One Glorious Ambition (8 page)

The rocks in Dorothea’s heart continued to rattle as she made her way to her room. She’d soon be with Charles and Joseph, but she would have to say good-bye to her students. She’d be staying with her grandmother and brothers in the mansion of Orange Court. She’d have a family. But her father had died with no word for her,
not a single thread to cling to that he had cared for her. Her mother was whisked away to be looked after by others.

Dorothea spent the evening writing a letter to each student that she would distribute in the morning. As she finished the last one, tears smeared the ink. She tore up that missive and began again, but not until she had wiped her eyes and splashed cold water from the porcelain basin onto her face.

“Why are you crying now?” she asked herself out loud.
Because those children filled your empty life, and now you’re leaving them. Because your father has died
.

In the morning she handed out the letters after telling the students she would be closing the school.

“You have an eye for plants and flowers, Master Hamilton. That will enable you to bring forth food and beauty from your family garden and perhaps one day an orchard or a farm.”

“Thank you, Miss Dix,” the boy said. He was eleven now and tall for his age. “I’m sorry you have to go away.”

“I am too,” she told him. “You continue to study in these areas that you may be faithful for meeting the needs of your wife and children one day.” She handed him the letter she had written. “My note to you describes your many attributes. I hope you’ll save it, and when you are feeling low, reread it to know that you are a capable young man. Even your grammar is vastly improved.”

“Did you say that in the letter?”

“Yes, yes, I did. Your father will be pleased.”

“Miss Otis.” She handed the cotton merchant’s daughter her letter. “I have seen you encourage the younger children in their
studies. You have the gift of compassion and perhaps teaching as well, though the latter requires a stern position at times. You must remember that, dear Isabelle. The placard is a gift for teaching discipline, as you well know.” Only once had Isabelle worn her status around her neck.

Each child received her full attention. She saw each as singular and unique, like jonquils that bloom in spring, and hoped her words made each child feel the same.

“You have been my family,” she concluded, tears now seeping from her eyes.
I must not lose control
. “And I will miss you. I promise, if you write to me, I will write back. But I also know your lives will change and you will have a new teacher one day to help you make your way. You may find little time to write to Miss Dix. But I will not forget you. Not ever. Now, let us take out our slates and work on today’s spelling words. I’ve made up a new list.”

She turned her back as though reaching for the list, but instead she held herself steady against the sideboard until she felt strong enough to finish the day and let them go on without her.

The ride to Orange Court took two days, the journey giving Dorothea time enough to imagine her homecoming. She would hug her grandmother the way her youngest students hugged her when they arrived in the classroom. She recalled the feel of their small arms around her neck, the scent of their morning toilet, the press of cheek to smooth cheek. As she adjusted to the bumps on the road and grabbed the coach side to straighten herself on the carriage seat, she thought it might be joy she had felt with the morning touches of her students. Happiness.

She hoped she would find joy inside Orange Court in the arms of her brothers and grandmamma at long last. She imagined what Charles would look like, those intense blue-gray eyes they shared. Would he remember her at all? And Joseph. He had been a toddler when she had last seen him.

She wondered which relatives had taken in her mother. Why hadn’t they come forward when help was so desperately needed when Joseph was small, when Charles was little, when Dorothea
cowered to avoid her father’s rage and her mother’s absence as she sat before them, listlessly poking food with her fork.

She must not dwell on that. Aunt Sarah had said it was best to let her mother be in the care of “her people.” Dorothea’s disciplined mind must not permit despair over what had already been. She was going home to safety, to family. She had her brothers, and she would celebrate that, wrap her arms around them. They would stand like the circle of friends she sometimes witnessed among her students when they played outside.

The long driveway swept up the hill to the mansion that wasn’t quite as elegant as the other estates on Beacon Hill. Last year’s leaves clustered at the base of the hedges, and the gate to the pear garden swung back and forth in the spring breeze. Either someone had forgotten to latch it or the latch was broken. What appeared to be a stray cat hovered near the corner lilac bush, then scattered like a windswept leaf when Dorothea stepped from the carriage.

The driver lowered her two trunks, leaving them on the driveway as he pulled the carriage away. This time there would be no Beatrice to help her unpack. Saying good-bye to her had been a tearful affair, one she was glad Mary was not around to witness. Her good-byes to her aunt and uncle had also surprised her with the size of the ache in her heart. She heard the
clop-clop
of the horses leaving across the cobblestones. She gazed up at the three-story building that would be her home at last.

Where were the boys? her grandmamma?

She lifted her skirts and climbed the steps. She opened the door. “Grandmamma? Charles? Joseph? I’m here. It’s me, Thea.”

Silence.

She called out again, then made her way through the long hallway, past the staircase, beyond the dining room on her right and the parlor on her left. She looked briefly inside each room. “Is anyone here?”

“Excuse me?” The voice startled her and she turned. The woman must have been upstairs when Dorothea entered. “May I ask who you are?”

“Dorothea Lynde Dix. I’m to live here.” She faced a woman as tall as herself, with large hands she now wiped on a rag she had been cleaning with.

“Ah. The granddaughter. I’m Mrs. Hudson. I manage this boardinghouse.”

