One Glorious Ambition Page 5

  Dorothea was surprised one day by the sound of giggling and turned to see two girls snickering and passing notes—and wasting paper—while she was instructing the younger children. She noticed the younger children’s attention stray, their eyes casting curious glances between the rowdy girls and the teacher.

  “There must be a consequence,” Dorothea told the girls.

  The two looked up but kept an amused look on their faces.

  “Order and self-discipline is what’s important,” Dorothea said. What if they defy me? Her father’s impatience as she bound his books came to her, the switch he used stinging in her memory. “I would be remiss if I allowed you to express your emotions inappropriately. Laughing and giggling when you’re to be working does not demonstrate the qualities of fine young ladies.” She allowed a bit of her father’s seething quiet to infuse her words but heard her heart pounding in her ears, her face growing warm.

  “What will you do?” One of the girls said, her eyes as big as biscuits. She was the daughter of a cotton exporter and well knew a life of ease.

  “Switching ain’t so bad,” one of the boys said.

  “Isn’t so bad,” Dorothea corrected without looking at him. “Except that it is.” Dorothea knew one could endure switching, but the scars were constant reminders of both one’s disobedience and one’s confusion over grave disfavor living in the eyes of someone loved who could cause such pain.

  “Will you switch us?” Color faded from both of the girls’ faces. Dorothea blinked. In that moment, she saw fear and suffering in their eyes. It had come from her, from someone who cared about them, who only wanted the best for them. Obedience, self-control, and respect were all important. So is compassion.

  Dorothea looked at her palms, rubbed them, and pushed them behind her. She remembered the humiliation of the switch. Shame was a terrible motivator. “No, Cora, I believe I will not switch you or Isabelle. Instead, if this happens again, where you are disrespectful of other children’s learning time and fail to find a good use of your mind, you will make a placard. You will carry it around your neck through the remainder of the day. Then you will wear the placard home. As you walk through the streets of Worcester, the shopkeepers and deliverymen will see you for what you are and you will have to explain to your parents what brought on your new attire.”

  “What … what will the sign say?”

  “ ‘I was a bad girl—or boy—today.’ Your parents, not I, will administer the discipline when they see you have brought shame upon them. And making the sign will help you work on your lettering. We’ll go to the woodshed after lunch and see what we can find. All of you. Each of you may as well find the wood for your own placard. You’ll likely need it.”

  Satisfied that she had a plan, she turned back to the younger children and prayed she would not hear giggling. Cora and Isabelle now found great interest in their lessons.

  A light hand. Remembering one’s pains and making sure others do not suffer the same, surely that was as powerful a lesson as the pain of a switch.

  Six

  Why Are You Crying Now?

  Dorothea gave every waking moment—except Sundays—to her school. She thought up new ways to engage her students. They took more trips into the woods and along streams, and if someone asked a question Dorothea didn’t know how to answer, she would say, “We’ll consider that tomorrow.” At night she would pore through the books in the library, seeking the answer. Once or twice she asked the question at the dinner table, and if a guest was startled by her wondering where paper came from or what zinc was, the men seemed pleased to pontificate on the subject and did not seem at all offended.

  She broached a local printer for the remains of paper discards and dried ink. She revived the ink with vinegar. She sought permission and received it from the Fiskes’ cook to collect turkey quills and refine them into pens. She had the children write letters to her about their days, naming any questions they might have or telling what they liked or did not like about schooling. While she told herself it was to have them practice their writing, she found she looked forward to knowing how they thought.

  I took Jessie’s apple. Please forgive me, Auntie.

  I’m sorry I fell asleep during needlework. My fingers got tired.

  My little brother bit me and I bit him back.

  You are the most beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful woman I ever seen. I’m sorry if I stare.

  In the evenings, she wrote stories for the children much as she had done for Charles in years past. One day she received a letter from Charles. He was excited about the sea and wanted to become a merchant marine when he grew up. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was destined for Harvard if her grandmamma was still alive to make that happen. Joseph also wrote now, but she could tell her father had spent little time working on his lettering. He was only five, but her five-year-old students wrote complete, though short, sentences already. Joseph wrote only his name and drew pictures.

  At evening meals, she sat straighter at the Fiske table. Her payments to them might have resulted in the pork roast or the side of bacon they ate. She declined invitations from Mary’s friends to parties, and while her aunt sometimes raised an eyebrow, Dorothea guessed the increased income overrode her finding a husband in Worcester.

  “You’ll come for supper?” a parent asked Dorothea one Friday at the close of the day. “Our Suzanne has done so well under your tutelage. We would be pleased to have you join us.”

  “I’d … I’d be honored.” Conversations with her students’ parents proved far less stressful than those with potential suitors. The meals were lively with the children present, and the stories they told from their schooling gave Dorothea special recognition. She smiled so much her face was sore during the carriage ride home, and she breathed a prayer of gratitude. This was her destiny. To teach. To touch. She was so grateful to have found a love of her life, even if it wasn’t the suitor for whom her grandmamma hoped.

