturing to the banner and student decorations. “All this fuss for a mechanic. I fail to understand it.”

Guryev bristled. “Mr. Sanbourne is no mere mechanic,” he answered hotly. “He…he is a well-respected inventor. The Secretary of the Navy has commissioned a new project. That is why we need the extensive laboratory here.”

Maynard raised a bushy eyebrow. “Indeed? Let us hope the board of trustees does not regret the expenditure. As I understand it, Sanbourne has only committed to being here for a year. The school’s resources are stretched thinly enough as it is.” He waved a hand toward the half-dozen students of the group. “All to suit the whim of young ladies bored with studying Milton and home economics.”

The students in question watched the exchange in open-mouthed silence.

Concordia’s own mouth hung open. She had never heard Maynard, in his eighteen months as dean, deride a student’s area of study. To be sure, he was of a traditional mindset in terms of what constituted ladylike decorum, but this was something more.

“Mr. Maynard,” a no-nonsense woman’s voice broke in, “we are here to welcome Mr. Sanbourne and his assistant to the college, not heave pitchforks at them.”

Concordia turned to see the white-haired Hannah Jenkins, who served as the school’s infirmarian, basketball coach, and physical education instructor. Her plaid skirt and simple navy shirtwaist emphasized a trim figure that defied the relentless march of decades. Her ubiquitous coach’s whistle was nowhere in sight. Perhaps on this occasion it would have been useful in keeping Maynard in line.

“The new program will be a boon to the college’s reputation,” Miss Jenkins went on. “Other students besides our own already benefit from Mr. Sanbourne’s presence here.”

Concordia nodded. She had heard that students at nearby Trinity College—an all-male institution—also attended Sanbourne’s lectures here. Of course, the increased presence of the young men on campus necessitated additional protocols. One must not distress the young ladies’ mommas, after all.

The dean grunted and stalked off.

Concordia drew Miss Jenkins away from the group. “What on earth is wrong with him?”

“Hard to tell with May-Not,” Miss Jenkins said with a shrug.

Concordia grimaced. “Perhaps it’s the friction with Miss Kimble. This afternoon they were both ‘in a fine pucker,’ as Ruby would say. Miss Pomeroy and Mr. Langdon had to step into the fray.”

Hannah Jenkins grinned, emphasizing the deep lines of her face from hatless years in the sunshine. “So I heard. He does not like change, that one. Insists upon remaining in charge of the bursar’s duties as well as his own until Miss Kimble does things his way.”

“That may be a while.” Concordia surveyed the room. No sign of Miss Kimble. Perhaps that was preferable. It would not do to have the dean and bursar sniping at each other at such a public event. The better part of Valour is discretion, as Shakespeare’s Falstaff had put it, though she had difficulty picturing the tiny-but-feisty Miss Kimble as the plump and cowardly knight. The more appropriate Shakespearean reference might be though she be but little, she is fierce.

Perhaps she should have a chat with Miss Kimble. A bit of fierceness in dealing with May-Not might come in handy.

“They are a pair, I must say.” Miss Jenkins broke into her thoughts. “I’ve wondered…could they have been acquainted before she was hired? The animosity between them strikes me as more personal—” She broke off, inclining her head toward the doorway. “The Sanbournes are here.”

Concordia stood on tiptoe to see. After hearing about the famous inventor and his accomplishments for the last two weeks, Peter Sanbourne was disappointingly average in the flesh—a fortyish man of average height and a lean frame, with a thin, dark mustache and dark hair graying at the temples. A tall, blonde-haired woman stood beside him.

“Sanbourne is married? Surely they do not live here on campus?” Concordia asked.

“They have a place in town, though he keeps late hours in his laboratory, I hear. That cannot be congenial to his wife. Shall we go over and be introduced?”

As they made their way among the throng of well-wishers, Concordia got a better view of Mrs. Sanbourne. The lady was older than she had first supposed, most likely in her late thirties. Her delicately arched brows, thin patrician nose, and the elegant tilt of her head indicated a woman of quality and sensitivity. Concordia wondered if she would be lonely or bored this school year, a mere ornament to a famous inventor.

