One Glorious Ambition (42 page)

“Celebration? For what?”

“For the work you’ve done your entire life.”

Elizabeth stepped up into the carriage but waited while the workers loaded Dorothea’s trunks from the dock. Sea gulls dipped above them. “We can’t celebrate failure,” Dorothea said.

“You brought incredible changes for the mentally ill, Dolly. Your national land bill didn’t go through, but you cannot discount what you did accomplish. Nearly every one of your colonies, I mean states, now has a hospital because of you. Patients formerly locked up in cellars have a home and treatment. I cannot begin to imagine the suffering you’ve relieved.”

“It’s just that I was sure God wanted me to do the congressional work. Certain of it. And yet I failed. I was not enough to make it happen.”

Elizabeth laughed. “You are the elder brother to the prodigal.”

Dorothea turned to look at Elizabeth’s round face framed by her winsome yellow bonnet.

“Don’t look so surprised. The older brother did everything
asked of him, was faithful to his father and obedient. He knew it wasn’t works but grace that saved him. Yet he never opened his arms, never celebrated the way the younger son did on his return.” She leaned toward Dorothea. “Not because he did not deserve that father’s open arms or because the father didn’t want to reach out to him; he did! The elder brother just never thought he’d done enough to deserve that loving embrace. That’s you, Dolly.”

“But—”

“You did everything you could.” She patted Dorothea’s hand. “God asks nothing more—nor less.”

“Am I finished with my life’s work then?”

“Of course not. You’ll always be working for those who suffer. It’s who you are. But you can also secure the blessings for what you’ve already done. Come now. We have a gathering prepared for you, and then, tomorrow, you’ll meet the earl. Who knows where that acquaintance will take you?”

The long, winding driveway to the Greenbank estate brought tears to Dorothea’s eyes. “You know I suggested the drive design toward the Trenton hospital with this lovely road in mind. Trees to pass by. Planted areas. A clear pond with swans. Then this.” She spread her arms before them as the carriage stopped and she stepped outside, the cobbled stones smooth against her thin leather soles. “This incredible building that speaks of comfort, safety, and home.”

“So it shall be for as long as you like. I’m so pleased you accepted our invitation. Come along. William awaits with guests.”

“Guests?” Dorothea held back.

“Only a small reception.”

Although Dorothea was weary from the long journey, neighbors and guests she had met long ago all greeted her like a long-lost relative returning home. None were critical of her colossal failure with Congress, and their unconditional acceptance was a salve relieving a terrible bruise. She told stories then of the voyage and even began to speak of the nuances of American government,
making light of her buttonhooking and how, in the end, it had not helped.

“What will you do now?” one of the guests asked.

“She doesn’t have to achieve anything,” Elizabeth Rathbone answered, “except discover how to receive.”

“She’s not finished.” William Rathbone winked at Dorothea, his white eyebrows wiggling like tufts of cotton above clear blue eyes. “When she was with us before, so ill, remember? Even then she continued to work. I had to remove her writing materials from her.”

They reminisced then. For Dorothea, this was a safe place, the perfect choice for her at this moment in her life. When people grieved or suffered, they needed a place of respite. She would rest and then see what bridges appeared on the horizon.

Scotland spread its arms in the spring with the blessing if not the authority of the Earl of Shaftesbury. He asked her to use her considerable experience and gifted writing to survey conditions in Scotland and report to him.

She found the air of Aberdeen and Glasgow bracing as she visited the royal asylums, writing to Anne that while she thought the American facilities equal if not superior, she did appreciate that the country had rid itself of coercive treatments and responded to people with dignity and compassion.

“If you would, please, I should like to see a private home facility in this area.” They were in the center of Edinburgh, not far
from Andrew Square on a glorious sunshiny day. Dorothea could smell the sea from where they left the eatery, having just had a meal wrapped inside a pastry that Dorothea declared “bonny.”

The men she traveled with exchanged glances at her request. “That’s much more difficult to entertain, milady.”

“I understand. But I would be remiss if I overlooked your large system of home care. It is a worry, you must know, that such care is not supervised by physicians. A necessity in my view.”

“Yes, and why you want national asylums,” one of her companions said.

“As do you. Am I correct?”

He nodded. “But not all share our opinion.”

“You wouldn’t be a Scotsman if you agreed on everything.”

The men exchanged what Dorothea took for English spoken with rapidity and brogue. She could not decipher what they said. The spokesperson was a man with a mustache that flowed like white streams on either side of his wide mouth, forming a pool in a goatee at his chin. “We’ll need to go to the other side of the city.”

“Nonsense. Just take me to the home closest to here. I won’t stay long, and I won’t be intrusive. I’ve done this before, gentlemen. In Kentucky and Mississippi and all across the United States.”

The two men spoke again, with the spokesman sighing. “Very well. There is one off Thistle.”

“Then let’s have at it.”

Dorothea thought she could stay in this tidy city with the smell of the sea always in the air. The Scots’ commitment to learning
and religion soared above the streets in castle-like spires of the universities and churches. The women she’d met spoke their minds and the men didn’t seem to object but rather grinned in admiration. Yes, she could find a place here if she could convince the naysayers that she wasn’t intruding but rather helping them. She pulled her cape closer around herself against the cool February air and ignored the scent of garlic emanating from her companions’ wool vests. They stopped before an industrial-looking building.

“The night watchman lives on site,” she was told, “and cares for a young insane person.”

Dorothea knocked at the heavy door. After a second knock she was greeted by a small man with rheumy eyes whose hair was mussed as though they had awakened him from a sleep, though it was near one in the afternoon.

