“Quite the sugar in your tea,” Anne said when Dorothea shared the news.
“Madam Dix said I was a novice for professor-level work.”
“So will you do it? It means your days will be totally filled.”
Dorothea wondered if she should. She would teach Orange Court classes in the morning, the monitorial classes in the afternoon until supper—if she took the position—and then her carriage house classes in the evening. She wanted to resume the latter. On Saturday mornings she helped Cookie wash the laundry at the cottage, and maybe, if Grace consented, she might tutor Marianna in the afternoon. She’d have Sundays for church services and visits with the Heaths. Not to mention she was already working on another book, writing in the early morning. Full days would relieve her soul of loneliness.
George Emerson led the school. He was a fatherly man with white hair, oozing wisdom and soft words. His new approach for instruction used schedules and activities as a way to prevent student disruption and restlessness. Assistants drilled small groups of younger students, moving quickly from one drill to another. In this way, Dorothea could manage seventy girls at a time while she supervised numerous assistants. She would be training future teachers and thus expanding the moral influence of education. She decided to accept.
In her own school, Dorothea noticed the older girls achieved more success with the students than she did. She found herself relying on the placard for discipline, and she was sharper with her words. “When you work with the girls, they seem more … attentive,” Dorothea whispered to an assistant at the Orange Court school. They were eating goat cheese and Mrs. Hudson’s fresh bread in the corner of the library. “You’ve never brought out the placard, have you?”
“I have not.”
“Why is that?” The girl hesitated. “You don’t have to be afraid. Just tell me what you think.”
“They see you as playing favorites, Miss Dix. I’m careful not to do so.”
“Favorites? I don’t think so.”
“Marianna.” She whispered the name so the child wouldn’t hear. “You let her skip assignments and seem blind to her … giggling and distractions. You never have any corrections for her even when she shows a need for additional guidance.”
“Her mother is ill.” Dorothea licked her finger, dabbed at a crumb on her bodice.
“Many have ill mothers or circumstances that affect their concentration, Miss Dix.” She dropped her eyes.
“Favorites … I hadn’t been aware.”
The assistant, emboldened, said: “If I might add, you’ve been short of late. Impatient with the older students, which only adds to the disorder when the younger children hear your sharp tone and worry over upsetting you but not knowing why.”
Dorothea wanted to snap back that if her assistant had any idea of how much time and work it took to teach three schools, meet with parents, confer with publishers, write letters, read to her grandmother, do the laundry for her and her brothers, and darn her own socks, she would understand why a woman sometimes lost her temper. Dorothea felt her face grow warm. “Best we get back to our duties.”
She needed to find ways to save time and decided to wear only her black linen dress each day, easily brushed every evening. She would eat porridge for breakfast and work on her book projects while she ate, finishing with prayers and Scripture readings. She would forgo Sunday afternoons at the Heaths and use the time to visit the parents of the carriage house students, perhaps offer a class for them on Saturday afternoons. Their children would learn better if the parents also had increased education. Sunday messages by Reverend Channing were a must. Dorothea’s sore throat came and went, but if she napped Sunday evenings, perhaps she could nurse it away.
“Your friends, the Heaths, express concern for you, Miss Dix,” Reverend Channing told her one Sunday as she was leaving church, Anne having stepped out in front of her. “They fear you overdo with your many hours of service to so many.”
“Is that not what we are called to do, Reverend?”
“Even the Lord went away by Himself at times to rest.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
She chatted briefly with Anne, declining her usual invitation. She rode home with Reverend Channing’s words ringing in her ears. Was he telling her to stop her services to others? Was he chastising her? Or did he want her to know that she was worried over? She liked imagining that this fatherly soul cared for her personal well-being. But it was his inspiration, his passion for service, that sent her on this task. Maybe he was telling her something else? But she wasn’t sure of the message.
“You have to come,” Anne insisted. “It’s the Marquis de Lafayette’s opening fete on Beacon Hill. All the desirables will be there. And you, as a published author, famous teacher, child of a Dix—you have to attend. Besides, I’ve heard this rumor that ‘Miss Dix is engaged to her former French teacher.’ You must come dressed with your elegant shoulders bare and your hair coiled to the sky and flirt with every available man there so as to dispel the rumors.”
“I haven’t seen my French tutor for years,” she squinted at Anne. “You’re making that up.”
“Not about the party for the Marquis.” Anne drew closer. “You’ve always said you admired him and the help he gave our country. You wished your father held such bravery.” Dorothea rubbed her temples with her fingers. “The president is attending! Papa got us all invitations. You deserve a party.”
She did admire the Marquis. Had she shared her comparison with her father with Anne? It might be pleasant to say she had seen the president of the United States. Maybe her grandmother would be pleased. “I might not know how to talk with him if he should speak to me.” She laughed and added, “Maybe I should just wait outside and jump into his carriage when he arrives and kiss his hand.”
“I would love to see such spontaneity from you!”
“It isn’t likely.” Why had she said such a thing? “But I will come. I’ll even let my students out early in honor of the great man’s visit.”
