thought of Dorothea still mattered.
“Oh, that’s silly,” Anne told her later when Dorothea visited to thank Mr. Heath for referring her to Munroe and Francis and to share with her best friend this wonderful news. “Why not have a little public recognition for your work?”
“I have my students’ and their parents’ recognition. That’s enough.” She looked away, then said, “I would share this with you, and only you, Anne. I do not want the world’s applause, but I would so like to be a fitting companion of the Virtuous Great.”
“It’s a glorious ambition to wish to receive ‘well done, goodand faithful servant’ from God Himself,” Anne told her and clasped her hand.
“I want that so much, with an intentness that threatens to annihilate the little stability that now sustains me.”
Anne raised an eyebrow. “What a strange thing for you to say, Thea. You seem quite the stable woman to me. More so than many I could name.”
Dorothea gave a choked laugh. “Of course.” She pulled her hands from Anne’s, fluttered them, dismissive. “I’m not sure what I was thinking. God, through your friendship, has given me all I’ve needed to be on solid footing for my life. I am forever grateful. Forget what I said about my annihilation. I … was being dramatic, something I rarely am. It must be the vapors coming on.”
That evening alone in her room, she wrote to Grace and Marianna, asking if the child might be able to go to a concert with her at the Harvard campus. She had received no note of invitation from Grace, so she took the initiative with courage. She told Grace of her publishing contract too. Sharing a good thing with family was acceptable, wasn’t it? The letter sealed, she fixed herself hot water with lemon and honey to fend off a sore throat and cough. Why did her cough seem to follow on the heels of consternation?
The thought of her name attached to the book had upset her. She wondered if Grace’s cough might be related to the same kind of thing, a bodily response to an emotional turn of events. Nonsense. Grace had seen doctors. She thought Grace might suffer from consumption, and hoped it wasn’t. Dorothea’s cough was simply from the fall foliage making her throat feel as rough aspoor paper. She blew out the candle, but sleep came late, riding on the recycling of her day.
Marianna wrote in reply, her tiny script saying she could not attend the concert but could Miss Dix please come to tea.
Miss Dix—no longer Auntie
.
The next day Dorothea walked to the small brownstone where Marianna and Grace lived. River mist her companion. Marianna was sweeping the brick steps of wet leaves as she approached.
“Hello, Aunt—Miss Dix.” She curtsied, then dropped the broom and ran to her, hugging Dorothea’s black skirts. “I’m so glad you came. Can we draw?”
“Whatever you like. But I thought I came for tea.”
“Mummy is fixing tea, but I’d rather draw.”
“Fancy that. I happen to have brought a set of paints with me. Would you like to try your hand at that?”
“Oh yes! Come! I’ll tell Mummy and she can watch.”
Dorothea did not gasp when she saw Grace was as slender as a cap ribbon and just as limp. “Grace. You’re … may I help … you’re so … frail.”
“I am. I am. But Marianna wanted you to come. And so did I. Please, sit.”
Dorothea removed the reticule from her wrist and placed the carpetbag with the paints and small easel at her feet. Grace poured the tea, and the steam and the scent of mint lifted from the cups.
Dorothea glanced at Grace, then moved her eyes to the tea and added cream and sugar. She searched for words. Grace was so much worse.
Marianna pressed herself into Dorothea’s side. “Mummy’s been sicker.”
“No. I haven’t. Just more tired.” The defense brought on a cough. “Why don’t you go to your room and draw for a bit. Let Miss Dix and me talk.”
“She brought paints.”
“I did.” Dorothea opened the
“Oh, that’s silly,” Anne told her later when Dorothea visited to thank Mr. Heath for referring her to Munroe and Francis and to share with her best friend this wonderful news. “Why not have a little public recognition for your work?”
“I have my students’ and their parents’ recognition. That’s enough.” She looked away, then said, “I would share this with you, and only you, Anne. I do not want the world’s applause, but I would so like to be a fitting companion of the Virtuous Great.”
“It’s a glorious ambition to wish to receive ‘well done, goodand faithful servant’ from God Himself,” Anne told her and clasped her hand.
“I want that so much, with an intentness that threatens to annihilate the little stability that now sustains me.”
Anne raised an eyebrow. “What a strange thing for you to say, Thea. You seem quite the stable woman to me. More so than many I could name.”
Dorothea gave a choked laugh. “Of course.” She pulled her hands from Anne’s, fluttered them, dismissive. “I’m not sure what I was thinking. God, through your friendship, has given me all I’ve needed to be on solid footing for my life. I am forever grateful. Forget what I said about my annihilation. I … was being dramatic, something I rarely am. It must be the vapors coming on.”
That evening alone in her room, she wrote to Grace and Marianna, asking if the child might be able to go to a concert with her at the Harvard campus. She had received no note of invitation from Grace, so she took the initiative with courage. She told Grace of her publishing contract too. Sharing a good thing with family was acceptable, wasn’t it? The letter sealed, she fixed herself hot water with lemon and honey to fend off a sore throat and cough. Why did her cough seem to follow on the heels of consternation?
The thought of her name attached to the book had upset her. She wondered if Grace’s cough might be related to the same kind of thing, a bodily response to an emotional turn of events. Nonsense. Grace had seen doctors. She thought Grace might suffer from consumption, and hoped it wasn’t. Dorothea’s cough was simply from the fall foliage making her throat feel as rough aspoor paper. She blew out the candle, but sleep came late, riding on the recycling of her day.
Marianna wrote in reply, her tiny script saying she could not attend the concert but could Miss Dix please come to tea.
Miss Dix—no longer Auntie
.
The next day Dorothea walked to the small brownstone where Marianna and Grace lived. River mist her companion. Marianna was sweeping the brick steps of wet leaves as she approached.
“Hello, Aunt—Miss Dix.” She curtsied, then dropped the broom and ran to her, hugging Dorothea’s black skirts. “I’m so glad you came. Can we draw?”
“Whatever you like. But I thought I came for tea.”
“Mummy is fixing tea, but I’d rather draw.”
“Fancy that. I happen to have brought a set of paints with me. Would you like to try your hand at that?”
“Oh yes! Come! I’ll tell Mummy and she can watch.”
Dorothea did not gasp when she saw Grace was as slender as a cap ribbon and just as limp. “Grace. You’re … may I help … you’re so … frail.”
“I am. I am. But Marianna wanted you to come. And so did I. Please, sit.”
Dorothea removed the reticule from her wrist and placed the carpetbag with the paints and small easel at her feet. Grace poured the tea, and the steam and the scent of mint lifted from the cups.
Dorothea glanced at Grace, then moved her eyes to the tea and added cream and sugar. She searched for words. Grace was so much worse.
Marianna pressed herself into Dorothea’s side. “Mummy’s been sicker.”
“No. I haven’t. Just more tired.” The defense brought on a cough. “Why don’t you go to your room and draw for a bit. Let Miss Dix and me talk.”
“She brought paints.”
“I did.” Dorothea opened the
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