“The superintendent of the Royal Lunatic Asylum has asked that our American visitor take a look at the conditions of your patient,” her spokesman said.

“At this hour of the day?”

“Yes, now.” He used his cane to push his way through the partially opened door.

Inside, the air smelled of old onions and dread.

“If you’d come ba’ later I’d have tea for ye,” the watchman said. A small table, two chairs, and a bed furnished the room. A picture of the sea in storm hung on the wall.

“Not necessary. Just wish to note the conditions for your patient.”

“It’s not easy,” the watchman began. “Strange little beast that he is.” He was wringing his hands now. “You have to understand, I get very little for his keep.”

“Just take us to his room.”

The watchman’s eyes darted toward a door. Dorothea moved to it and opened it as the watchman cried, “You should let me go in first!”

Her eyes adjusted to the darkened space that might have held potatoes and sacks of grains. Inside a small figure hovered in the corner. He wore a dirty canvas jacket of straps and buckles. The boy couldn’t be much older than five or six, and his eyes were filled with anger that flashed to fright. A mattress on the floor and a pot for waste sat a distance from him.

Dorothea’s heart began to throb in her temples as the suffering of this child bridged the emptiness in her heart.

“Remove the jacket.” Her voice was calm but firm.

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Please. Remove the buckles.” To the boy, she said, “We’ve come to see how you fare here. We’ll not hurt you. You’ve been hurt enough.”

“He don’t understand anything. He’ll be wild if I release him.”

“He’s wild because you don’t release him. What is his name, please?”

“Charles Denton.”

He was close to the same age as Charles when Dorothea had told him to wait and she would bring rescue to him when she ran
away to Orange Court. She had not rescued her brother then. She would not let this Charles go without relief.

“Bring me a chair.” One of her companions did. She sat. “I’ll wait here. These men will remove your restraints. Then we’ll talk.”

With great reluctance the watchman and one of her companions unbuckled the straps and chains. When they did, the boy leaped across the room like a chimpanzee and wrapped his skinny legs around Dorothea’s waist while he grabbed at her bonnet and her hair. She was thrown back against the chair when the men rushed forward, pulling at the slender child dressed in a dirty nightshirt.

“Get back!” Dorothea told them as she grabbed the boy’s hands in her own and held them between hers, hands to chest. He tried to bang his head against hers, but she bobbed, then pushed her head into his forehead, the pressure halting him. Still holding his hands in fists between them, she spoke in a voice as soothing as a pigeon settling for the night in the belfry of an Edinburgh church.

“Shoo, shoo, shoo, Charles. Shoo, shoo. I will not harm you. I come to bring relief, yes? I am going to move my head away from yours so I can see you, Charles.” He tightened his legs around her waist. “You may sit on my lap just as you are. If you understand, blink your eyes.”

He lifted his head, and for a moment she thought he would bang his forehead into hers. Instead, he blinked once.

She nearly cried for the look of anguish that filled this small
child’s face. No one deserved such suffering, least of all a child. His mouth hung open, with his tongue limp across his lower lip.

“We will find clean clothes for you, Charles. Would you like that? Just blink if you wish to say yes … Good. And make it safer for you. Would you like that too?” He blinked again. “Until then, your … caregiver will offer you more food—”

“I can’t—”

“I will pay for it myself. And bring him a music box to listen to. And a toy. Perhaps a carved horse. Would you like that?”

Charles blinked.

“I am going to touch your tongue now, to remind you to pull it back in. It is the polite way to be with others. Is that all right?”

He blinked.

“He’ll bite!”

She released his hands and brought her finger to his tongue. The moisture and sponge of it and his acceptance of her touch brought tears to her eyes.

He swallowed, pulled his tongue back and closed his lips.

“I want to brush the hair from your eyes, Charles, so I may see you better. May I?”

He blinked.

She removed her gloves and touched his face with her warm fingers, tugging the hair behind his ears. He leaned like a small dog into her hand so the back of her palm would caress his cheek.

“We will make things better, Charles. I make that promise. I must go now. But I will come back.”

He blinked and again his tongue lolled forward, but he released
his grip around her. She helped him stand, wobbly as a new colt.

“Keep him locked in if you must, but give him things to do to keep his mind open. He understands though he may not speak. You must treat him like the boy he is. It is the moral way to be.”

Dorothea touched her own tongue then, and the boy responded by pulling his back into his mouth and swallowing. “Yes. You learn well. Be brave. I will be back.”

Dorothea gave the watchman additional coins and assured him that she would return. “I see how much he needs, and you simply don’t receive enough to tend him well, try as you might.”

“Aye, try as I might.”

“What will you do, Miss Dix?” her companion asked when they left.

“I shall head a campaign to put all such people under the care of a Home Secretary–appointed commission on lunacy that can oversee asylums, public and private, and home care that is supervised by a physician. As England and Wales has. That child has promise.”

“But you’re an American. We must make this happen through our sources.”

“True. And why haven’t you?”
If it is to be, it begins with thee
. “We will do this together, gentlemen, but I will see it accomplished before I leave the Continent.” She could feel her old energy returning with an important purpose laid out, led by the needs of a child.

She prepared a petition to the English government that day,
insisting that only a system with physicians in charge, with asylums for those relieved of their reason, both private and public, with proper national oversight, would prevent the lifelong suffering of children like Charles or the others she had seen in private care. It was as though they were imprisoned for their mental condition, then left to languish until they died.

Two breathless supporters stopped at her rooms in Edinburgh less than a week later, while she finished her report for the earl.