Chapter 2
“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.”
Henry David Thoreau
One very full week of planning and packing later, Marigold disembarked from the train at the picturesque stone station in the center of Wellesley’s town with her stack of trunks and her trusty bicycle, and was happy to find, this time, she had not been left to fend for herself.
“Miss Manners!” The cheerful driver of the college’s horse-drawn omnibus, nicknamed the Barge, doffed his hat. “Good to have ye back amongst us, miss,” Thomas Griffin said in his lilting Irish brogue.
“Mr. Griffin.” Marigold reached for the Irishman’s hand. “How very good of you to come to meet me so late in the term.”
“Wouldn’t have missed ye, miss. President Irvine set down a note herself, personal like, making sure I’d be here to meet yer train.”
Marigold tried not to beam with unseemly pride at such an honor. “That is very good of you both, and much appreciated.”
“Come right along.” He led her toward the familiar omnibus and handed her up. “And we’ll have ye back where ye belong in no time.”
Yes, her heart sang in agreement. Her beloved college was the only place she had ever completely belonged. She was inordinately ready to return to the life she loved.
And no time it was, before Mr. Griffin had trotted the Barge across the town, down the road to East Lodge, and through the tall stone gates guarding the bucolic campus of her college.
Four and a half years ago, Marigold’s first ride along the same scenic, rambling lane had passed in a blur of youthful excitement.
Now she savored each glimpse of a familiar landmark, each notable vista.
The rich fall colors wove a warm, welcoming tapestry around her, filling her with comfort and ease. And something more.
Gratitude.
And purpose. Perhaps because she had lost the privilege of her education after the death of her parents last spring, she appreciated it so much more now. Behind her were the doubts and worries of the spring and summer. Before her was her future, glistening and bright.
This was what she was meant to do.
And there it was at last, College Hall, the vast high-spired, tomb-like building that had loomed so large in her imagination over the past year.
Sitting high on a hill overlooking Lake Waban, College Hall resembled nothing so much as a European abbey or Gothic monastery, far more than a typical, red-bricked American school.
In fact, its floor plan was even in the shape of a papal cross—a 480-foot-long main axis intersected by three shorter wings, their spires capped with crosses—a nod to the college’s quasi-religious beginning as a female seminary devoted to Christian thought and education.
And though Marigold wasn’t particularly religious, she did worship at the altar of education and knowledge.
“Here we are, Miss Manners,” the driver said with a smile, as the Barge pulled up under the carriage porch. “Welcome home.”
Silly, sentimental tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Griffin.”
While the porters and the custodian, Mr. Duckett, bustled out to unload her trunks—filled with fashionable clothing Isabella had insisted Marigold take—“Now, I’ll have the whole of Wellesley College beating a path to my door along with the Radcliffe girls.
”—Marigold sallied forth through the entrance and into the soaring sanctuary of Center Hall.
“Miss Manners, I presume?” A bespectacled, middle-aged dormouse of a woman with a mildly irritated air immediately appeared at the door of the reception parlor.
“Indeed, I am Marigold Manners.” She held out her hand to shake.
“Right on time,” the woman said with some small satisfaction as she consulted the upside-down watch pinned to her immaculate, highly starched blouse.
“Miss Burke,” the woman introduced herself crisply, gesturing down the long, echoing east corridor.
“This way, if you please. President Irvine has been awaiting your arrival.”
“How gratifying,” Marigold murmured as she fell into step behind the woman, who scurried toward the east end of the building, where the president had a suite of rooms.
Miss Burke rapped sharply on the door before she poked her head in. “Miss Manners has arrived, ma’am.”
“Oh, thank you. Do send her in.”
By the time Marigold had been ushered through the doorway, Julia Irvine, the president of the college, had taken her pince-nez glasses from her face, risen from her desk and crossed the room with her arms stretched forth in welcome. “Marigold!”
“Professor Irvine—or forgive me, I should say President Irvine.” Marigold clasped her hands joyfully. “Please accept my heartfelt congratulations. What a pleasure it is to return to Wellesley and be reunited with all my friends.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” the woman replied with a smile. “And yes, a great many changes have occurred since you left us. But now that my former favorite student has returned to the Department of Classics, my hopes for you to succeed me as professor of Greek have been revived.”