  Nearly five years into her time at Worcester, when Dorothea had grown to know the grounds by heart and love them, Aunt Sarah called her into the parlor.

  Her aunt lowered herself with her cane onto the settee. She had aged, and her face powder highlighted the deep wrinkles around her mouth rather than hid them. Dorothea suspected that chronic pain brought on many of those lines. She and her aunt often talked in the parlor about small issues related to the school, so she assumed this was why they met.

  “It seems we have failed you, Dolly.”

  “You’ve done nothing of the sort. You’ve been more than kind to me and allowed me to find the passion of my heart—teaching.”

  Her aunt sighed and shook her head. “Though you are now nineteen, you are no closer to finding a suitable mate than when you first arrived. We are well into the new decade, and yet you have no prospects for your future.”

  “The school has been a success. This is my future.”

  “It has been a fine service. But that was not your purpose in being sent here.” The arthritic knuckles of Sarah’s hands sat like white porcelain doorknobs on her cane. “I have enjoyed your presence, Dolly.”

  Her aunt’s words warmed. “Thank you. I hope that my presence helps fill the empty days with Mary gone.”

  “I shall have to find another way, I fear,” she sighed. “Your grandmother has called you to Orange Court.”

  “For a visit?”

  “No. You’re to live there permanently. My mother is getting older, and having you to assist her will be very useful. Especially now.”

  Dorothea felt pain like an ice chip stuck in her throat. She’d always said she wanted to return to be with Charles and Joseph, but now she had her students. “What do you mean by ‘especially now’?”

  Tears filled her aunt’s eyes. “We’ve received word. Your father, my brother, has died. He was irresponsible and unpredictable, but I loved him.” She wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I didn’t think it possible to love and be angry with someone at the sa
me time.”

  That was a lesson Dorothea knew well.

  “What … what did he die of?”

  “Consumption, though it was likely hastened by his … consumption of liquor.”

  Emotion rattled like stones in her chest. “Your mother has been sent to live with relatives in New Hampshire. Mama is bringing your brothers—and you—to live with her now. To Orange Court. She has need of you, and I suspect she thinks she can be a better matchmaker than we have been.”

  “Charles and Joseph? They’ll be at Orange Court?”

  “They will indeed. And I suspect you may be asked to provide instruction for them. Mama’s situation has changed. Your father left you nothing.”

  A bitterness came into her tone, and Dorothea wondered about all the money her grandmamma had given her father over the years—land he had sold, businesses he had begun and abandoned—resources no longer available to the other Dix descendants either.

  “So you can assist your grandmamma now in her declining years as you are as yet unencumbered. And having seven- and eleven-year-old boys about will not be easy on her. You are needed there, Dolly. I will miss you.” Her aunt’s voice caught. She raised her head and announced, “You shall leave in the morning.”

  “But … my students!”

  Sarah hesitated. “Yes. Something must be done for them.” She tapped her fingers on her cane, reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. “I’ll speak with their parents.”

  “They’ll need other schools. Please, I need to tell them of my leaving.”

  “They’ll adapt, Dolly. You’re not the only person in their lives, you know.”

  They are the most important persons in mine. “It’s unprofessional to simply quit. Your husband would never leave his patients without an alternative should he stop treating them, would he? It’s a matter of … honor to do the right thing.”

  Her aunt sighed. “You’re correct. I’ll send word to Orange Court that you’ll be ready in a week.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Aunt Sarah.” She rubbed her fingers at her temples, then asked, “My father … did he leave a letter … anything … for me?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “Will there be a funeral?”

  “The Methodists took care of that. He’s gone and buried.”

  “And my mother …” She had to ask, had to know if she had improved or still wandered in her mind.

  “My mother did not say. Only that her relatives were willing to take her in, just not the children. She was never … right, you know, Dorothea. There was always something that blocked her from thinking clearly, from doing what a mother needs to do. Unfortunate from the time my brother rescued her, for that’s what it was really. A rescue. Just as your grandmamma is now rescuing your brothers and you from poverty and indistinction.”

  The rocks in Dorothea’s heart continued to rattle as she made her way to her room. She’d soon be with Charles and Joseph, but she would have to say good-bye to her students. She’d be staying with her grandmother and brothers in the mansion of Orange Court. She’d have a family. But her father had died with no word for her, not a single thread to cling to that he had cared for her. Her mother was whisked away to be looked after by others.

  Dorothea spent the evening writing a letter to each student that she would distribute in the morning. As she finished the last one, tears smeared the ink. She tore up that missive and began again, but not until she had wiped her eyes and splashed cold water from the porcelain basin onto her face.

  “Why are you crying now?” she asked herself out loud. Because those children filled your empty life, and now you’re leaving them. Because your father has died.

  In the morning she handed out the letters after telling the students she would be closing the school.

  “You have an eye for plants and flowers, Master Hamilton. That will enable you to bring forth food and beauty from your family garden and perhaps one day an orchard or a farm.”

