Glory Over Everything (21 page)

Soon gaining his attention became my focus, and my days were filled with the effort. I canceled some of my routine engagements with Mother and used my extra time to paint. At the same time I found a new maid who was more skilled at dressing hair and could guide me with my clothing. The challenge of winning Mr. Burton's notice gave me new life, and with my happiness, my mother became curious.

S
OME MONTHS LATER,
Mother and I were in my carriage, returning from the shops. Squeezed between piles of boxes and packages, I was quiet while fingering the package on my lap that held my new blue shawl. I wondered if Mr. Burton would see how well the color suited my eyes.

“And how is your artwork progressing, dear?” Mother asked casually.

“Very well,” I said, happy for the subject, “but I am impatient to begin working in miniature. I cannot wait! I only hope that when it comes time, I do not disappoint Mr. Burton.”

“You must think well of Mr. Burton if you do not want to disappoint him.”

“Oh, I do!”

“He is a good instructor, then?”

“I have never known better. He is so encouraging.” I could not keep the warmth from my voice.

“Be careful, darling,” she said, touching my hand.

“Of what, Mother?” In my guilt, I drew my hand back.

“You are a married woman,” she said. “You do not yet have a child. Until you do, you must be especially careful of how you conduct yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, darling. First the heir, then the affair.”

“Mother! How horrible!”

“I know,” she said, covering her mouth as she gave an embarrassed laugh. “It's just that . . . I know your situation at home is not—”

“I've done nothing inappropriate! You forget. You yourself agreed that I should take the art class!”

“Of course I did. I'm only suggesting—”

My guilt fed my anger, and I cut her short. “I know what you are suggesting, Mother, and what you suggest insults me! How could you insinuate such a thing!”

“Caroline,” she soothed. “You know I only have your welfare in mind.” She gave a slight laugh. “Besides, I forgot. He must be at least fifteen years older than you are.”

“Nine,” I said angrily, “nine years!” I caught myself. “Not that it matters,” I added. I pulled loose the purple ribbons on my bonnet, and as I looped and retied them, I fought back tears. Of course it mattered! It was all such a mess. I had no way out of my dreadful marriage, and I was in love with another man. As much as I wanted to confide in Mother, I could not, for she would insist that I stop the art classes, and I could never do that. Seeing Mr. Burton gave me life. All that mattered was him.

Mother watched as I fussed with my ribbons. “Are you all right, dear?”

I didn't answer but looked out the window as our carriage pulled up to Mother's house. When the driver held open the door, Mother hesitated, then leaned in close and whispered, “Be patient, darling. I've been trying to convince your father that your marriage is unsuitable and that it would be better for you to return home. You know how stubborn he is, but I feel I am making progress.”

“Thank you, Mother,” I said, but her words startled me. As much as I disliked my husband, marriage had at least given me some freedom, and if I were to return to my parents' home, I would again be under the controlling supervision of my father. To continue on the path that I was taking, my marital home was the easier of the two to navigate.

I
HOPED MY
infatuation with Caroline would pass, but as the weeks went by, it only grew stronger. Not only did I see her on Saturdays, where I fought to keep my attraction for her hidden, but we also attended the same social events. There I often overheard others sniping at her beauty and laughing at her embarrassment when the inebriated Mr. Preston urinated in the palms or vomited in the shrubbery. In Saturday's class, when she appeared as gracious as ever and spoke not a word of her troubles, it infuriated me to think of the marriage she had to endure.

The first day Caroline requested to stay after the art class so that she might complete her project, I assured her that I was only going to continue to work myself and she was welcome to remain as long as she chose. After the other students left and we were alone, I felt so drawn to her that I wondered if I could trust myself. For that reason I said not a word. We both worked silently until Robert came to ask if I would be in for dinner. Then Caroline, claiming surprise at the hour, rushed off.

The following Saturday, I was the one who invited her to stay. After the other students left, I addressed her. “I thought I might start teaching you to work with the pinfeather.”

She set down her brush. Her look of delight undid me, and needing time to steady myself, I went toward the door.

“I have some early works of mine to show you,” I said. “I will get them. They are in the library.”

“Might I come with you?” she asked unexpectedly.

“If you like,” I said, stepping back to let her pass through the doorway. Her small waist was within reach, and I fought to keep my hands away.

When Malcolm screamed his unhappiness at being left behind, we smiled at each other, but something other than amusement—an urgency, perhaps—passed between us.

The library was dark, though the mid-July sun beat against the drawn curtains. This was one of the rooms I had not yet redone, and I hoped that the brown velvet drapes didn't look too worn as I hooked one of the panels back. When I turned around, Caroline, bathed in the light, appeared a mirage.

“Caroline. Caroline!” I came toward her, whispering her name as one might a prayer.

She stared up at me. Her eyes had gone the same shade as the blue silk she wore. When she began to weep, I reached for her. “Don't cry,” I said. “Please don't cry.” She dropped her head on my chest. “I am desperate for you,” I whispered.

She looked up at me. “And I for you,” she breathed.

When she offered me her mouth, all reason left, and I was lost.

W
E HAD REACHED
the point where James had offered to teach me to paint with a pinfeather, but art was forgotten when we were alone together, for time was limited and our passion was strong. We met every Saturday after class, but soon, too hungry to wait out the days, we arranged to meet during the week as well.

I lied to Mother, using one excuse and then another about why I had less time for her. Though she never questioned me and likely guessed the reason, I was beyond caring.

My time with James was always too brief, but on the occasional glorious afternoon when time was not as critical, I relished what little I learned about him. Though he was guarded about himself, he encouraged me to chatter on. He inquired of my childhood, and I spoke willingly of that lonely time. When I shed a tear in the telling, he kissed it away. Yet he did not question me about the circumstances of my marriage, and I soon guessed that he placed such boundaries so I would not cross his own. Though he did not verbally share himself, his loneliness was palpable and as great as my own. It was in our lovemaking that we completed each other, and parting was anguish.