Marigold didn’t know when she had been so flattered.
Certainly, she had known Professor Irvine had valued her as a diligent student of both ancient languages and history, but to find herself spoken of as a potential favorite for the position of professor was immensely gratifying to her private ambitions.
“I only hope I can live up to such generous praise. I will admit to being a little worried with nearly five weeks of classes already passed.”
Julia Irvine waved away Marigold’s concerns.
“You will naturally have to work hard to catch up, but I have confidence in you, Marigold. I’ve spoken to your professors, and we’ve devised a revamped plan of study for the remaining classes required for your degree.
If you’d like to take a look?” She returned to her desk and drew out a manila folder, which she passed to Marigold.
“Certainly, I will agree to any course of study you should allow me.” Her gaze scanned the listings of Honors Thesis, Advanced Latin and Greek Translation, and Senior Seminar of History of the Hellenes, as well as an unexpected course. “Independent Laboratory Study?”
“Trust you to pick that out straightaway. You see, I had been pursuing my own particular avenues of research before being called to the presidency, and I thought perhaps you could be persuaded to take up where I had to leave off.” She picked up a thicker folder to hand to Marigold.
“I had been working with Professor Judith Cleaver in the Chemistry faculty on some chemical solutions and processes for the treatment and long-term stability of archaeological artifacts, namely coins. We have been particularly keen on working out a superior method of electrolytic reduction, following on work by Olhausen and Rathgen at the Konigliches Museum in Berlin and Rosenberg at the National Museum in Copenhagen. We are determined that our own country’s scholarship should not lag so far behind the Europeans, and naturally want our own institution and scholars at the forefront. ”
“Naturally,” Marigold agreed, looking at the folder with a wonderful admixture of enthusiasm and doubt—she had never been a particularly adept student of the sciences, despite her desire to excel.
But as her sweet mother used to say—even if sweet Esmé had not given birth to Marigold, she had still raised Marigold well—“We can’t all expect to be superior at everything, darling. Just try your best.”
“Excellent.” Julia Irvine took her assent for enthusiasm. “Professor Cleaver will be delighted to have such a mind as yours under her tutelage. I’m giving you the advantage of my notebooks on the subject to bring you up to speed, as it were.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Marigold accepted the bound notebooks with something approaching reverence.
“You are most welcome. I hope you will be pleased to learn that, as president, I’ve focused on using my institutional powers to elevate our academic standing with our brother and sister universities, and in doing so, Wellesley has at last been invited to join the American School for Classical Studies in Athens. ”
This was astonishing news. Marigold felt as if her ambitions had been given room to take wing. “How excellent.”
“Indeed. And as a member institution, I have requested and received a number of ancient coins from ongoing excavations—twenty-eight coins, to be exact—in need of restoration for our experiments. You’ll be working with those artifacts, and with Professor Cleaver, one on one.
But it will look very well on your own applications for fellowship with that same American School for Classical Studies in Athens, to which I am prepared to recommend you, if you can manage to regain your former academic footing. ”
The doubt flooded back. But with it came an equal share of determination. “I shall devote myself to nothing else, Professor—I beg your pardon, President Irvine.”
Julia Irvine stretched out her hand to take Marigold’s once more.
“I have every confidence that you will do so. Because I have one more, hopefully welcome, piece of advice. If you can get up to proverbial speed and excel in these last few courses required for your undergraduate degree, we are prepared to accept you as a master’s degree student in the spring semester.
We’d like the privilege of keeping you at Wellesley as long as we may. ”
Ambition seemed a mild word for the soaring feeling of possibility within her. And after so much harder luck last spring, Marigold was more than astonished at such soft, good fortune. “I should like nothing better.”
“Excellent. Now, I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you’re anxious to settle back in. Through Miss Burke’s excellent offices, we’ve secured you one of the larger corner rooms on the third floor, in the west transept, where you’ll be close to the Art Museum and the artifacts under study.”