One Glorious Ambition (7 page)

Partway through the second week, Dorothea had assessed each child’s strengths and weaknesses and planned her lessons accordingly. She was glad she had only twelve students. Twice that number would have been a trial, and the evening hours she spent preparing would leave few hours to sleep.

“Miss Otis, would you be kind enough to assist these younger girls? I’ve heard your reading and it’s excellent.”

“Yes, miss.” The girl curtsied. She seemed happy to be able to stand and not sit for long hours at the table.

For lunches, the children remained at the table to eat what they brought from home. When the weather was agreeable, they would go for walks, two by two, and Dorothea would point out the bobolink’s call or the name of an early fern.

As the days turned into weeks, Dorothea found the children’s chatter and stories brought from home added pleasure to her days. She listened intently as they talked, and she wove their experiences into her lessons.

“Suzanne has a new brother at home. In our writing today let us imagine what having a new brother and sister would be like. Take out your slates and write one sentence of what is good about having a new brother or sister.” She didn’t criticize when she had them read their sentences aloud, even when one child wrote, “when they gets older you got someone to blame for eating the last piece of cake.”

When someone told a story of a family visit to Cape Cod, Dorothea asked each child to write what they would pack in a basket that would serve a dozen family members on a summer day at the ocean. She had never been there, so she would learn from their writing. As part of the discussion, she read from Matthew about the miracle of the loaves and fishes and all the fragments of food left over.

“Each of us has something to contribute, and sharing tells everyone how big your heart is.”

“My heart?” A child pressed a hand against her chest.

“Your heart will stretch when you use it to give to others.” She hoped that was so.

After a time, she allowed the youngest girls to call her auntie and did not feel intruded upon when a child would ask what she did on Sunday afternoons.

As the months progressed, she drafted sessions that involved being outside to study but also found managing behavior in the gardens and orchards proved more challenging than when the children were confined to one room. They wanted to sprint ahead
or linger, their heads bent over a slug making its way beneath the lilacs. She liked their curiosity but worried over the control of so many children, wanting to be certain no one was hurt. The parents would not appreciate her if a child returned home with a broken arm or a cut that brought on a fever.

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.

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 same 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.”