One Glorious Ambition (19 page)

Mr. Fesser removed the pencils from Dorothea’s fingers. “You’re to rest in between the tasks you set for yourself. No pens, no paper.”

“I’m well enough to look after others while on board, so surely a little writing won’t derail my recovery.”

“Now, now,” Mr. Fesser told her. “I’ve been given instructions by the Channings to be certain you do not extend yourself.”

“They gave you instructions?”

“Indeed. Reverend Channing described you as a spinning top that eventually must stop and fall over. We’re to make sure you slowly stop your spinning so you do not crash.”

“But even a spinning top always has one point where it is truly centered.”

Mr. Fesser grunted. “Nevertheless, reading I’ll allow, but writing no. We want no relapse.”

Sadly, Fesser’s concern bore fruit. When they landed in Liverpool, Dorothea’s cough and fever returned. Was it the heavy air? Anxiety of the unknown? Mrs. Fesser and Joaquina nursed Dorothea, ill in her hotel room, as best they could. But when the business needs of the Fessers required they move on to London, there was a decision of what to do. Dorothea hated being a burden. Hated it.

“I’m sure that with a good fire and the hotel staff bringing me broth, I’ll soon be well.” She stifled a cough. “You go do what you need to do. Please. You’ve been so kind.” She swallowed. Her chest was a tight fist.

Mrs. Fesser blotted sweat from Dorothea’s brow. “We can’t leave you here. And we can’t remain.”

Dorothea roused herself on her elbows. “Please. Don’t fret over me. There must be rooms I can rent as I improve. Perhaps I can rejoin you later. If you’ll help me pack and move my trunks, I’ll be fine. I’m used to being on my own.”

“I know no other alternative,” Mrs. Fesser said. She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “Edward, find her a room.”

It was a cool May, and the rainy cold seeped into Dorothea’s bones in the small room the Fessers had found for her. The cough grew
worse. She lost track of time in between her dozing and the honey and lemon the landlady brought for her tea. She was alone. She knew no one. She eyed the letters of introduction from the Channings that lay useless in their folder.

Maybe they are of use
. She plodded her way across the room, the effort like climbing a mountain. Only one letter wasn’t for a school director. It was addressed to William Rathbone.

“Do you know this man?” Dorothea asked her landlady when the woman came to check on her.

“Aye, quite well known he is. A philanthropist from an old Liverpool family. Quakers, I believe. The top of the respect ladder.”

“Will you write a note for me? I’ll send this letter along.” She dictated, mentioning that she was recovering from an illness and her traveling party had other obligations, so they had arranged for her to remain in Liverpool. Could he suggest a lung doctor? She sent the letter off, then waited. Always, life demanded that she wait.

She prayed as she had not for many days, that her suffering might be over, somehow, soon. Her mind was fuzzy and thick as a lamb’s coat. Her head throbbed. She could smell the perspiration, but she lacked the strength to wash herself. Could there be anything worse than to suffer alone? What was the psalm?
Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the L
ORD
.

Was she real? This woman who leaned over her, smelling of lavender? Grains of sand scratched Dorothea’s eyes as though she walked on a windy day along a Rhode Island beach. Awake. Sleep. “Coughs without production,” as the doctor had said, though they produced chest pain and weighed as though andirons crushed her chest.
Is this what it’s like, drifting into heaven?
Sleep. Awake.
Need to wipe the tears
. Sleep. Awake.

“Miss Dix? I’m Elizabeth Rathbone.” The lavender-scented woman pressed a cool cloth to Dorothea’s head. “My husband and I are here to take you home with us.”

She moved like a hummingbird as she fluffed a pillow behind Dorothea’s head, treating her neck as though it were fine porcelain, her touch light and without pain. She sat next to Dorothea on the bed. “William is a great admirer of Reverend Channing. His family has stayed at Greenbank. That’s where you’ll go as soon as the doctor says you’re well enough.”

“I haven’t … called a doctor.”

“We did. Here, take this.” She spooned something foul tasting through Dorothea’s lips.

She swallowed. “I’m not sure … It might not stay down.” The room spun.

Elizabeth put a bowl beneath Dorothea’s mouth. “Whatever you need to do. I’m here now. I’ll stay.” Her British-accented words lilted with warmth.

Sleep. Awake.

Evening descended. Kerosene lamps lit the room, the smell causing Dorothea to reach for the bowl.

“It’s right here,” Elizabeth laid down her book and quickly stood to place the bowl where Dorothea could reach it. The woman wore tiny glasses and had a single white doily over the rolls of glistening black hair at the top of her head. “Pant like a dog. My mother taught me that. It can keep you from spewing.”

Dorothea did as she was told, and the nauseous feeling passed.

“What time is it?”

Elizabeth looked at her lapel watch. “Nearly midnight. Are you feeling better?”

“A little.” Dorothea blinked. At least her eyes had the sand out of them.

