One Glorious Ambition (4 page)

“Must it?” She pressed her fingers against her temples as though massaging a wound. How wonderful it would be to be so certain of one’s future.

“Oh, quite.” Mary picked up a porcelain vase and set it down by the washbowl and rearranged the roses. “I dried these myself. I’ll teach you.” She swirled back to Dorothea. “What would we do without husbands? Be forlorn and alone, living with Mama and Papa. I have every intention of making sure
that
does not happen. You should make sure of that too.”

With that, Mary took her small, almost childlike frame through the door. She waved in the maid, who curtsied as Mary left.

“Will your trunks follow, miss?”

Dorothea opened her palms to her valise. “All my worldly goods.”

“They will hardly fill the armoire, miss.”

“You’re right. And your name is?”

“Beatrice, miss.”

“Well, Beatrice, the armoire is much larger than I need. And I’m certain you have other things to tend to, so please, let me finish here.” She curtsied to the maid and said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, miss, you must never defer to me. You haven’t made my acquaintance. People like me never truly meet people like you.”

“I suspect I’m more like you than the Fiskes.”

“Oh, you mustn’t say such things, Miss Dix. Madam Fiske will think us too familiar.”

“Yet familiar is just what I’m looking for.”

“It cannot be with me, miss.”

Dorothea sighed and stepped back to allow Beatrice to unpack her things. She may be standing in the light of luxury, but she belonged in the shadows.

Dorothea splashed fresh water onto her tired face and made her way to the dining room, where she was introduced to her uncle, the physician, and where the soup was served in silence, the main course of lamb and fresh greens eaten with brief mentions of her uncle’s day, and the dessert taken up with Mary’s chatter about the ball they would be attending within the week. Then the three women retired to the parlor.

Dorothea scanned the room stuffed with fine furniture,
needlework beneath the vases of flowers made of human hair, suggesting skill and patience. A small collection of books of Thomas Gray’s poetry lined the round table at the end of the divan. She would explore these books later, if allowed. Her cousin produced a basket with yarn and needles.

“Do you knit?” Mary asked.

Dorothea stared at the yarn mass as though it was a tangle of snakes. “I’ve never knitted. Only stitched, a little.”

“I see.” Her aunt Sarah started to rise but grabbed at her hip.

Seeing her discomfort, Dorothea said, “May I help you?”

Aunt Sarah sank back and patted the space next to her on the settee, and Dorothea carried the yarn basket and slipped in beside her. Her aunt placed her hands over Dorothea’s as she showed her two stitches, knit and purl. Dorothea’s fingers felt like stumps, but she liked the warmth of her aunt’s touch. She could repair her brother’s pants and stitch her own hems, but no one had shown her how to knit. She also couldn’t remember the last time an adult had touched her with kindness. She felt her face grow warm and blinked back tears.

“I can assist with your needlework lessons,” Mary said. “Until my marriage.”

“Which hasn’t been established as yet,” her aunt reminded her. She patted Dorothea’s hands and said, “We’ll carry on this lesson later, and yes, Mary, you may also instruct. For now, let’s discuss the household routines and how Dorothea might fit into them.”

She enumerated the schedule of early morning readings of the Bible and other chosen works and time in the library. Needlework
would follow, along with arranging flowers and conferring with the cook about the supplies needed, then a light lunch that her aunt assured her would be more than the graham porridge and potatoes Dorothea was accustomed to. Tutoring in French, calligraphy lessons, occasional outings to the stable for riding lessons, and preparation for evening gatherings would end the day. “I’ve placed paper and lead in your room so you may write letters to your grandmother and brothers and parents if you choose.”

Not a single moment punching together her father’s books. She had entered the gates of heaven.

Her aunt cleared her throat. “This is a transition, Dorothea. Or might we call you Dolly?”

Dorothea hadn’t considered that name, but it was lighter, less formidable. “Dolly would be fine.”

“Yes, well, your time here is a transition from your childhood to being an adult. Goodness knows you look like an adult. You’re as tall as your uncle.” Dorothea sloped her shoulders, hoping to lessen the effect of her five-foot-seven-inch frame. She pulled on the worn lace of her sleeves and revealed slender wrists and clothes not suited for her fourteen years.

“Sitting up straight is a womanly thing to do. I encourage it and wish I could, but my bones …” Sarah rubbed her hip. “Never mind my afflictions.” She stared at Dorothea for a moment, then said, “You are quite beautiful, child. You have lovely skin, thick hair. And a melodious voice. Quite … engaging.”

“Her exotic eyebrows should attract attention,” Mary noted.

“Yes. Nicely arched brows that won’t need painting—not that I would allow such a thing. Good body composition.”

Dorothea squirmed on the divan. These were compliments, but she felt like a horse being auctioned.

“Your goal, Dolly, is to meet a man who will take you without dowry, as my brother has frittered away his inheritance. It will be the only way you can secure your future needs.”