Miss Pomeroy stood beside Mrs. Sanbourne, making polite introductions, while President Langdon stood next to Peter Sanbourne and did the same. As Concordia waited to greet the couple, she noticed Margaret Banning attempting to engage Dean Maynard as he sulked beside the refreshments table. The elderly lady thumped her cane to get his attention. Concordia wondered if she would smack him with it next.

She grinned. Miss Banning had been teaching history at Hartford Women’s College since its endowment more than twenty years ago. The faculty, having grown accustomed to her eccentricities and grumpy demeanor, usually let her have her own way. It was easier in the end. The lady had “retired” at least twice, only to return in some capacity or other. She was more than a match for Maynard.

After a ten-minute interval whereby Misses Lovelace and Gage monopolized the Sanbournes in conversation, with Miss Pomeroy ineffectually trying to redirect them—really, had the girls completely forgotten their manners?—Concordia and Miss Jenkins advanced to the head of the line.

“Mrs. Sanbourne,” Miss Pomeroy said, “may I present our infirmarian, Miss Hannah Jenkins, and one of our literature teachers, Miss Concordia Wells?”

“Charmed, I am sure,” Mrs. Sanbourne answered. Though refined, her voice possessed an appealing warmth.

“As am I,” Concordia answered. “Have you been in Hartford long? Autumn in our area is quite beautiful.”

Mrs. Sanbourne’s light brown eyes crinkled as she smiled. “I am a landscape painter. I look forward to capturing your lovely scenery.” She gestured toward the dark windows. “I have plans already for promising vistas to paint.”

“A landscape painter? How impressive,” Concordia said. Not a mere ornament on her husband’s arm, then. Interesting.

“I should like to see your work,” Miss Jenkins said. “Are any of your paintings on display in a local gallery?”

“Alas, I am too new at the endeavor for that,” Mrs. Sanbourne said with a deprecating laugh.

“I have seen some of her pieces,” Miss Pomeroy said. “They are quite wonderful. We have converted the old potting shed near the stables into a studio for her use.”

“In return for your kindness, I have already told your lady principal that I shall be happy to work with students interested in perfecting their technique,” Mrs. Sanbourne said.

Concordia, who could not paint the side of a barn much less a recognizable rendering of any kind, gave a polite nod and moved on.

President Langdon introduced her to Peter Sanbourne, who bowed with a half-distracted air, as if he wished to be elsewhere.

“A pleasure Miss…Wells, is it?” Sanbourne’s hooded eyes assessed her with a glance, ready to move on.

Edward Langdon, who managed to rumple any suit he put on his large, pear-shaped body, smiled paternally at her. “So good of you to come, Miss Wells. I know engineering is not of general interest to you.”

Concordia nodded. “True, but as all of the engineering students have been assigned to Willow Cottage, I considered it prudent to become acquainted with the man who will direct their work.” She met Sanbourne’s eye. “You have a wonderful group of young ladies, Mr. Sanbourne—eager and hard-working. I hope you appreciate, however, that they have other classes of equal importance?”

Sanbourne drew his brows together, puzzled. “Naturally—ah, you mean the students who were late to your class today? I heard about that. My apologies, Miss Wells. I shall speak to Ivan. He is the one who runs the experiments and oversees the young ladies’ projects, along with those of the Trinity fellows.”

Langdon frowned. “It was my understanding that you were in charge of their studies.”

Sanbourne waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, of course. I lead several seminars and will assess the young ladies’ final projects. I am much too busy to involve myself in day-to-day teaching duties, however. My assistant is more than capable.”

Before Langdon could respond, the maid approached. Two gentlemen followed at her heels and presented their cards to Langdon.

Sanbourne stiffened.

“Ah!” Langdon said, “Mr. Reeve, Mr. Oster, so glad you could come. I thought my surprise had gone astray.”

A more disparate pair of men Concordia had not seen. Reeve was rail-thin and easily the tallest man in the room, with a dark, gypsy-like complexion. Oster, on the other hand, was light-eyed and fair-haired with a short, barrel-chested physique. Judging from his slightly crooked nose and the scar along his left eyebrow, he had spent time in the boxing ring during his youth.