Elizabeth brought cool water to her lips. “You must have fluids. Once I hiked on a hot day and didn’t drink water or tea and found myself confused and turned around like a falling top. The doctor said it was lack of hydration.” She wiped Dorothea’s brow again, touched her cheeks like a butterfly. “Do your eyes hurt?” Dorothea nodded. “Let’s put a cucumber slice on them. Another
gift from the Hindu country.” She placed the pungent-smelling slices on her eyelids. “They’ll draw out the pain.”

Her eyes restful beneath the cucumbers, Dorothea slept again, but she did not dream.

When she awoke in the morning, she removed the warm cucumbers. Elizabeth’s chin rested on her chest, her hands draped over a book of poems by Thomas Gray. If she hadn’t already saved her life, Dorothea knew that she would adore Elizabeth Rathbone if only for her choice of poets.

William Rathbone arrived shortly after Dorothea ate a piece of toast, the first real food she had eaten in days. It stayed down and did not bring on a cough. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll pack up your things. We can nurse you better at Greenbank.”

“I’m so sorry to be a burden.”

“It’s a privilege to help another in need. You give to us when you let us.” Elizabeth smiled and added, “Do you have just the one trunk?”

The estate—Greenbank they called it—rose over a mound of green that rolled like a carpet to the lake beyond. Elizabeth hovered over Dorothea as William and a steward who came out through the porticos helped lift her from the carriage. She was an awkward colt, all arms and legs. She could not remember ever being carried by anyone in her life, let alone strangers, let alone as an adult. The men were tender, and Elizabeth covered her legs with a blanket as they entered the cool of the mansion.

“We’ll put you here on the first floor.” Elizabeth opened a double door. The bed was massive, and two armoires reached to the tall ceilings. A coal stove warmed the room. A bucket beside it was filled to the brim. The men placed her on a deep chair with a hassock pulled up for her legs.

“This room is beautiful.” She recognized Joshua Shaw’s haunting painting of the burning of Savannah, the pink and gold of his fiery scene from the Revolutionary War reflected in the coverlet on the pillows and bed.

“It’s a hand-colored aquatint,” Elizabeth said when she noticed Dorothea’s gaze. “A reminder of the ravages of war, however noble the cause. Peace is our morning prayer, and this painting turns our heart to that.”

“This is … your room?”

“It’s the most convenient, that we might care for you. There are a dozen other bedrooms on the second floor. When you’re well enough, we’ll move you into one of those. But for now, please consider Greenbank your home and this room your refuge.”

The periods of sleep and wakefulness changed their patterns. Over the next few weeks Dorothea was warmed by a small black-and-white dog that often curled its back to Dorothea’s and let her pet his soft fur when she was awake. Strength slowly returned, though the ache in her chest continued to worry the doctors the Rathbones brought in for counsel.

Elizabeth brought her breakfast daily, acting like a servant when she commanded a dozen. Sounds from the rooms beyond—of people chatting, the scrape of a chair, a door closed—gave comfort.
Outside this room were those willing to care for her as she had never been tended in her life. It was as though she were a child with a mother able to love and care.

Elizabeth administered the potions herself. She refilled Dorothea’s toilet water from her own supply. Elizabeth’s help when Dorothea needed the chamber pot was given without annoyance. This must be what it’s like in a loving family, where people give their best for another.

Sleep. Awake. Sleep. Awake.

Elizabeth and William Rathbone often read to her from the classics. On an evening she might hear music coming from the piano room. Elizabeth apparently played. One afternoon they asked her permission to invite in some guests “who would not disturb you.”

“It’s your home,” Dorothea said. “I surely have no say in whom you invite.”

“We might make noise with our conversations. We’re quite passionate and have been known to include heretics at our dinner parties.” She grinned; her black eyes twinkled. “Our editor friend Charles Dickens is passing through. He’s quite distressed by the lack of laws protecting children, their need for education, and of course reforms for those who have lost their reason. My dear William is an overseer of the lunatic asylum in Liverpool, and we often get into debates about the best treatments. We don’t want you to be dismayed if our voices are raised.”

“You argue about treatments?”

“Indeed. We believe many of the mad can be cured, but at the
very least they must be treated with dignity and respect. Dr. Tuke refers to it as moral treatment, treating the insane as though they were more normal than not, instead of tying them up or putting them in almshouses to be forgotten like animals. Worse than animals.” Color rose on her cheeks as she spoke.

“When I am able, I hope to be included on the guest list.”

“Oh, you will. Many are eager to hear of your teaching practices and the carriage house school you opened for indigent children.”

“Yes, when I was in service.”

“You will be again.” Elizabeth’s warm fingers moved a wisp of hair at Dorothea’s temple.

Voices came from the rooms beyond. Laughter. Joy. Intense speeches. Something to look forward to. She returned to her sleep.

She joined them for a supper in the large dining room. It had been nearly three months since her arrival, and the guests stood and applauded when she ambled with a cane to the table.

“It is I who applaud you for bringing me to health.” That glorious evening she was introduced to Elizabeth Fry, an educator passionate about schooling for girls, and a Quaker prison reformer who spoke with intensity over roast duckling and fresh greens. William Tuke, proprietor of the York Retreat for the mentally disordered, and a champion of moral treatment, sent his grandson to tell stories of renewed lives for any number of residents in the quiet, homelike setting.