One Glorious Ambition, Page 4

  Mary proved an apt instructor in the realm of engaging young men in conversation, although Dorothea sometimes ached for her cousin who gushed and blushed over a compliment but later said, “I’d never want to be in a marriage boat with him. I’d be paddling alone most of the time.”

  “But you seem to encourage him.” Dorothea removed the beads, fingering their coolness.

  Mary shrugged. “He might be all I end up with. I don’t want to be kept from the boat altogether.”

  Dorothea had no interest in such boats. She also had no real confidants, no one to whom she could safely say she found these parties more stressful than learning Latin from her uncle. Who could she tell of her preference to sit by the fire and read rather than chat with young men? Sometimes Mercy the mare heard her concerns, but when she was riding, she didn’t think about the cotillions. Instead, she was consumed by the feel of the horse, the botanical surprises along the trails, or the sound of a phoebe’s chirp. She inhaled the smells of rich earth or honeysuckle in the air. Perhaps if she had a horse of her own, she could ride every day, and she would tell the animal of her worries and hopes as she brushed and curried it.

  So far, Dorothea had found no young man she imagined in her future as a husband, though the instructor at the stables—who was never invited to the fetes—could make her laugh. She thought that was a higher prerequisite in a potential mate than the entries in his banking ledger or the number of years he’d spent at Harvard.

  Her father used to make her mother laugh. She had all but forgotten that.

  The letters Dorothea now wrote to her brothers were mostly stories she thought would entertain them. She didn’t dwell on how much she missed them and never mentioned the lavish parties or strengthening food she ate. (She’d even had to let out a few of her dresses. They now had curves instead of being as straight as cook’s wooden spoons.) She didn’t write of her riding or her French lessons or her acquaintances and how she found she could make the gentlemen laugh with a well-stated word or that she enjoyed being able to put another at ease without revealing much of herself. She signed her letters “Thea,” the name Charles used for her.

  She never received letters back.

  Five

  Purposeful Behavior

  Dorothea wasn’t sure how long her aunt and grandmamma would continue to support her efforts with the Fiskes if she didn’t show progress toward a suitor. As the seasons passed at the Fiske household, it became clearer to Dorothea that she lacked the desire to do what was necessary to acquire a mate, at least while she was but fifteen. She easily assessed the interests of young men and could keep them talking. She did not mind being a listener, as she always learned new things about botany or science, writers and religions. She never had to expose a thing about herself. But she minded that it was expected that, as a girl, she had no thoughts worth sharing.

  This had been made clear to her one evening when one of the divinity students invited her to hear a preacher at the college. She accepted and enjoyed the deeper thinking of the minister, his discussion of God’s purpose much more interesting than the companionship of the confident young man who invited her. The suitor rattled on as they walked home, never once asking for her thoughts on the sermon, but rather expounding on his own. When she offered an opinion in a rare pause, he said, “Yes, but it’s more likely …” and then went on his own conversational trail. Is this what marriage would be like?

  At the stone steps of the Fiskes’, he’d stopped talking long enough to plant a kiss on her cheek. She stepped back and stared.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said, then scurried away like a boy caught stealing a candy.

  She touched her gloved fingers to her cheek. What an odd sensation. She didn’t think she liked it and told no one about it. She vowed she would never accept any invitation from him in the future.

  She needed a purpose, she decided, one not attached to finding a mate. In her prayers she asked for a way to feel useful, not a burden, and still bring her brothers into her care. If she found a purpose ordained by God, she would find a way to rescue her brothers and find happiness, perhaps even the family everyone wanted for her.

  The idea that propelled her forward came a few days later while she was in the midst of preparing for Mary’s wedding. She helped arrange dried flowers, wrote invitations at Mary’s request (“Your penmanship is so much more elegant than mine”), and pored over recipes for dishes the cook would be asked to make on the grand day.

  Still thinking of her brothers and children like them, she told her aunt, “I would like to open a school.” They were in the sewing room, Mary too, stitching small sachets to be given away at the nuptials. Dorothea sewed her own dresses now with material her aunt purchased. Her needlework was much improved, although her cross-stitching was not yet worth framing, and her knitting still left gaps in her stockings a kitten could fall through. “So many children have no chance to advance themselves because they have no schooling,” Dorothea said. “Their parents cannot afford tutors to teach them the basics about reading or writing. We would all benefit if more children had those abilities, don’t you agree, Aunt Sarah? Boys and girls.”

