The Signature of All Things

work on a third. She had never given a moment of herself over to the betterment of anyone, with the exception of her selfish father. She was a virgin and a widow and an orphan and an heiress and an old lady and an absolute fool.
    She thought she knew much, but she knew nothing.
    She knew nothing about her sister.
    She knew nothing about sacrifice.
    She knew nothing about the man she had married.
    She knew nothing about the invisible forces that had dictated her life.
    She had always thought herself to be a woman of dignity and worldly knowledge, but really she was a petulant and aging princess—more mutton than lamb, by this point—who had never risked anything of worth, and who had never traveled farther away from Philadelphia than a hospital for the insane in Trenton, New Jersey.
    It should have been unbearable to face this sorry inventory, yet for some reason it was not. In strange point of fact, it was a relief. Alma’s breath slowed. Her compass spun itself out. She sat quietly with her hands in her lap. She did not move. She let herself imbibe all this new truth, and she did not flinch from any of it.
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    T he next morning Alma rode out alone to the offices of her father’s longtime solicitor, and there she spent the next nine hours sitting with that man at his desk, drawing up papers and executing provisions and overriding objections. The solicitor did not approve of anything she was doing. She did not listen to a word he said. He shook his old yellow head until the jowls under his chin wagged, but he did not sway her in the least. The decisions were hers alone to make, as they were both well aware.
    With that business concluded, Alma rode her horse to Thirty-ninth Street, to her sister’s house. It was evening by now, and the Dixon family were finishing their meal.
    “Come take a walk with me,” Alma said to Prudence, who—if she was surprised by Alma’s sudden visit—did not reveal it.
    The two women strolled down Chestnut Street, latched politely together, arm in arm.
    “As you know,” Alma said, “our father has passed away.”
    “Yes,” said Prudence.
    “I thank you for the note of condolence.”
    “You are most welcome,” said Prudence.
    Prudence had not attended the funeral. Nobody would have expected her to.
    “I’ve spent the day with our father’s solicitor,” Alma went on. “We were reviewing the will. I found it full of surprises.”
    “Before you continue,” Prudence interjected, “I must tell you that I cannot in good conscience accept any money from our late father. There was a rift between us that I was unable or unwilling to mend, and it would not be ethical of me to profit by his largesse now that he has gone.”
    “You need not worry,” Alma said, stopping in her path and turning to look at her sister directly. “He left you nothing.”
    Prudence, controlled as ever, gave no reaction. She merely said, “Then it is simple.”
    “No, Prudence,” Alma said, taking her sister’s hand. “It is far from simple. What Father did was rather surprising, in fact, and I beg you to listen carefully. He left the entirety of the White Acre estate, along with the vast majority of his fortune, to the Philadelphia Abolitionist Society.”
    Still, Prudence did not react or respond. My stars, but she’s strong, Alma marveled, nearly wanting to bow in admiration of her sister’s great reserve. Beatrix would have been proud.
    Alma went on. “But there was an additional provision written into the will. He directed that he would leave his estate to the Abolitionist Society only under the condition that the house at White Acre become a school for Negro children, and that you, Prudence, administer it.”
    Prudence stared at Alma penetratingly, as though looking for evidence of trickery on Alma’s face. Alma had no trouble arranging her countenanceinto an expression of truth, for indeed this was what the documents said—or, at least, this was what the documents said now .
    “He left a quite long letter of explanation,” Alma went on, “which I can summarize for you here. He said that he felt he’d done little good with his life, although he had prospered handsomely. He felt he’d offered the world nothing of value, in return for his own tremendous good fortune. He felt you would be the best person to see to it that White Acre, in the future, would become a seat of human kindness.”
    “He wrote those words?” Prudence asked, canny as ever. “Those very words, Alma? Our