“It’s been so long since we’ve had any time together.” Anne pressed her head toward Dorothea’s. “It’ll be fun to do something grand. I’ll loan you a dress, if you would like.”
“If I’m to bare my shoulders, you’ll have to,” Dorothea laughed. “I wonder if we could get an invitation for Marianna. What a thrill that would be for the child.” And I would have a real purpose for being there, exposing her to such greatness.
Anne stepped back. “You are pouring your heart into that girl and I worry for you, Thea. Besides, Marianna and her mother can hear of the great man from you. I think that should be close enough, don’t you?”
She didn’t know if that would be “close enough.” Threads of worry for the child and her mother and a wish for herself kept entangling, never pulling closer to be sewn into something predictable and firm.
On the appointed day the ballroom was alight with hundreds of candles. Fresh bouquets of mums had been garnered from numerous Boston gardens to decorate and scent the room. Women fanned themselves in the August heat as they caught glimpses of their pearls and jewels in the many mirrors set around the room to reflect the candlelight. Dorothea watched as the great man met the eyes of everyone to whom he was introduced, bowing from his waist. Each person wanted to be blessed by his smile, his eyes, and he appeared to know it, meeting everyone’s expectations. He caused even older matrons to giggle with silliness when he kissed their hands. Or had he kissed them? No, Dorothea decided, he merely brushed his lips at the air above the women’s hands, which is what he did to Dorothea when she was introduced and properly curtsied to the Frenchman. Her heart pounded. Such a silly, girlish feeling. She wished she’d asked Marianna; she could move the girl forward between them, let the child have the attention.
His hair was combed forward, perhaps covering a balding spot, accentuating his long, sharp nose, his small mouth, and a deep dimple in his chin. He was portly and utterly charming. Although he spoke excellent English, D
orothea chose to address him in French when he stopped in front of her. She stumbled with her words, and her face turned as hot as a farrier’s forge.
“Your French is exquisite, mademoiselle.” She lowered herself into a curtsy. He lifted her chin as he spoke in English and took her hand. Her body reveled in alien sensation. He touched me!
“Merci.” His eyes were like marbles. They glowed. “I … I have long admired you, sir. For what you did for our country.” My corset! It will be the death of my breath. The general’s aide beside him whispered in his ear.
“Am I to understand that you are the famous young author and teacher?”
She regained her voice. “What I do is small in comparison to what you did to save the states.”
“I only helped your compatriots forge your nation. Teachers do the work to keep the flames of democracy burning that it might be forever shaped in the fashion of the people, oui?”
“Oui.”
“Your voice with its cello charm would be a joy to listen to each day. I envy your students.” The general released her hand with a single pat, sent a dazzling smile, then greeted the woman next to her with a silent nod. Dorothea felt moisture beneath her corset. How extraordinary! To be included in such an entourage. Her, a simple woman without a dowry. She fanned herself and caught Anne’s eye. Her friend was smiling.
Alone, Dorothea remembered the evening and the Marquis’s words, and her hands shook as she heated honey for her sore throat. Tears came to her eyes.
She wrote to Anne, “I was early taught by sorrow to shed tears and now when sudden joy lights up I find it difficult to repress the full and swelling tide of feeling. At least I did not embarrass myself or you by tears on the Marquis’s strong hands.”
The tea steeped, she wiped her eyes. Her hands shook as she sipped. She would be afraid to visit Lafayette again when he returned in September. She would gush and make a fool of herself. What was the matter with her? A proper Boston woman simply did not bare her emotions to the world as though they were shoulders, inviting attention. Becoming giddy, almost tearful, when meeting a war hero suggested that she was childish, pedestrian, or worse—not in control of her reason. She swallowed a gasp. Is that it? Do I fear becoming my mother in those moments?
She slipped beneath the sheets and stared at the open window. She needed to be busier, take on new tasks, forgo any party invitations, leave no moments unscheduled, no time to ponder the origin of tears and giddiness. She would tutor Marianna on the days she could not be in school. They would roam the woods together. She would help the girl write little poems. She would work with the Fragment Society, the group from church who took knitted baby clothes to the tenement houses of the textile mill workers. Like the boy who gave his fish and bread for the feeding of the five thousand, she would give all she had to give. Perhaps there would be fragments left over to serve others. If not fish and bread, then books and time to tutor children. Yes, keeping busy. That’s what mattered.
In the weeks that followed Lafayette’s visit, Dorothea pressed herself further, rushed in where she might have rested. “Please, Mrs. Hudson. Could you leave the porridge out so that I might get it by four o’clock tomorrow morning? It took me more time than I can spare to have my breakfast.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, I—”
“No, I’m sorry. I ought not to speak so sharply.”
“You’re very thin, Miss Dix, if I may say so. Your collar could reach twice around your neck.”
Dorothea grabbed at her throat. She swept back toward her room. There was no need to chastise Mrs. Hudson. The woman did her work well. Why was not being able to find the porridge to heat this morning so upsetting? And it was where it usually was anyway. Dorothea overlooked it. Was she getting thin? She stared into a mirror.