One Saturday afternoon, both spent, we lay across his tall four-poster bed. I was cradled under his arm, and from there I lazily studied the carvings on the dark oak bedposts, then the thick green-and-cream-colored fabric of the bed curtains. On his dressing table, reflected in the mirror, were several bottles of cut glass, each capped with an elaborate silver stopper. To the side sat two black eye patches, and I realized I had never seen him without one.

“James, will you tell me what happened to your eye? Why do you wear the eye patch? I have never seen you without it.”

He gave a light laugh. “There is nothing much to say. I was born with the affliction. I have no sight in the eye, and Mrs. Burton suggested I cover it with a patch. I've become used to it.”

“Will you show me your eye?”

“Sit up,” he said, and when I did so, he lifted the patch and looked at me. The white glaze that covered his affected eye made him look more vulnerable.

“Can you see anything with it?” I asked.

“Just shadows,” he said. I reached for his head and gently kissed both his eyes before I snuggled back under his arm. There I turned my head onto his warm chest, wondering which of his toiletries he had used, for I loved his fresh scent. In the intimacy of the moment, I wanted to know everything about him.

“How did you come to be adopted by the Burtons?” I asked.

He stopped stroking my head. “I needed a family, and they adopted me,” he said.

“But what of the parents before them?” I asked. “What happened to your first parents?”

“Both of them died,” he said abruptly.

“Oh, dearest! It must have been difficult, losing both. How old were you?”

He was silent. I circled my hand lightly on his chest and flattened it across his heart. I felt the steady rhythm, and though I sensed he was uncomfortable, I wanted to know more. What had he been like as a child?

“Jamie,” I said, trying out a pet name. “Jamie, dearest, I know so little about you.” There was such a long silence that I feared I had crossed a line.

Then suddenly: “You called me Jamie,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Mother called me Jamie,” he said. “Well, I thought she was my mother, but in the end I discovered that she was my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother! Where was your mother?” I asked. “Had she already died?”

Again he was silent, but his breathing had turned shallow, and my hand felt the increasing thump of his heart. I raised myself up on my elbow to look at him. “What is it, dearest? What is upsetting you?”

He looked away. “Caroline, there are some things that I need to—”

I sat up. “Tell me everything! I want to know everything about you.”

He gave an odd laugh. “You only think that you do.”

“But I do! I do!”

“What if I told you that I not only have feet of clay but that I am made of it? Dark brown clay.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Oh, James. I often think of myself the same way. Well, not so much me, but that my marriage is covered in mud. Although—and forgive my obscenity—my mud is more like manure.”

He laughed. “Manure, is it? My Caroline is stuck in manure! Whatever shall I do?”

“Since your feet are already of clay, you can't object to rescuing me.” We laughed, and when he reached for me, I playfully pushed him away while I noted the time. My husband cared little for my whereabouts, but that evening we were expected for supper at my parents' home, and for that we dared not be late.

As I rushed to dress, I asked James again about his childhood.

“I will tell you another time,” he said briskly, drawing his pants up over his shirt. His collar had doubled back, and I took the time to go over to him to fix it.

“There is nothing about you that I would not love,” I whispered and was rewarded when he pulled me to him and kissed me with such tenderness that I wept.

I
N THE FOLLOWING
months I cleared my schedule as much as possible so I would be available whenever James could find the time to send for me. If my husband suspected anything, he said nothing.

What I could not escape were certain weekly visits with Mother. Every Tuesday and Thursday her carriage arrived at eleven, and together we set out to satisfy our obligatory social calls. I was overflowing with love for James, and though I said nothing, Mother noted my newfound cheerfulness.

One Thursday morning, she arrived all a-flutter. “We are late,” she fussed as I climbed in. After I settled back, I pulled my new pocket watch from my reticule to check the time.

“Oh, Mother, it is as I thought. We have plenty of time.”

She noticed the glint of new silver. “How pretty! Where did you get it?” she asked, reaching her hand out to receive the watch.

“It was a gift,” I said, handing it over to her.

“From whom?” she asked.

“From one of my many admirers, Mother,” I teased.

She ignored my jest as she examined the underside of the tiny silver piece. “I've never seen one this delicate,” she said. She turned it around. “It has the Burton stamp. Only he could do something this fine. Was it a gift from him?”

“It was,” I said. There was something in my tone of voice, some pride, perhaps, that clearly caused her concern.

“Oh, Caroline!” she said. “You must be more careful.”

“Mother—” I began.

“No! Listen to me. This is a worldly man! You are easy prey. I know the difficulties you are having in your marriage, but you must be patient. Every day I appeal to your father to have you return home, but until he agrees, you must protect your name.”

Her words alarmed me. It was only because my husband cared so little that I was able to visit James as spontaneously as I did. That would change if I were to return to my parents' home.

“Mother. Please! Don't worry about me. I am fine. Can't you see?”

“You must know how concerned I am about you,” she said.

“But you see for yourself that I am well.”

“That is my point, Caroline. As your husband's reputation grows worse, you seem to have become happier—which, forgive me, darling, leads me to believe that you—”

“Oh, Mother! Please don't accuse me of—”

“I am not accusing you of anything! I am only expressing my concern.”

“Well, don't!” I spoke sharply.

“Please, dear, let us not argue,” she said, then hurriedly found another topic. “Did I tell you that I convinced your father I need six new gowns?”

I was relieved to have her change the subject and responded with a quick laugh. “Six gowns, Mother? Six!”