  “I agree children ought to be educated, but it is their parents’ responsibility.”

  “But Grandmamma and you are helping me when my parents … couldn’t. Those children might not have a kind aunt and uncle to hire tutors or offer wonderful libraries for their use.” She continued on with her plan. “There are few people here during the day when I would have need of the library for students. They’d be gone by evening.”

  “Mama, you cannot let her bring street urchins into our home,” Mary protested. “Not with my wedding plans.”

  Dorothea answered, “There are reform movements urging the education of girls as a benefit to the entire family. It could be a paying school for boys and girls and pay my way here.” She did not add that she would be able to claim preparation for her classes as a way to avoid the invitations from young men who stole kisses. “I could buy linen on my own from school fees.” If the school were successful, she could open a separate evening school for the children unable to pay, but she did not share that plan. Not yet. She would use a gentle hand here, just as her riding instructor always advised. Her riding instructions were appropriate for this negotiation.

  Aunt Sarah remained silent. Should Dorothea have written out her proposal, given her aunt time to consider with a document to share with her husband?

  “Every girl needs to earn her keep,” Dorothea added.

  “How do you propose to find your students?”

  Dorothea described in detail how she would advertise among the church patrons. She’d offer grammar, some writing, biblical memorization to enhance both memory and virtue. “And manners, of course. You and Mary have taught me well.”

  “Have you ever been to school?” her aunt asked. She turned over a sampler Dorothea had worked on and evaluated the stitches. She nodded approval before setting it down.

  “No. But I’ve read about many teachers. And you would be close by to consult with, wouldn’t you?” She would not teach math or science, as she lacked the background in those. “I could even offer needlework. Mary, don’t laugh!”

  “Your needlework is quite fine,” Sarah said and smiled.

  “It would please the parents to know their daughters recorded various letterings and stitches, the finished products acting as a kind of encyclopedia they could refer back to as they worked on future textiles.”

  Music or art would cost more, as she would have to acquire special teachers if the parents wanted that. It didn’t worry Dorothea that she had never had a teacher beside her. She had taught Charles to read. She understood what was required of teachers: they were to be moral leaders and transfer both knowledge and values. She was certain she could do that.

  By running a school, Dorothea challenged no one’s authority in the house, and her idea offered additional income for the Fiske family and lessened the burden for D
orothea’s care. They had to agree.

  “Would you forgo your French lessons so that money could be saved … or used to help cover your other expenses?”

  Dorothea nodded yes.

  “Mary reports some … familiarity with your riding instructor that perhaps should be interrupted.”

  Dorothea’s heart skipped a beat. She loved French. But give up time with Mercy, the one relationship where loneliness faded? Yes, for such a worthy purpose.

  “If I could have one more French lesson and go once more to say good-bye to Mercy, then yes.”

  “I’ll discuss the matter with my husband,” Sarah said. “It’s quite uncommon for a girl your age to do such a thing. But then we Dixes are an uncommon lot, don’t you think?”

  “Thank you, Aunt Sarah. It is all I could ask for.”

  “I shall miss your visits here, Miss Dix.” Mr. Frank snapped the ropes to the halter on either side of Mercy’s gentle head, then removed the saddle and blanket.

  “Perhaps I’ll have an income of my own one day so I can return and ride again for pleasure.”

  “You should find a husband who will allow you such a treat.”

  Dorothea’s face warmed in spite of herself. “You’re sounding like my aunt Sarah.” She brushed Mercy’s back where the saddle and blanket had matted the hair. “It’s possible I will never marry. It’s quite respectable not to do so. So long as one can stand alone without the support of kith or kin.”

  “If any should be so independent, it would be you, Miss Dix.”

  “I take that as a compliment, Mr. Frank, but wonder why you think so.”

  “You ride for the solitude, not for the camaraderie of friends chatting. You notice the apple trees ready to blossom. I see you stop and smell them. Choose a place to ride to and return. No meandering that I can see. You ride with a purpose.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  It was how she planned to undertake her school: with purpose. She could only hope it would help her ease the sadness she felt when she led Mercy into her stall and brushed her down for the last time.

