One Glorious Ambition (13 page)

“I have my students’ and their parents’ recognition. That’s enough.” She looked away, then said, “I would share this with you, and only you, Anne. I do not want the world’s applause, but I would so like to be a fitting companion of the Virtuous Great.”

“It’s a glorious ambition to wish to receive ‘well done, good
and faithful servant’ from God Himself,” Anne told her and clasped her hand.

“I want that so much, with an intentness that threatens to annihilate the little stability that now sustains me.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “What a strange thing for you to say, Thea. You seem quite the stable woman to me. More so than many I could name.”

Dorothea gave a choked laugh. “Of course.” She pulled her hands from Anne’s, fluttered them, dismissive. “I’m not sure what I was thinking. God, through your friendship, has given me all I’ve needed to be on solid footing for my life. I am forever grateful. Forget what I said about my annihilation. I … was being dramatic, something I rarely am. It must be the vapors coming on.”

That evening alone in her room, she wrote to Grace and Marianna, asking if the child might be able to go to a concert with her at the Harvard campus. She had received no note of invitation from Grace, so she took the initiative with courage. She told Grace of her publishing contract too. Sharing a good thing with family was acceptable, wasn’t it? The letter sealed, she fixed herself hot water with lemon and honey to fend off a sore throat and cough. Why did her cough seem to follow on the heels of consternation?

The thought of her name attached to the book had upset her. She wondered if Grace’s cough might be related to the same kind of thing, a bodily response to an emotional turn of events. Nonsense. Grace had seen doctors. She thought Grace might suffer from consumption, and hoped it wasn’t. Dorothea’s cough was simply from the fall foliage making her throat feel as rough as
poor paper. She blew out the candle, but sleep came late, riding on the recycling of her day.

Marianna wrote in reply, her tiny script saying she could not attend the concert but could Miss Dix please come to tea.
Miss Dix—no longer Auntie
.

The next day Dorothea walked to the small brownstone where Marianna and Grace lived. River mist her companion. Marianna was sweeping the brick steps of wet leaves as she approached.

“Hello, Aunt—Miss Dix.” She curtsied, then dropped the broom and ran to her, hugging Dorothea’s black skirts. “I’m so glad you came. Can we draw?”

“Whatever you like. But I thought I came for tea.”

“Mummy is fixing tea, but I’d rather draw.”

“Fancy that. I happen to have brought a set of paints with me. Would you like to try your hand at that?”

“Oh yes! Come! I’ll tell Mummy and she can watch.”

Dorothea did not gasp when she saw Grace was as slender as a cap ribbon and just as limp. “Grace. You’re … may I help … you’re so … frail.”

“I am. I am. But Marianna wanted you to come. And so did I. Please, sit.”

Dorothea removed the reticule from her wrist and placed the carpetbag with the paints and small easel at her feet. Grace poured the tea, and the steam and the scent of mint lifted from the cups.

Dorothea glanced at Grace, then moved her eyes to the tea and added cream and sugar. She searched for words. Grace was so much worse.

Marianna pressed herself into Dorothea’s side. “Mummy’s been sicker.”

“No. I haven’t. Just more tired.” The defense brought on a cough. “Why don’t you go to your room and draw for a bit. Let Miss Dix and me talk.”

“She brought paints.”

“I did.” Dorothea opened the carpetbag. “Here they are.” Marianna smelled the pigments. “Why not take them to your room, as your mother suggested. We’ll join you in a moment.”

Grace nodded approval and the child skipped off.

“I asked you to come because—”

“You want me to take her.” Dorothea was breathless, pressed her hands over Grace’s. “I understand. It would be so much easier for you both. I’ll take very good care of her, I will. She is an adorable child, and my looking after her will give you the chance to truly get better.”

Grace leaned back in her chair. “No! No! Nothing like that. I asked you to come to tell you that Marianna may attend only two days now at your school. I need her here.”

“I … Of course.” Dorothea’s face warmed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I only want to help. You suffer so.”

“I haven’t forgotten your … offer, Miss Dix. But, for now, your being her teacher is what I need, just not as many days.”

“She’ll be missed.”
I’ll miss her so much
.

“Then enjoy her today as much as you can.”

Dorothea’s first book came out in the spring of 1824. The publisher held a small party for her that summer. The Heath girls attended, along with some of the Harvard students. Mary charmed the room; her dimples and tinkling laughter were a magnet for the men. Dorothea wore a sable-colored linen dress with a feather-like bustle and matching collar, as dressed-up as she ever was. She allowed herself a moment of pleasure looking in the mirror before entering the room where all turned and applauded. Sales were rapid. Parents as well as teachers purchased it. As a result, an educational reformer approached Dorothea to teach at the Female Monitorial School in Boston. She would lead an afternoon session of needlework for seventy girls—if she accepted.

“Quite the sugar in your tea,” Anne said when Dorothea shared the news.

“Madam Dix said I was a novice for professor-level work.”

“So will you do it? It means your days will be totally filled.”

Dorothea wondered if she should. She would teach Orange
Court classes in the morning, the monitorial classes in the afternoon until supper—if she took the position—and then her carriage house classes in the evening. She wanted to resume the latter. On Saturday mornings she helped Cookie wash the laundry at the cottage, and maybe, if Grace consented, she might tutor Marianna in the afternoon. She’d have Sundays for church services and visits with the Heaths. Not to mention she was already working on another book, writing in the early morning. Full days would relieve her soul of loneliness.

