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.
Four
Instruction
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 wit
h 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?”
Dorothea ran her hand along the withers of the large animal they stood beside in the stable of the Fiskes’ neighbors, her palms flat against its flesh, the scent of the animal a blend of sweat and hay. Mary had already mounted and now rode in the distance, along with two friends.
“I’ve only made the acquaintance with cart horses.”
“And a fine family line those old cart horses descend from.”
Dorothea had not thought much about the lineage of horses, but she said, “Yes. Predictable, hardworking, and usually gentle with children.”
He lifted a bushy eyebrow. “All attributes of a good wife.”
Dorothea laughed. “Oh, Mr. Frank. What would your wife say to such a comparison?”
“I have no wife.”
“Your boldness suggests why.”
Her instructor laughed, his bearded mouth an O of delight. “I think we shall have a good time at your lessons, Miss Dix. Shall we begin?”
The mare chosen for her was named Mercy. She stood firm while Mr. Frank walked Dorothea around the animal, let her run her hands down the legs and gently pick up the hoof to show her how to check for small stones or wounds that might have been overlooked. He had Dorothea stand in front and breathe into the horse’s nostrils and let Mercy breathe back at her.
“That’s how she’ll remember you,” he told her as she stroked the mare’s velvet nose.
When he thought she was ready, Mr. Frank assisted Dorothea into the saddle and straightened her skirts around the sidesaddle’s hook.
Mr. Frank pointed out that Mercy kept her head straight, didn’t brush back to nip at Dorothea’s knee nor lay her ears back with the knowledge that a novice was in the saddle. Instead, the horse, led by Mr. Frank, walked straight into a small paddock area where Dorothea was led around until she recognized what Mr. Frank told her to be aware of: the subtle movement of the horse’s ears, the shift in pace if Dorothea leaned forward or held the reins too tightly. She felt like a baby bird perched high in a nest, a bird that could be pushed off in a moment.
“A light hand is always best,” her instructor told her when she pulled on the reins and the horse lifted her head and stopped. “Never pull too hard. You’re charming her in a way, letting her gain confidence that you know what you’re doing. Once that message is communicated, the two of you will form a bond not likely broken. Are you feeling secure enough to let me release my hand?”
Dorothea nodded though her heart pounded. She licked her lips and tightened her grip on the reins. She thought of nothing else except staying on.
Mr. Frank let loose his hand, and Mercy picked up her pace. Dorothea shifted slightly. She became aware of herself in the presence of power, the give and take of movement between rider and horse. She looked ahead at the trees outside the paddock, heard Mary and her friends laughing in the distance. She had no desire to join them. Riding Mercy was enough. Feeling the strength of the animal and knowing that her hands sent signals through the reins gave her comfort though she didn’t know why.
She pulled back on the reins then, and the horse sidestepped and shook her big head, the bit rattling like loose chains against a steel door. Mercy halted, then danced around, pitching Dorothea forward. Her hands grew wet and she hoped she wasn’t sending messages of fright to the horse that danced to the other side now, twisting her head at her rider. Dorothea tried to remember if she should let loose or hold tighter, then the horse leaped forward.
Dorothea chewed at her lip. She moved her knees, movement that seemed to confuse Mercy into a trot. Dorothea was off balance, grabbing at the mane with one hand. She held the reins tighter, both in one hand now instead of one rein in each.
“Lighten your hand!” Mr. Frank shouted. “You’re giving her too many messages!”
Yes, a lighter touch. Against her instincts, Dorothea lowered her hands and loosened the reins. Immediately, Mercy slowed to a gentle walk, and Dorothea’s heart stopped beating at its rushing rate.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry.”
Mercy twisted her head around at the sound of her voice, and Dorothea saw the long lashes flutter before she turned back. The mare walked slowly. Dorothea caught her breath, then pulled a rein against Mercy’s chestnut neck and rode the animal back to where Mr. Frank waited.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“You didn’t hurt her. Just confused her. Horses communicate without words. It’s the little things that send the message. People do that too. Not bad for a first time.”
