One Glorious Ambition (14 page)

On the appointed day the ballroom was alight with hundreds of candles. Fresh bouquets of mums had been garnered from numerous Boston gardens to decorate and scent the room. Women fanned themselves in the August heat as they caught glimpses of their pearls and jewels in the many mirrors set around the room to reflect the candlelight. Dorothea watched as the great man met
the eyes of everyone to whom he was introduced, bowing from his waist. Each person wanted to be blessed by his smile, his eyes, and he appeared to know it, meeting everyone’s expectations. He caused even older matrons to giggle with silliness when he kissed their hands. Or had he kissed them? No, Dorothea decided, he merely brushed his lips at the air above the women’s hands, which is what he did to Dorothea when she was introduced and properly curtsied to the Frenchman. Her heart pounded. Such a silly, girlish feeling. She wished she’d asked Marianna; she could move the girl forward between them, let the child have the attention.

His hair was combed forward, perhaps covering a balding spot, accentuating his long, sharp nose, his small mouth, and a deep dimple in his chin. He was portly and utterly charming. Although he spoke excellent English, Dorothea chose to address him in French when he stopped in front of her. She stumbled with her words, and her face turned as hot as a farrier’s forge.

“Your French is exquisite, mademoiselle.” She lowered herself into a curtsy. He lifted her chin as he spoke in English and took her hand. Her body reveled in alien sensation.
He touched me!

“Merci.”
His eyes were like marbles. They glowed. “I … I have long admired you, sir. For what you did for our country.”
My corset! It will be the death of my breath
. The general’s aide beside him whispered in his ear.

“Am I to understand that you are the famous young author and teacher?”

She regained her voice. “What I do is small in comparison to what you did to save the states.”

“I only helped your compatriots forge your nation. Teachers do the work to keep the flames of democracy burning that it might be forever shaped in the fashion of the people, oui?”

“Oui.”

“Your voice with its cello charm would be a joy to listen to each day. I envy your students.” The general released her hand with a single pat, sent a dazzling smile, then greeted the woman next to her with a silent nod. Dorothea felt moisture beneath her corset. How extraordinary! To be included in such an entourage. Her, a simple woman without a dowry. She fanned herself and caught Anne’s eye. Her friend was smiling.

Alone, Dorothea remembered the evening and the Marquis’s words, and her hands shook as she heated honey for her sore throat. Tears came to her eyes.

She wrote to Anne, “I was early taught by sorrow to shed tears and now when sudden joy lights up I find it difficult to repress the full and swelling tide of feeling. At least I did not embarrass myself or you by tears on the Marquis’s strong hands.”

The tea steeped, she wiped her eyes. Her hands shook as she sipped. She would be afraid to visit Lafayette again when he returned in September. She would gush and make a fool of herself. What was the matter with her? A proper Boston woman simply did not bare her emotions to the world as though they were shoulders, inviting attention. Becoming giddy, almost tearful, when meeting a war hero suggested that she was childish, pedestrian, or
worse—not in control of her reason. She swallowed a gasp.
Is that it? Do I fear becoming my mother in those moments?

She slipped beneath the sheets and stared at the open window. She needed to be busier, take on new tasks, forgo any party invitations, leave no moments unscheduled, no time to ponder the origin of tears and giddiness. She would tutor Marianna on the days she could not be in school. They would roam the woods together. She would help the girl write little poems. She would work with the Fragment Society, the group from church who took knitted baby clothes to the tenement houses of the textile mill workers. Like the boy who gave his fish and bread for the feeding of the five thousand, she would give all she had to give. Perhaps there would be fragments left over to serve others. If not fish and bread, then books and time to tutor children. Yes, keeping busy. That’s what mattered.

In the weeks that followed Lafayette’s visit, Dorothea pressed herself further, rushed in where she might have rested. “Please, Mrs. Hudson. Could you leave the porridge out so that I might get it by four o’clock tomorrow morning? It took me more time than I can spare to have my breakfast.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I—”

“No, I’m sorry. I ought not to speak so sharply.”

“You’re very thin, Miss Dix, if I may say so. Your collar could reach twice around your neck.”

Dorothea grabbed at her throat. She swept back toward her
room. There was no need to chastise Mrs. Hudson. The woman did her work well. Why was not being able to find the porridge to heat this morning so upsetting? And it was where it usually was anyway. Dorothea overlooked it. Was she getting thin? She stared into a mirror.

