One Glorious Ambition (18 page)

“I’ve never been out of New England.”

“Then it’s time.”

Dorothea wrote two books while in Philadelphia. She visited a new school for the deaf but avoided the Asylum for the Relief of Persons Deprived of Their Reason. She wasn’t sure why.

A compilation of poems and descriptions of flowers and plants she called
The Garland of Flora
was published by a new publisher. It was out for two months when she read the first reviews. They were not kind.

“I shall not attempt another book that might inflict such disgust upon the literary scene,” she told her publisher when she returned to Boston.

“Ignore the critics. The books are selling,” he told her.

“There is too much of me in those works. I ought only to write things on behalf of others. A proper woman does not put herself into the fray, no matter how popular the cause.” Could she be anonymous again? “I don’t want to be unknown. But to be
known sets me apart in ways unacceptable to a proper woman’s place.”

Her publisher reminded her that her royalties helped support her until such time as she would marry. “Write until that time.”

She bristled. “There is something more I am to do in my life,” she told him. “I have yet to have it revealed to me. Until I do, no more books will be forthcoming.” She wished Anne were again her close friend, who could help her through this time of negative reviews and uncertain purpose. Sarah Gibbs told her to ignore the reviewers. “Most are jealous they haven’t written a book themselves.” Dorothea wasn’t so sure. Their words had the tinge of truth, that her words lacked passion.

Dorothea returned to Boston and took the bold move of renting a house on her own. If she was not to write, then she must go back to being a teacher. She hired a cook and a laundress. She wrote to Charles, telling him he had a place to return to when he came home from sea, and she invited Joseph to consider the house his home as well.

Fourteen-year-old Joseph responded that he might come to her house if he could find employment in that area of the city. “I seek a business career,” he told her. Which is what Joseph then did, securing a post that would take him to Asia. He came once for dinner at Dorothea’s home, nodding as he surveyed her parlor, saying she had “furnished it well.”

She opened yet another school, taking only girls this time and
naming it The Hope. She charged eighty dollars for a twelve-week course, a fee much higher than the ladies’ academy and four times the charge of the Female Monitorial School. Higher fees were necessary, she decided, because the students would lodge at the house, have their laundry done, have clothing mended, have church seats and transportation costs to and from the school covered. She poured herself into this singular business allowing the school to consume her. Teaching must be her ambition, she decided. She nursed ill students to health, took them with her to her pew, and was humbled when parents told her their daughters had learned of Christ through her, for which they were grateful. This must be how she was to spend her life.

Yet one winter, Dorothea accepted with gratitude for the interruption an invitation to again travel with the Channings, this time to the sultry island of St. Croix. While poverty surrounded them like the silent slaves that waited on them at the large estate where they stayed, it was the ravishing of the land that Dorothea wrote about to Sarah Gibbs, who had stayed behind.

She complained of the cane plantation’s devastation to what must have been a jewel on the crown of creation. But of the condition of the slaves she said little, only commenting that the “workers were well cared for” and she saw no need to speak of radical legislation that would doom the economy of such islands or the South. Even Channing thought the abolitionists overstated their case, after being in St. Croix.

Back in Boston, Dorothea’s days and nights were filled with activity: serving, preparing lessons, writing letters, sewing her
clothes, mending her students’. She helped a new friend, Mrs. Torrey, the wife of a wealthy industrialist, channel money into a new infant school for children eighteen months to six years old and found the experience gratifying. She was in service. She fell exhausted into bed every night, waking tired but more certain she was following her destined path.

She still thought about Marianna, now sixteen. She had not heard of her mother’s passing. Perhaps she had recovered. She would not ask.

Then, just when she thought she was in a rhythm she could sustain, she fell ill again. The fever was high, her chest as tight as a too-small corset. Five years had passed since her recovery in Rhode Island, walking the sand dunes and listening to the rhythm of the sea. Healthy for five years. Then this. If teaching were her glorious ambition, why did her weak and unpredictable body fail her? A racking cough proved her only answer.

Dorothea lay wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair aboard
The Virginian
, a ship that steamed to Liverpool. When Mrs. Torrey spread the word of her illness, the Fessers, parents of a quiet and favorite student named Joaquina, had arrived at Dorothea’s home.

“You want me to go to Europe with you?”

“Liverpool initially,” Joaquina said. As Dorothea had been, the girl was tall for her age. She had freckles across a small nose that she powdered to no avail. She seemed loved but lonely. “You nursed me to health, and now we’ll do the same for you. Won’t we, Mother?”

Mrs. Fesser smiled. She had a large overbite, so two white stubs like picket fences settled on plump lips. “We don’t mean to be intrusive, but perhaps you could be Joaquina’s governess on the trip.”