Mr. Frank reached for the bridle, and Dorothea leaned forward and patted Mercy’s neck. She liked the smell of sweat and leather and the silky feel of the horse and the calm beating of her own heart.
“You’ll get the hang of it. Now, if you’ve time, let’s try that again. This time turn your alarm into courage. You’re learning something new and so is Mercy. It’s a dance, and you want both of you to enjoy it at the end.”
Dorothea smiled. She had already enjoyed it, even the fear that rose up when she felt off balance in the saddle. She had managed it. She was in control.
As she and Mary rode back to the house in the carriage, Dorothea leaned her head against the leather carriage pad.
Mary said, “I love riding with my friends and catching up on the news. Soon you’ll be able to ride along with us. It will be much more fun than simply riding by yourself in circles in the paddock.”
“Riding by myself is perfect. It isn’t being alone. I have the horse to be with.”
“Quite. But being with people is what riding is about, Dolly.”
Dorothea chose not to argue. Instead she marveled that during all that time of instruction she never once thought about Charles or her family.
Her cousin Mary showed her how to adorn her hair for the weekly galas, and now, several months into her life with the Fiskes, Dorothea looked in the mirror askance.
“It looks ridiculous.” She fingered the beads wrapped into a high mound at the top of her head. She was already taller than many likely suitors. Why add three inches to her height?
“It’s the fashion,” Mary insisted. Dorothea found her cousin quite firm in her views of proper etiquette and much less interested in the meaning of Thomas Gray’s poems. “We do it this way in Boston society. I don’t know why you resist.”
“But if the fashion is meant to attract, then why do something that makes me stand out for the wrong reasons?”
“It isn’t wrong. It’s the way we do it, so it’s the right way. You want to blend in, demonstrate that you’re aware of what’s proper.”
“I’m like milkweed in a poor pasture.” Dorothea pulled the beads from her hair and unwound the chignon that had forced it into thick twists. “Being plain and simple shows elegance too. This will be better. It will.”
She crossed her arms and caught her image in
the mirror as that of a petulant Charles. She lowered her arms.
Mary pursed her lips. “Your hair with that tint of burgundy is a crowning gift. Women of our station must show an awareness of our gifts. I’ll have Beatrice come in and salvage it for you. I need to dress. We don’t want to be late for our guests. That nice young man you sat next to at the choral event is coming.” Dorothea wrinkled her nose. “Quite. You must make the effort at least.”
“Quite,” Dorothea said to her cousin’s departing back. Dorothea stared at herself in the mirror. The beads and fluff in her hair made her look like an ostrich wearing a wig. Then words from Gray’s “Ode to Adversity” came to her: “Teach me to love and to forgive, exact my own defects to scan.”
“My own defects to scan,” she said to the image and sighed. She had many defects. Her height. Her tendency to seriousness instead of assuming a welcoming smile. She could recognize Mary’s generosity in teaching her. She ought to be more generous in her nature and thank her. She redid the beads on a shorter, powdered wig and reminded herself to thank Mary for her guidance. Then she wondered if Monsieur Brun would be present at this dinner. She enjoyed his company though he was old enough to be her father.
Before each fete, Aunt Sarah and Mary gave her instructions on proper conversations with guests. “You must not disagree with anything they say,” Mary noted. “Nod your head, smile, and perhaps repeat with new words what they’ve just said so they realize you understand them and simply want them to know that.” Dorothea stared. “That way they will continue to carry on a conversation with you and remember you as someone quite wise.”
“But what if what they’re saying isn’t correct or needs an informed response?”
“Never point that out. It would be rude. We are there to prop up suitors.” Mary patted Dorothea’s hand. “Once married, when they are obligated to care for us, then we can express opinions, but even then we ought not to say things with the certainty you seem to like.” She shook her finger at Dorothea. “Our thoughts and ideas are optional. Our task is to find ways to adapt to what is.”