“Yes ma’am.” Dorothea dropped her eyes, stared at the needles holding her fingers hostage. She would do all that was required, anticipating regular food, a warm bed, and access to the library and all the many books, medical and philosophical and botanical. As well as that poetry collection. How her brothers would prosper in such an environment! If only she could bring them too.

“Do you have any questions?”

She swallowed. “I wonder if my brothers might not be allowed the shelter you’re offering me. Charles is sturdy and could help with the sheep and geese I saw on the lawn. Joseph … could teach me how to care for a child, something every woman must know. Is that not true?”

Only the wood in the fireplace cracked into the silence that followed. Finally her aunt said, “Girls must be wary of asking for more when they’ve been given much. Mothering will come to you when the time comes … and your brothers are not your responsibility. They’re your father’s.”

Dorothea started to protest, but her aunt raised her hand for
silence. “For now, you’re the child my mother deems ready for proper training. She’s sent help to your father, though whether he will appreciate it is questionable.”

Dorothea shrank back as her aunt reached toward her cheek. The look of surprise on her aunt’s face told Dorothea that no one had ever struck this woman. Perhaps here Dorothea wouldn’t be struck either.

“I only wished to push that thick ringlet of hair behind your ear,” she said. “So lustrous.”

Dorothea pressed her hair behind her ear herself, her hands shaking. “I’ll do my best to be of help here. I know I’ll learn many things.” She wanted to learn how to make a life where she could one day bring her brothers to be with her. She would do her best to be a mouse in the corner, listening, obeying, doing what she was told, and hoping for a suitable mate who would allow her to have her family with her. And bridle her tongue. A girl must be careful not to ask for too much.

Dorothea spent the first night staring at the high ceiling of her bedroom in the Fiske home. The down comforter weighed on her chest. She was with family but so alone. What was Charles doing? Was her mother changing baby Joseph? He had just begun walking when Dorothea left. She stifled a racking cough, one that often came in the spring. She wondered what might happen if she became ill in this new place. Would they send her back? Did she
want to go back? No, she must find a way to help her brothers—from here.

She rose, lit a candle, and began writing. The lead felt different. It must be the more expensive Faber brand from Germany, not the Thoreau pencils from New England that she was used to. She found the writing soothed her, and she poured out her sadness at being here alone. She wondered if her father or mother would even read her letters. She hoped they would so Charles and Joseph would know they were in her heart.

Returning to her bed, she prayed for her brothers and for herself, asking that she might find a way to use this time of strangeness and confusion for their good or someone’s good, to be made stronger, turning her despair into healing others if not herself. Then she blew out the candle and let the sleep of exhaustion overtake her. Tomorrow would bring what it would.

Monsieur Brun arrived at the Fiske home without books but carrying lead and paper and instruction.

“
Brun
means a person with brown hair,” he told Dorothea. “I should like to have been named Monsieur Chevalier, which means knight. But alas we live with what we are given,
oui
mademoiselle?”

“Oui,”
she said and curtsied, then caught herself, not certain if he was a servant like Beatrice or an elder to whom she should defer.

“None of that.” He motioned her to stand. “Now then. I will only use the French for our lessons.”

“But how will I know what you’re saying?” A flutter of butterflies invaded her stomach.

Monsieur Brun said something in French and then pointed to the desk at which she sat, giving her a French word. The rest of the morning was filled with nouns. Dorothea smiled when he returned to a candle or a desk or paper, and she easily remembered the words. This wasn’t work at all! She loved the flow of the language,
liked the strange sounds even when she didn’t know what he was saying, and seemed able to repeat them with the proper inflection. At the close of the lesson he spoke again in English and wrote out several words and told her she must learn to write them before his next lesson in a week.

“You did very well, mademoiselle. A sure student with a lovely timbre to your voice.” He clicked his heels and bent at the waist as he handed her a list of fifty words. “I shall tell Madam Fiske and will look forward to your progress. She will be pleased perhaps that one in her family takes easily to the languages.”

“Thank you.” She dropped her eyes at the compliments, as rare in her world as night-blooming cereus in a cold northern spring. “I may yet disappoint you as the lessons become more difficult.” She often disappointed.

“I see it as a gift, your felicity with the language. It is not Miss Mary’s gift.” His blue eyes twinkled. “But I will do as you suggest and not make the comparison.” He said the last word with his lilting French accent.

Throughout the day a bubble of joy rose up in Dorothea at the memory of Monsieur Brun’s compliments. By evening’s end, when she wrote to her brother, she tempered the joy. After all, he was in a miserable state, and she had no right to joy while he suffered and she was helpless to relieve him.

“Miss Dix. It is a pleasure to meet you.” The tall man wore a collarless white shirt, black homespun pants, and a tweed jacket. He
tipped his hat to her. “It is my understanding you have never ridden a horse?”