  Two weeks later, while Mary and her new husband sat at the marriage dinner, Dorothea mused about her school. She would be busy and not miss her brothers so much, nor Mary, whose absence she realized would make her sad. Still, her school gave her a ready excuse to avoid parties. Mary had met her purpose in finding a mate. Dorothea had succeeded too—making her case for something important, and she had won with a gentle hand. Onward! That would be her motto.

  With the Fiskes’ help, Dorothea had twelve students within a week of Mary’s marriage. She arranged the library room, pushing chairs against the cherry table. She picked a bouquet of tulips newly bloomed in the Massachusetts spring. She would have good reason now to spend time in the forests and the ornamental garden. They would become classrooms soon. With early fees she purchased papers and Mason and Dixon lead pencils and a few slates for those who might forget to bring them. She laid the pencils out on the table, marking the space for each child.

  The night before Dorothea’s students arrived, she could barely sleep and rose to light a candle to go over the lessons she had prepared and the rules she needed to impress on the children the very first day. Once out of control, they would be like puppies in a litter pummeling each other, undisciplined. Hers must be an orderly classroom, safe and secure for everyone to be able to learn.

  In the morning she welcomed parents as they entered with their children. Dorothea stood on the stone steps, greeting each with a nervous smile and a stern nod. There would be time to relax this pose when the children respected her as the one in control. But the youngest of the arrivals, girls with curls like sausages bouncing on either side of their faces, saying, “Good morning, dear teacher,” caused her to open her face in a smile. How could she not? They were adorable, and she let her hand linger on their heads as she welcomed them up from their polite curtseys.

  “Just sign here,” she told a parent, handing him a contract. “Soon your son will be able to draft contracts and your daughter will be able to read them.”

  “Just teach her letters. So she’ll write to her mother and me when she marries and moves away, as girls always do.” How sweet that a father hoped to hear from his daughter when she was gone from the home. Dorothea bit her lip and thanked him for his signature.

  The girls appeared to wear new dresses, the dyes leaving tiny rims of red or yellow on their necks. White lines on the boys’ necks revealed fresh haircuts. Each child carried a slate. Nervous chatter followed her up the stairs to the library, and Dorothea couldn’t keep the smile from her face. She imagined what their lives were like outside these walls and envied them, just a little, that at the end of the day they had someone to share their adventures with, someone to welcome them home with warm arms.

  She hoped her aunt would ask how things had gone on her first day, but she didn’t count on it. Beatrice the maid would listen, but it was Beatrice’s job to defer to the conversations of the Fiske residents while she dusted or mopped.

  “The most important rule,” Dorothea told the faces staring at her on either side of the long table, “is to be orderly and disciplined and to follow my directions. That way you can hear the instruction, and the other students may take in the knowledge they need as well.” She didn’t want to sound too stern. Mr. Frank’s words about “a light hand” rang in her ears.

  A boy of maybe ten raised his hand. “Master Hamilton? What is it?”

  “What happens if we don’t be orderly and disciplined?”

  “There will be consequences. And you don’t need the word be in your question. It’s enough to say, ‘What happens if we are not orderly and disciplined?’ ”

  “What be the consequences then, Miss Dix?”

  “What are the consequences?” He nodded. She wasn’t sure what she would do. “Perhaps you’ll be the first to find out.” He shrank in his seat. “Let’s move on. This is the schedule I’ve prepared for today. I’ll give you older students your assignments first so you may work on them while I then instruct the younger students.”

  She looked at the smaller children, blue and brown eyes intent on her face, anticipating the joy of newness. “As you finish your lessons, you may listen to the older students’ instructions to see what your future holds if you work hard and learn much.”

  The boy again raised his hand. At least he was being polite and not barking out his questions.

  “Yes, Master Hamilton?”

  “Can we be … I mean, can I listen to the younger ones’ lessons? They might be easier for me than what you give me to learn.”

  “May you listen to the younger students? Is that what you’re asking?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes. But you must always strive to learn more than what you know already. If you do that, you will soon discover that listening to what you’ve already learned is a waste of time. There is always more to learn, Master Hamilton. The difference between may and can is but one of those lessons.” She smiled at him then and walked closer. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes ma’am. I mayn’t not listen if it’s what I already learnt.”

  She imagined him as Charles. She would encourage his willingness to ask questions, as much of learning involved a curious mind. She would work on his grammar independently.

  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 Doro
thea 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.