Later, at the monitorial school, an assistant approached her, lightly touching her hand. She startled. “Miss Dix? Mistress Billings asked a question.”
“Did she? I’m sorry. My mind wandered. Not a good thing for a teacher, now is it?” She patted her assistant’s shoulder, then asked the girl to repeat her question. She ignored the curious look on her assistant’s face. Was she becoming like her mother?
When word came via messenger that the book was going into a third printing, she let Anne know first. Her royalties were growing and she would send some now to her mother’s family, for her care. The publisher would add “and Families” on the front piece so people would know Conversations was not for teachers only. And Munroe added Dorothea’s name, her discovery of the fact too late to protest. She wasn’t sure she wanted to object anyway.
“I so do not know what a family truly is,” Dorothea told Anne. “Except for my time with yours. I fear the name is misleading, that I should be so bold as to instruct families.”
“I always said you had talent,” Anne told her. They walked arm in arm along the cobbled streets of Beacon Hill. They admired the window boxes of flowers, stopped to name the varieties, and heard birds twittering in the verdant trees. Blue sky was an umbrella over their heads. “Talent is a currency,” Anne said, “and you spend it wisely. I’m glad your name is at last on that book.”
“Is it sinful to appreciate recognition?”
“Of course not, though it would make an interesting discussion over our Sunday table—should you ever find time to join us. But I doubt that sharing one’s talents could be called sinful, even if there is recognition for it. Are you still glowing in the Marquis’s words?”
“No. I’ve rethought my tears alone in my room. There was no real recognition. His aide simply told him who I was.”
“But he said kindly things about your teaching. And your voice.”
They watched as a carthorse made its way along the street. It looked tired and hot.
“There ought to be fountains for the horses,” Dorothea noted.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Yes. To suggest that I understand families … this is misleading, I think. You are my only family, Anne. The only family who gives me what I so desperately need.” Her voice caught and she turned away. And Marianna, whom I would claim as my own if allowed.
Anne pulled her arm around Dorothea’s shoulder. “You are always welcome in our home.”
Dorothea nodded and wiped at pesky tears. She prayed the promise would never be revoked. She wasn’t sure she could survive if it was.
Dorothea picked up Marianna on a fall day, and they went to the stables, where she and Anne often rode. She was making time for pleasure. Anne said she needed respite, and Dr. Channing concurred. Time with Marianna gave her that. Orange, red, and brown leaves drifted from trees into fall-like colors on Marianna’s paint pallet. Horses raced along the fences, then turned and stopped, full of play, then started again, tails raised, manes flowing.
“They’re so big.” Marianna, though now nearly eight years old, was a slight child. The tiny blue veins in the back of her hands were like etchings on fine silver. Her curls flowed beneath her brown straw hat wrapped in white gossamer. Two satin ribbons like a waterfall flowed down her back as she stepped in front of Dorothea.
“They are. But you’re strong enough to handle a gentle horse. We’ll find the perfect animal to introduce you to.”
The girl stepped onto the bottom rail of the corral, white ruffles from her dress cascading over her heels. Is she washing her own clothes? She hung over the top with her elbows. “That one! The pretty red one.”
“Chestnut, that’s the correct name for the color.”
“Could I ride that chestnut, Auntie? The one that’s looking at me? Oh,” she squealed. “He’s coming right toward me!”
“I think it’s a she, but it does look like she’s picked you out.” The mare lowered her head to Marianna’s face, soft brown eyes watching the child. Marianna’s hat ribbons fluttered in the wind, but the sudden movement did not bother the horse. She’ll be steady for the girl. Marianna touched the nose of the mare, and the animal wiggled its whiskers. Marianna laughed
. “Let’s see what we can do to further your introduction.”
They walked to the barn, the child’s hand like soft butter in her palm. The horse trotted along the fence beside them. It was a great day. Dorothea hadn’t said where they were going and perhaps she should have. But Grace hadn’t asked. They’d be fine. Nothing would happen. This was a good stable, and all they’d do today is walk Marianna around on the back of the mare.
“Can we do it again, Auntie?” Marianna had taken a dozen turns around the corral, stepped down, and patted the horse’s nose. A lovely, uneventful day.
“Let’s take her to the water trough.” Dorothea checked her chain watch. “We should return soon so your mother won’t worry.”
Marianna petted the horse and said, “Mummy’s dying.”
Dorothea stopped and looked at the girl. “Oh. No. She’s just very ill.”
Marianna shook her head. “She’s dying. Mummy told me. I’ll be all alone.”
Why would she say such a thing to a child? “I’m sure you misunderstood. Cholera has been in the city, but your mother doesn’t have that dreaded disease. She’s just … frail. Come, let’s take one more ride and then off to home we go.”
In the carriage the child fell asleep against Dorothea’s side. She pulled her closer. A child of my own. It was not to be. But if Grace is truly dying …
At Grace’s, Dorothea apologized. “I hope you don’t mind that I took her riding. I should have consulted you.”