Chapter 9 #2
An hour and a half later, Lucretius was still ringing through Marigold’s mind—summon to judgments true, Unbusied ears and singleness of mind, Withdrawn from cares—when the Japanese bell called her to luncheon.
The Classics Society table was as full as ever, especially the “Diggers” end, where the archaeologically minded gathered. Of suspicious Sarah Appleton and her superior linguists, there was no sign.
Another mark of distrustful behavior, if you asked Marigold.
But she would take advantage of their absence. “Aggie. Ladies. Good afternoon, all.”
“Oh, hello, Marigold. How goes it? I missed you at dinner last night,” Aggie said cheerfully before she seemed to recall herself. “Isn’t it awful?”
Marigold strove for the discretion the president had asked for. “I assume you are referring to the death on campus. Yes, it is awful, poor girl.”
Aggie reached for Marigold’s hand. “I hear you’re the one who pulled her out. Ethyl Rautencranz said so. She said it was very brave of you.”
How gratifyingly loyal of Ethyl to say Marigold had looked brave rather than desperate.
But one never wanted to make too much of oneself. “I hope I only did what any one of us would have—what was right.”
“Well, you did,” Aggie affirmed. “She said that you were as cool as a summer cucumber. I would have been shaking in my shoes.”
“I was shaking too, Aggie. I certainly was cold—the water was absolutely chilling this time of year. It was quite a shock.”
“As I imagine it was seeing her all dead like that.” Aggie’s face was as wide and wondering as a goldfish. “Did you really touch her?”
“No more than was necessary to pull her out of the water.” No need to add to the rumors piling up the place.
Aggie shook her head in admiration. “You really are the bravest person I know. I don’t even want to leave my room, what with President Irvine saying that it’s not safe to move about the campus alone.
And we might as well stay home, safe in our rooms, with so many extras canceled or postponed.
The golf course is closed, as is your boathouse. ”
“Clubs can only meet within College Hall,” another girl complained.
“And anything open to the public, like the music concert on Friday night and the Forensics and Debate Society’s upcoming special lecture on Saturday have been canceled too,” added another.
“I’m sure the concerts and lectures are only postponed,” Marigold assured them.
At least she hoped so—the Forensics and Debate Society’s lecture had been slated to address universal suffrage, a topic dear to Marigold, as well as many other Wellesley girls.
“We will solve the question of the unfortunate young woman’s identity and our academic lives can return to their natural rhythm. ”
But even as she said the soothing words, Marigold knew they could not possibly be true. That girl had been strangled, and strangled by someone who might still be about campus at that very moment. The thought sent an unwelcome shiver of alarm up her arms.
But Aggie seemed relieved. “You really are a wonder, Marigold.”
“Thank you.” Marigold decided protest was only prolonging this line of questioning, when she had questions of her own. “I wondered if later this afternoon I might take another look at that extraordinary hat you showed me the other day?”
“Certainly!” Aggie was all eagerness, until she caught something of Marigold’s seriousness. “But … why?”
“I hate to bring up ill tidings, but the reason I waded into the water at the boathouse to help the girl was that I thought she was you.”
“Me?” Aggie gaped at her. “But what would I be doing at the boathouse—I don’t row. Oh! You mean you thought I was the girl who you pulled from the lake—” She covered her mouth with her hand. “The dead girl?”
“Yes,” Marigold answered as gently as possible. “You see, she had a hat just like yours. I must say, I was extraordinarily relieved to find it wasn’t you.”
Aggie’s eyes grew as wide and glassy as tea saucers. “But she killed herself, didn’t she? Isn’t that what the papers are saying?”
“Tabloids,” Marigold said the word with all the disdain she felt. “Out to sell papers with lurid content that has very little to do with the actual facts.”
“Those weren’t the facts?”
“I should think not. Or rather, that is my opinion,” Marigold hedged, again attempting to recall her promises to both Dr. Barker and President Irvine.
“Then why don’t the better newspapers print the real facts?”
“Perhaps.” Marigold tried to be as circumspect as possible—there were impressionable young women around, and none more impressionable than the young woman before her—while still cleaving to the truth.
“Perhaps there are extenuating circumstances that forbid the college from making all the facts well known.”
“Why?”
“Because they have not yet identified the poor soul.” Marigold tried to be logical. “And they don’t want someone to find out about the death of their daughter or sister or friend from the front page of a lurid Boston tabloid.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose that would be awful.”
“We must trust President Irvine and Dr. Barker to know what’s best.” But the truth was, these girls—these vulnerable but thinking young women—deserved to know that they were likely still in danger.
Marigold didn’t think she was ever going to forget the way Dr. Barker had said the word “strangulation.” “I have my reasons to think President Irvine’s cautions quite necessary. It is her duty to keep us all safe.”
“Does that mean you think we’re not safe?” Aggie barely whispered the thought. “Did something happen when you went out alone last night? You never said—”
“Not at all. But note that I asked the lodge porter to accompany me across the campus, rather than walk home alone.” Marigold addressed the rest of the table as well.
“And until this unfortunate incident has been completely resolved, I would urge you all to do the same. Now, if the speaker on universal suffrage is postponed, perhaps we should have our own lively debate amongst ourselves.”
“Who are you going to find to argue against universal suffrage?” Aggie asked with a laugh.
“Perhaps those who are well-versed in biblical studies, as well as Classics, who feel their Christianity requires them to take a different view.”
They turned to find Sarah Appleton had made her return to the table.
“Well said, Sarah,” Marigold said with all the equanimity she could muster.
And in truth, she felt strongly that such differences of opinion ought to be expressed—how else were they to educate their minds and form their thinking?
“In such cases, I would advise those who do not believe in voting to exercise their conscience by simply not voting, while those who do want their voices to be heard within government should have the right to exercise their prerogative.”
“A very balanced, civilized solution,” Aggie opined before Sarah might say anything more cutting. “Thank you, Marigold.”
Marigold merely smiled—one never wanted to make too much of oneself—and turned her attention to her excellent roast-chicken soup.
Luncheon progressed with a thoughtful discussion of what changes they would vote for once they got the vote. “For it’s only a matter of time,” asserted one girl. “We’ll wear them down eventually, like water on stones—drip, drip, drip.”
“I’m tired of us being the drips. I’m ready for the rest of womankind to join us in a torrent,” another girl declared.
“I had hoped that the speaker on suffrage, Olivia Thayer, might address this in her lecture,” Aggie added, “but I understand she’s young and idealistic, and might not be as concerned with practical actions as we are.”
The name immediately sent an alarm bell ringing in Marigold’s head. “Thayer?” she echoed, while her brain clamored that there was no such thing as coincidence and her mind’s eye pictured Professor Currier scurrying into the Thayer house on Blossom Street. “Is she local?”
“Yes, I think, but you should ask Professor Currier, or someone in the Forensics and Debate Society—they’re sponsoring her.”
“Yes, I think I shall.” She would definitely be speaking to Professor Currier at her first opportunity. Because Imogen Currier clearly knew something—and something about Olivia Thayer—the rest of them did not.
And Marigold meant to find out exactly what that something was.