“A journey will do you well,” Mr. Fesser affirmed. “You’ve extended yourself beyond good reason. Even Reverend Channing expressed concern for you.”

“Did he?” It had been some time since she had been to church.
“I … It’s most kind of you to invite me, but should I relapse … I’m just able to sit up for a few hours at a time, and I’d hate to burden—”

“We’ll pack your trunks,” Mrs. Fesser said. “They have doctors on board ship. You’ll be well in no time, and Joaquina’s studies will be advanced.”

Days later Joaquina acted as her cane when Dorothea walked up the gangplank, huffing by the time they made it to the deck chair. Dorothea pulled her shawl against the cool air but breathed it in deeply.

“I’ll get a robe, and after you’ve rested, we’ll find our cabin. You and I are to share one. I hope that’s all right.” The girl’s freckles looked like fairy footprints on her face.

“It’s lovely.” Dorothea took in another deep breath, hacked enough she thought she might lose what little breakfast she had taken before boarding. Sea gulls swirled overhead, and she could smell the steam building up. She licked her lips of the salt. “Could you reach my handkerchief?”

“Oh, Auntie, here.” She handed her the cloth. “I’m so sorry you’re sick. I truly am. Maybe we’d better get you to the cabin now, out of the air.”

“No. I want to be here when we leave the dock. It’s an adventure you’ve brought me on, Joaquina. I’ll be forever grateful your family wished to include me.”

She settled her on the deck chair. “I’m sorry. I just noticed that … young man over there. He’s motioning for me.”

“Best you be wary about young strangers.” The girl’s eyes fell.
“Oh, go on. I’ll watch you from here.” Dorothea pulled the lap robe up around her neck and leaned back. She was going to Liverpool to get well. Well, why not? She closed her eyes, let her body sink into the wood chair, the sea breeze caress her face.

“Dorothea? Is that you?”

Dorothea opened her eyes. She had dozed and now heard Anne’s voice. Could it be? She sat up. “Anne. How did you.? Why did you …?”

“Reverend Channing told me. I … I know it’s been ages since we’ve spoken. And my letters have been so sporadic. It’s all been a jumble these past years since Mary’s passing. But I didn’t want you to go without my saying good-bye.”

“I know you miss Mary so.”
Could you miss her as much as I’ve missed you?
Her words must be cautious. Like walking on lily pads.

People began gathering at the railing, waving to those on shore, gloved hands like white flags waved against a blue sky. Stewards carried trays with tall glasses. Joaquina waved to Dorothea, then turned back as her parents joined her and the young man she had been talking with.

Anne pulled up a nearby chair and sat. “I … never intended to exclude you, Dorothea. My grief set me on a path that kept me from reaching back to hold your hand and pull you toward me.”

“We all do things differently when we face a terrible loss.” She thought of her mother, wondered how she fared. She’d heard no word even though she sent royalty checks each year for her care. She’d barely shed a tear at her father’s death.

“This will be a wonderful trip for you,” Anne said. “Oh, here.”
She took a packet from her reticule. “Reverend Channing sent letters of introduction for schools on the Continent or any fine people he felt you should meet.”

“He’s so very kind.”

Anne nodded. “And so very short.”

“And we’re so very tall.” She had a twinkle in her eye. Both women laughed at the early memory of their meeting. “Thank you for coming, Anne.” Dorothea risked taking her friend’s hand. “It means so much to me.”

“It should have been sooner.” Anne patted her hand.

“What is, is. And I’m grateful.”

“Our friendship may never be what it was,” Anne said.

“Mary’s absence will always be an emptiness we cannot bridge.”

A whistle blew and men in uniform walked the decks to announce that visitors must leave in five minutes. They were getting underway.

Anne leaned and kissed Dorothea’s cheek. “Get well first,” she whispered in her ear. “Then enjoy this time. Come back and marvel us with tales as only you can do.”

Dorothea’s coughing episode when she boarded had been her last harsh one. Since then, her health had improved significantly. The ship’s doctor prepared potions for her that cleared her lungs, and the food gave her vitality. Between the stewards and the Fessers, her every need was addressed. She even found strength to help a
young mother by looking after her children, giving her and her husband time to walk the deck together. Joaquina’s lessons resumed in earnest but without strain.

“You are a delight,” the captain told her the evening the Fessers and Dorothea dined at his table. “Such knowledge for a woman so beautiful.”

“And young,” Mr. Fesser added.

“I’m surprised your husband lets you travel without him.”

“I have no husband.”

He had a mock look of chagrin. “What’s wrong with my countrymen to let one as you go unclaimed?”

“She’s an independent woman,” Joaquina chirped.

“Your countrymen may know how difficult it is to manage such a female,” Dorothea said. “They may be wiser than you think.”