One Glorious Ambition by Jane Kirkpatrick

Dorothea’s.
    “Anne, has anyone ever proposed to you?” It was a daring question to ask. So private.
    Anne began walking again, this time with both hands on herparasol. “I did have a proposal long ago.” She hesitated. “I even accepted.”
    “Did you? What happened? If I’m not prying.”
    “He … felt pressured, I suspect. To make an arrangement before he went to Europe to school. And then he never returned. Papa received condolences from his family, apologizing for their son’s behavior, but I never heard from him. He married an Italian countess or something.”
    “I didn’t mean to lance an old wound,” Dorothea said. She wanted to reach out and comfort Anne, place a hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t.
    “Oh, it’s a wound well scarred over. After that, I wanted only friends, not the ache of caring deeply for someone only to have him spurn my love. Not even care enough to tell me directly. I suppose that’s the greatest humiliation. His parents told my parents. I felt like damaged goods being returned when I was as I had always been.”
    “Perfect,” Dorothea said. “You are perfect. His is a terrible loss that he will never know.”
    Anne smiled. “Thank you.” They paused next in front of a silver shop with Paul Revere pieces for sale. People dressed in finery walked behind them. Yellow and pink parasols reflected in the window. “And you?”
    “Me? No. No marriage proposals. Not even an interest, really. A frightened kiss by a divinity student, however.” Anne raised her eyebrows. “Nothing, really. I adored my French tutor and myriding instructor, but of course one must keep one’s feelings controlled when it comes to the employed classes.” Dorothea laughed. “Now I am in the employed class with parents hiring me to teach their students.”
    “You’re a businesswoman. Very different,” Anne told her.
    “Still. I’ve found no one to give my heart to except my brothers. And you, my friend. You are my best friend.” Her palms felt clammy inside her gloves. Her chest hurt from exposing her care so openly.
    “There’s Marianna,” Anne said.
    “Yes,” Dorothea whispered. “She is family and I adore her.” She hesitated. “But it’s you who mean so much. I should die if ever I did or said something that turned you from me.”
    Anne pulled her arm through Dorothea’s and patted her hand. The brims of their hats touched once again. Dorothea smelled Anne’s minty breath. “You should never worry over such impossibilities as that. Besides, families work through such things.”
    Dorothea looked away, felt tears burn at her nose.
    That night Dorothea apologized in a letter to Anne. She had not meant to put such a weight on her friend by asking about proposals or burdening her with fears that Anne might one day find another dear friend. “I have never had a friend such as you, never. If I pass the boundaries of those lines of which I know nothing, please forgive me. You are the stake beside me that keeps me sturdy in a buffeting wind.” She read and reread the lines, then sealed the letter with wax before she added more.

    Boston publisher Munroe and Francis agreed to print and sell Dorothea’s first book. They titled it
Conversations on Common Things, or Guide to Knowledge, with Questions
. A subtitle
For the Use of Schools
was added. “You ought to add ‘for use in families’ as well,” Edmund Monroe noted.
    “Oh, I’m hardly one to speak of how a family ought to be. Too presumptuous.”
    Munroe shrugged. “And your name will go below that.”
    “My name?” Her heart began to pound and her breath threatened to catch in her throat. “Oh. No. That would be unseemly for a proper woman. No, just say ‘By a Teacher.’ ”
    Munroe wiggled his pursed lips, then shrugged.
    Madam Dix would be appalled if Dorothea’s name were to be associated with something as mundane as book publishing. It was not the proper pursuit of a Boston woman. For some reason, what the woman