“Boardinghouse? But my grandmother—”

“Has taken over the caretaker’s cottage. Along with her cook. She pointed with her chin toward the small house to the east.

“My brothers?”

“Ah. The rascals. They live in the cottage as well.” She motioned for Dorothea to move into the parlor and take a seat. Mrs. Hudson sat across from her, using the rag to wipe dust from the round table beside the divan.

“My trunks should be taken to the cottage then.”

“I have a room set aside for you. I understand you’ve been operating a school in Worcester. That will be fine. Most of the boarders are gone during the day, and the extra income will serve
us both well—along with your grandmother. The boys have need of schooling, I can assure you of that!”

“My grandmother … leased Orange Court to you?”

“Yes. It was of mutual benefit. I’m sure she’ll explain.” The woman squinted at Dorothea.
No, she just has narrow eyes
. She wore her hair in a braid knotted around the top of her head the way Hessians do. “I’ve forgotten my manners. You must be weary from your trip and the news of your father. I’ll bring us tea if you’d like.”

“Better I should visit my grandmother.”

“I’ll have Isaac bring your trunks in. That’s my brother. He lives here too. You’ll meet the other boarders at supper. Served at seven sharp. I’ll show you to your room.”

With that, Mrs. Hudson stood and called out to her brother. Then Dorothea followed her to the room in her family’s home chosen for her by a stranger.

Dorothea removed her hat and gloves and laid them on the dresser, letting her fingers linger on the cool marble top. It was a well-furnished room with an armoire, writing desk, and small fireplace, along with a large four-post bed. Dorothea knew the room had once been her father’s. Her grandfather had told her this when she was a small child, with free run of the mansion. But this was no longer her grandfather’s mansion. She was a guest in someone else’s boardinghouse.

Isaac brought up her trunks, and she began to unpack them
by removing the Thomas Gray poetry book and holding it to her heart. Her aunt Sarah had gifted her with the complete collection. She set the book down. What was she doing here when Charles and Joseph and a reunion were just steps away?

She descended the steps, nearly skipping past the pear garden to the caretaker’s cottage. The path was well worn with stones lining the walkway. She heard birdsong in the elms, and the afternoon sun felt hot against her head. She bent to smell an iris, then stood and brushed wrinkles from her skirt. She had never been inside the single-story cottage that boasted a thatch roof like those seen in English picture books. The fence had recently been painted, and the flower and herb gardens on either side of the steps were well tended.

Dorothea knocked, and after a pause the door flung open.

“Thea!” Charles bounded out and grabbed her, swinging her or attempting to, but he was still an inch or so shorter than she. “You’ve come at last!”

“I have. Let me look at you!” She held him at arm’s length, then pulled him to her. “Oh, how I have missed you.” She whispered in his ear, their cheeks together, the bones of his narrow shoulders like handles she could hold.

“And I you.”

“You look … like a young man. So grown up.”

“I am grown up.”

“Where’s Joseph?” she asked as the two separated, Dorothea dabbing at her eyes, gazing at her brother.

“Walking out back. He’s a favorite of Grandmamma.”

“I’m sure you are as well.”

Charles flicked his thick hair on either side of a center cut back behind his ears.

“I haven’t seen Joseph since he was a baby.”

“I’m no baby no more.” Dorothea turned to the quiet voice. Joseph led his grandmother from around the side of the house.

“No, you aren’t,” Dorothea bent to be face to face with him. “You’re a young man.” A small dog waddled beside him.

“I see you made it at last. Come inside,” Madam Dix directed. “You too, Benji.” Strings from her black cap hung on either side of her wide jaw. “Charles should have brought you out back without my having to come get you. Take the eggs inside, Joseph. Charles, lend a hand.”

Charles slipped beside his grandmamma. She leaned against the cane as much as against Charles. Joseph smiled over his shoulder at Dorothea as he handed her the egg basket. He patted his grandmother’s waist with his little hand.

“Hello to you too, Grandmamma,” Dorothea mumbled. A night breeze cooled her warm face as she followed her family, including Benji the dog, inside.

Over Cookie’s hearty rabbit stew, Madam Dix informed Dorothea of the change in circumstances that led to the leasing of Orange Court.

“I’m well into my seventies, and my knees are not so good. Being in the cottage seemed better than climbing the stairs to bed each night. And Orange Court offers an income necessary to care for all of you.”

Cookie placed fresh bread before the family in the small dining room, then she pulled up a chair and joined them. Butter from an iris mold was passed around.

“Papa died,” Joseph said.

“Yes, he did, and that’s very sad.” Dorothea watched Joseph. He didn’t appear to need comforting, and yet their father had died and Joseph was separated from his mother. He must feel sadness just as Dorothea had when she had been sent to Worcester.

Joseph stuffed his mouth as he spoke, and Madam Dix said nothing about his lack of manners. If it had been Dorothea making
a mess as a child, her grandmother would have corrected her. Things were different with boys.

“So we came to live here,” Charles added cheerfully. “We’re closer to the wharfs. I love going there to watch the ships. They bring in blue porcelain from China and silks from I don’t know where. I’m going to go to sea one day and find out.”

“After Harvard,” Dorothea told him.