  “Thank you, Miss Dix,” the boy said. He was eleven now and tall for his age. “I’m sorry you have to go away.”

  “I am too,” she told him. “You continue to study in these areas that you may be faithful for meeting the needs of your wife and children one day.” She handed him the letter she had written. “My note to you describes your many attributes. I hope you’ll save it, and when you are feeling low, reread it to know that you are a capable young man. Even your grammar is vastly improved.”

  “Did you say that in the letter?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. Your father will be pleased.”

  “Miss Otis.” She handed the cotton merchant’s daughter her letter. “I have seen you encourage the younger children in their studies. You have the gift of compassion and perhaps teaching as well, though the latter requires a stern position at times. You must remember that, dear Isabelle. The placard is a gift for teaching discipline, as you well know.” Only once had Isabelle worn her status around her neck.

  Each child received her full attention. She saw each as singular and unique, like jonquils that bloom in spring, and hoped her words made each child feel the same.

  “You have been my family,” she concluded, tears now seeping from her eyes. I must not lose control. “And I will miss you. I promise, if you write to me, I will write back. But I also know your lives will change and you will have a new teacher one day to help you make your way. You may find little time to write to Miss Dix. But I will not forget you. Not ever. Now, let us take out our slates and work on today’s spelling words. I’ve made up a new list.”

  She turned her back as though reaching for the list, but instead she held herself steady against the sideboard until she felt strong enough to finish the day and let them go on without her.

  Seven

  Orange Court’s Welcome

  The ride to Orange Court took two days, the journey giving Dorothea time enough to imagine her homecoming. She would hug her grandmother the way her youngest students hugged her when they arrived in the classroom. She recalled the feel of their small arms around her neck, the scent of their morning toilet, the press of cheek to smooth cheek. As she adjusted to the bumps on the road and grabbed the coach side to straighten herself on the carriage seat, she thought it might be joy she had felt with the morning touches of her students. Happiness.

  She hoped she would find joy inside Orange Court in the arms of her brothers and grandmamma at long last. She imagined what Charles would look like, those intense blue-gray eyes they shared. Would he remember her at all? And Joseph. He had been a toddler when she had last seen him.

  She wondered which relatives had taken in her mother. Why hadn’t they come forward when help was so desperately needed when Joseph was small, when Charles was little, when Dorothea cowered to avoid her father’s rage and her mother’s absence as she sat before them, listlessly poking food with her fork.

  She must not dwell on that. Aunt Sarah had said it was best to let her mother be in the care of “her people.” Dorothea’s disciplined mind must not permit despair over what had already been. She was going home to safety, to family. She had her brothers, and she would celebrate that, wrap her arms around them. They would stand like the circle of friends she sometimes witnessed among her students when they played outside.

  The long driveway swept up the hill to the mansion that wasn’t quite as elegant as the other estates on Beacon Hill. Last year’s leaves clustered at the base of the hedges, and the gate to the pear garden swung back and forth in the spring breeze. Either someone had forgotten to latch it or the latch was broken. What appeared to be a stray cat hovered near the corner lilac bush, then scattered like a windswept leaf when Dorothea stepped from the carriage.

  The driver lowered her two trunks, leaving them on the driveway as he pulled the carriage away. This time there would be no Beatrice to help her unpack. Saying good-bye to her had been a tearful affair, one she was glad Mary was not around to witness. Her good-byes to her aunt and uncle had also surprised her
with the size of the ache in her heart. She heard the clop-clop of the horses leaving across the cobblestones. She gazed up at the three-story building that would be her home at last.

  Where were the boys? her grandmamma?

  She lifted her skirts and climbed the steps. She opened the door. “Grandmamma? Charles? Joseph? I’m here. It’s me, Thea.”

  Silence.

  She called out again, then made her way through the long hallway, past the staircase, beyond the dining room on her right and the parlor on her left. She looked briefly inside each room. “Is anyone here?”

  “Excuse me?” The voice startled her and she turned. The woman must have been upstairs when Dorothea entered. “May I ask who you are?”

  “Dorothea Lynde Dix. I’m to live here.” She faced a woman as tall as herself, with large hands she now wiped on a rag she had been cleaning with.

  “Ah. The granddaughter. I’m Mrs. Hudson. I manage this boardinghouse.”

  “Boardinghouse? But my grandmother—”

  “Has taken over the caretaker’s cottage. Along with her cook. She pointed with her chin toward the small house to the east.

  “My brothers?”

  “Ah. The rascals. They live in the cottage as well.” She motioned for Dorothea to move into the parlor and take a seat. Mrs. Hudson sat across from her, using the rag to wipe dust from the round table beside the divan.

  “My trunks should be taken to the cottage then.”

  “I have a room set aside for you. I understand you’ve been operating a school in Worcester. That will be fine. Most of the boarders are gone during the day, and the extra income will serve us both well—along with your grandmother. The boys have need of schooling, I can assure you of that!”