George Emerson led the school. He was a fatherly man with white hair, oozing wisdom and soft words. His new approach for instruction used schedules and activities as a way to prevent student disruption and restlessness. Assistants drilled small groups of younger students, moving quickly from one drill to another. In this way, Dorothea could manage seventy girls at a time while she supervised numerous assistants. She would be training future teachers and thus expanding the moral influence of education. She decided to accept.

In her own school, Dorothea noticed the older girls achieved more success with the students than she did. She found herself relying on the placard for discipline, and she was sharper with her words. “When you work with the girls, they seem more … attentive,” Dorothea whispered to an assistant at the Orange Court school. They were eating goat cheese and Mrs. Hudson’s fresh bread in the corner of the library. “You’ve never brought out the placard, have you?”

“I have not.”

“Why is that?” The girl hesitated. “You don’t have to be afraid. Just tell me what you think.”

“They see you as playing favorites, Miss Dix. I’m careful not to do so.”

“Favorites? I don’t think so.”

“Marianna.” She whispered the name so the child wouldn’t hear. “You let her skip assignments and seem blind to her … giggling and distractions. You never have any corrections for her even when she shows a need for additional guidance.”

“Her mother is ill.” Dorothea licked her finger, dabbed at a crumb on her bodice.

“Many have ill mothers or circumstances that affect their concentration, Miss Dix.” She dropped her eyes.

“Favorites … I hadn’t been aware.”

The assistant, emboldened, said: “If I might add, you’ve been short of late. Impatient with the older students, which only adds to the disorder when the younger children hear your sharp tone and worry over upsetting you but not knowing why.”

Dorothea wanted to snap back that if her assistant had any idea of how much time and work it took to teach three schools, meet with parents, confer with publishers, write letters, read to her grandmother, do the laundry for her and her brothers, and darn her own socks, she would understand why a woman sometimes lost her temper. Dorothea felt her face grow warm. “Best we get back to our duties.”

She needed to find ways to save time and decided to wear only her black linen dress each day, easily brushed every evening. She would eat porridge for breakfast and work on her book projects while she ate, finishing with prayers and Scripture readings. She would forgo Sunday afternoons at the Heaths and use the time to visit the parents of the carriage house students, perhaps offer a class for them on Saturday afternoons. Their children would learn better if the parents also had increased education. Sunday messages by Reverend Channing were a must. Dorothea’s sore throat came and went, but if she napped Sunday evenings, perhaps she could nurse it away.

“Your friends, the Heaths, express concern for you, Miss Dix,” Reverend Channing told her one Sunday as she was leaving church, Anne having stepped out in front of her. “They fear you overdo with your many hours of service to so many.”

“Is that not what we are called to do, Reverend?”

“Even the Lord went away by Himself at times to rest.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

She chatted briefly with Anne, declining her usual invitation. She rode home with Reverend Channing’s words ringing in her ears. Was he telling her to stop her services to others? Was he chastising her? Or did he want her to know that she was worried over? She liked imagining that this fatherly soul cared for her personal well-being. But it was his inspiration, his passion for service, that
sent her on this task. Maybe he was telling her something else? But she wasn’t sure of the message.

“You have to come,” Anne insisted. “It’s the Marquis de Lafayette’s opening fete on Beacon Hill. All the desirables will be there. And you, as a published author, famous teacher, child of a Dix—you have to attend. Besides, I’ve heard this rumor that ‘Miss Dix is engaged to her former French teacher.’ You must come dressed with your elegant shoulders bare and your hair coiled to the sky and flirt with every available man there so as to dispel the rumors.”

“I haven’t seen my French tutor for years,” she squinted at Anne. “You’re making that up.”

“Not about the party for the Marquis.” Anne drew closer. “You’ve always said you admired him and the help he gave our country. You wished your father held such bravery.” Dorothea rubbed her temples with her fingers. “The president is attending! Papa got us all invitations. You deserve a party.”

She did admire the Marquis. Had she shared her comparison with her father with Anne? It might be pleasant to say she had seen the president of the United States. Maybe her grandmother would be pleased. “I might not know how to talk with him if he should speak to me.” She laughed and added, “Maybe I should just wait outside and jump into his carriage when he arrives and kiss his hand.”

“I would love to see such spontaneity from you!”

“It isn’t likely.” Why had she said such a thing? “But I will come. I’ll even let my students out early in honor of the great man’s visit.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve had any time together.” Anne pressed her head toward Dorothea’s. “It’ll be fun to do something grand. I’ll loan you a dress, if you would like.”

“If I’m to bare my shoulders, you’ll have to,” Dorothea laughed. “I wonder if we could get an invitation for Marianna. What a thrill that would be for the child.”
And I would have a real purpose for being there, exposing her to such greatness
.

Anne stepped back. “You are pouring your heart into that girl and I worry for you, Thea. Besides, Marianna and her mother can hear of the great man from you. I think that should be close enough, don’t you?”

She didn’t know if that would be “close enough.” Threads of worry for the child and her mother and a wish for herself kept entangling, never pulling closer to be sewn into something predictable and firm.