“Our apologies for being late,” Reeve said with a deep bow over Mrs. Sanbourne’s hand, which she quickly withdrew. “Our train was delayed.” He turned to Sanbourne. “Peter! It has been years, my good fellow. Congratulations on your new project.”

Sanbourne reluctantly clasped the extended hand but said nothing.

Reeve’s lip curled in what was either derision or amusement. “Where’s your man, Guryev? I wish to congratulate him as well.” He craned his neck to scan the room.

Oster inclined his head. “There.”

“We will take our leave,” Reeve said. “I, at least, am willing to let bygones be bygones. Good luck to you.”

As they made their way across the room, Sanbourne turned to Langdon. “What are they doing here? Did you invite them?” His voice, though quiet, trembled in anger.

Concordia, meanwhile, was watching Reeve and Oster greet Ivan Guryev. As they shook hands, Reeve glanced back over his shoulder toward Sanbourne before pressing a slip of paper into Guryev’s hand. Sanbourne saw none of it.

Langdon thrust his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “Ahem, well…I knew you had worked with Reeve and his assistant back in the day. Since the Boston Institute of Technology is only a train ride away, I thought it would be a welcome surprise.” He hesitated. “I suppose I should have asked you first. I had no idea you and Reeve were on poor terms.”

“Not poor terms, simply a misunderstanding,” Sanbourne said. “Forgive my outburst. I was merely…surprised.”

Mrs. Sanbourne waved an impatient hand at her husband and leaned in to whisper, “Of all the—!”

Sanbourne made a shushing gesture. “Later, Rachel. Later.”

Concordia took this as her cue. “I believe I will get some tea. Excuse me.”

The offerings at the refreshments table were sadly few—hardly a surprise, if the dean still controlled the expenditures. She hoped Miss Kimble would be more generous in that regard, once she managed to wrest the duties from Maynard’s grasp.

After helping herself to a couple of ginger crisps and a cup of tea, she found a chair next to Miss Banning, now chatting animatedly with Charlotte Crandall. It was clear that Charlotte had remained Miss Banning’s favorite.

The old lady squinted through her thick-lensed spectacles as Concordia took her seat. “Hmph. You have more freckles than ever, missy. You would do well to stay out of the sun, but if you insist upon riding around on that bicycle machine, at least wear a bonnet.”

Concordia’s lips twitched in a suppressed retort as her glance strayed to the lacy muslin cap perched upon the old lady’s head. She would not be taking advice about headwear from Miss Banning any time soon. Nor any other piece of fashion attire, she thought, glancing at the silk shawl draped over the lady’s shoulders, embroidered with a garish green dragon and trimmed with what appeared to be black ostrich feathers.

“Where is that beau of yours—Mr. Bradley?” Miss Banning inquired with a sly smile.

Concordia shifted in her seat, still uncomfortable with such terms as beau, swain, and suitor. They seemed more appropriate for a cotillion dance floor than a women’s college. “He wanted to attend, but there is a time-sensitive experiment that bears watching.” She gestured in the direction of the Chemistry Department chairman, now chatting with the Sanbournes. “The prerogatives of leadership, I suppose. Professor Grundy can assign his junior professor to mind the store while he attends the party.”

Charlotte had turned aside, idly watching Dean Maynard as he made his way over to greet the Sanbournes. Concordia and Miss Banning followed her glance.

Maynard suddenly stopped short, eyes wide and the color leaving his face.

The moment passed. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and approached Peter Sanbourne to be introduced.

“What is wrong with the man now?” Miss Banning complained.

“He spends too much time at his desk, I imagine,” Charlotte said.

Concordia was not so sure. The expression on Maynard’s face had been one of distress rather than fatigue. She took a bite of her ginger crisp as she mused. Ugh. Grimacing, she tucked the rest of it in her napkin. Perhaps he’d eaten too many of these stale cookies.

“I have coaxed him to resume our Saturday morning rides,” Charlotte went on, “no matter how busy he claims to be. The fresh air and exercise are restorative.” She smiled at Concordia. “Perhaps you would join us?”

Concordia suppressed a shudder. The last time she rode a horse—not an activity she relished—she had been holding on for dear life and had trouble sitting down for days afterward. Maynard for company hardly made it more appealing. “You have a mischievous sense of humor, Miss Crandall.”