Later, at the monitorial school, an assistant approached her, lightly touching her hand. She startled. “Miss Dix? Mistress Billings asked a question.”

“Did she? I’m sorry. My mind wandered. Not a good thing for a teacher, now is it?” She patted her assistant’s shoulder, then asked the girl to repeat her question. She ignored the curious look on her assistant’s face. Was she becoming like her mother?

When word came via messenger that the book was going into a third printing, she let Anne know first. Her royalties were growing and she would send some now to her mother’s family, for her care. The publisher would add “and Families” on the front piece so people would know
Conversations
was not for teachers only. And Munroe added Dorothea’s name, her discovery of the fact too late to protest. She wasn’t sure she wanted to object anyway.

“I so do not know what a family truly is,” Dorothea told Anne. “Except for my time with yours. I fear the name is misleading, that I should be so bold as to instruct families.”

“I always said you had talent,” Anne told her. They walked arm in arm along the cobbled streets of Beacon Hill. They admired the window boxes of flowers, stopped to name the varieties, and heard birds twittering in the verdant trees. Blue sky was an
umbrella over their heads. “Talent is a currency,” Anne said, “and you spend it wisely. I’m glad your name is at last on that book.”

“Is it sinful to appreciate recognition?”

“Of course not, though it would make an interesting discussion over our Sunday table—should you ever find time to join us. But I doubt that sharing one’s talents could be called sinful, even if there is recognition for it. Are you still glowing in the Marquis’s words?”

“No. I’ve rethought my tears alone in my room. There was no real recognition. His aide simply told him who I was.”

“But he said kindly things about your teaching. And your voice.”

They watched as a carthorse made its way along the street. It looked tired and hot.

“There ought to be fountains for the horses,” Dorothea noted.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes. To suggest that I understand families … this is misleading, I think. You are my only family, Anne. The only family who gives me what I so desperately need.” Her voice caught and she turned away.
And Marianna, whom I would claim as my own if allowed
.

Anne pulled her arm around Dorothea’s shoulder. “You are always welcome in our home.”

Dorothea nodded and wiped at pesky tears. She prayed the promise would never be revoked. She wasn’t sure she could survive if it was.

Dorothea picked up Marianna on a fall day, and they went to the stables, where she and Anne often rode. She was making time for pleasure. Anne said she needed respite, and Dr. Channing concurred. Time with Marianna gave her that. Orange, red, and brown leaves drifted from trees into fall-like colors on Marianna’s paint pallet. Horses raced along the fences, then turned and stopped, full of play, then started again, tails raised, manes flowing.

“They’re so big.” Marianna, though now nearly eight years old, was a slight child. The tiny blue veins in the back of her hands were like etchings on fine silver. Her curls flowed beneath her brown straw hat wrapped in white gossamer. Two satin ribbons like a waterfall flowed down her back as she stepped in front of Dorothea.

“They are. But you’re strong enough to handle a gentle horse. We’ll find the perfect animal to introduce you to.”

The girl stepped onto the bottom rail of the corral, white ruffles from her dress cascading over her heels.
Is she washing her own clothes?
She hung over the top with her elbows. “That one! The pretty red one.”

“Chestnut, that’s the correct name for the color.”

“Could I ride that chestnut, Auntie? The one that’s looking at me? Oh,” she squealed. “He’s coming right toward me!”

“I think it’s a she, but it does look like she’s picked you out.” The mare lowered her head to Marianna’s face, soft brown eyes
watching the child. Marianna’s hat ribbons fluttered in the wind, but the sudden movement did not bother the horse.
She’ll be steady for the girl
. Marianna touched the nose of the mare, and the animal wiggled its whiskers. Marianna laughed. “Let’s see what we can do to further your introduction.”

They walked to the barn, the child’s hand like soft butter in her palm. The horse trotted along the fence beside them. It was a great day. Dorothea hadn’t said where they were going and perhaps she should have. But Grace hadn’t asked. They’d be fine. Nothing would happen. This was a good stable, and all they’d do today is walk Marianna around on the back of the mare.

“Can we do it again, Auntie?” Marianna had taken a dozen turns around the corral, stepped down, and patted the horse’s nose. A lovely, uneventful day.

“Let’s take her to the water trough.” Dorothea checked her chain watch. “We should return soon so your mother won’t worry.”

Marianna petted the horse and said, “Mummy’s dying.”

Dorothea stopped and looked at the girl. “Oh. No. She’s just very ill.”