In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,63

and a lovely spring day awaited me as I came out of the inn, my stomach full of hotcakes, sausage, and maple syrup. The hotcakes and maple syrup were a new experience for me, one that I looked forward to repeating. I soon realized that it was Saturday. The college was not bustling with students as it had been the day before. No doubt they were enjoying sleeping in after a hard week of study, or a harder night at the taverns!

I turned off Main Street as directed and found myself on Buckley. Miss Addison’s was announced on a painted sign swinging outside a dignified old white clapboard house. I went up the path and knocked on the front door. A maid opened it and immediately I heard the sound of girlish laughter coming from a back room. I explained my mission and was admitted to a parlor, where I was soon joined by Miss Addison herself—a venerable old woman with upright carriage, steel-gray hair, and steely eyes. I explained my visit.

“You remember Lydia Johnson?” I asked.

Her face softened. “Indeed I do. A bright girl. Very bright indeed. Loved to read. Absolutely devoured books. And not just light, fluffy novels that most girls of her age love. She’d wade through the biographies and the histories, finish them in no time, and beg for more. She wanted very much to go to college but her father wouldn’t hear of her going away. We tried to persuade him that a ladies’ institution like Vassar or Smith would be suitable and safe, but he wouldn’t bend. It’s always a shame when a good brain goes to waste, I think.”

“I agree,” I said. “So would you happen to know of any women who were Lydia’s friends while she was here, with whom she might have kept in contact after she moved away?”

“I couldn’t tell you with whom she corresponded,” Miss Addison said, “but I could take a look at her class records. Let me see. She would have been the class of seventy-seven, wouldn’t she? Please take a seat.”

She went and I amused myself by looking at graduation pictures of past years—all similar young girls in white, holding sprays of flowers like brides, their faces alive and hopeful, also like brides. How many of them went on to use their minds and pursue their dreams, I wondered. There was a squeal outside the door and a girl rushed in, her red-blond curls tied back in a big bow, a gingham pinafore over her dress. She saw me, started with a look of alarm, and turned bright red.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize anybody was here. We were just—”

“I’m going to get you, Mary Ann,” another girl’s voice shouted outside. “You just wait and—” It fell silent.

“Letitia. Young ladies never raise their voices. How many times do I have do tell you?” came the headmistress’s deep voice.

“Sorry, Miss Addison,” came the muttered response.

Mary Ann slunk out of the room as Miss Addison reentered. “I apologize for that little outburst,” she said with just the hint of a smile. “It is Saturday and the girls do need to let off steam occasionally.” She came to sit beside me on the sofa. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Here we are. Lydia Johnson. Now let me see. Rose Brinkley—she’s still in town. Married a professor at Williams. What was his name? Sutton. That’s it. And Jennie Clark. She married locally. Herman Waggoner. He’s a doctor. Went into partnership with his father here in town. And Hannah Pike. I seem to remember that she and Lydia were good friends. She hasn’t married but she became a professor at Mount Holyoke ladies’ college. A proud moment for me, as you can imagine.”

I was rather afraid she’d go down the whole list, giving me the history of each graduate, so I interrupted. “So were any of these girls Lydia’s particular friends, do you recall? How about Rose Sutton, née Brinkley?”

“Yes, I think she and Lydia were tight. And Lydia and Hannah Pike, of course.”

“Would you know how I could locate Rose Brinkey?”

“He’s a professor of history here at the college, so the history department should be able to give you that information. And Doctor Waggoner has his practice on South Street, if you wish to speak to Jennie, his wife.”

“Thank you for your time.” I stood up and shook hands. “This should give me something to go on. If I learn nothing from the women here in Williamstown, then