Glory Over Everything (22 page)

“That is exactly what he said. ‘If your finances cannot bear the strain,' I said—you know how he hates me to say that—‘then I will have to make do with two.'

“ ‘Mrs. Cardon!'—you know the voice he used—‘Do not imply that I cannot provide what you need! If you need six gowns, then get yourself six gowns!' Of course I did not tell him that I intend three to go to you. How soon, dear, can you schedule the time so we might go to Geraldine for our fittings?”

J
AMES AND
I were lovers throughout that glorious summer and fall, but by the end of January 1830, I could no longer deny my pregnancy.

“Can't you lace this corset tighter?” I asked Mary, my new maid.

“Begging your pardon, but I think you are already too squeezed in,” she said, coming around to the front to rest her eyes on my stomach. “You don't want to hurt what's in there.”

“Shhh,” I said, putting my finger to my lips. I set my hands on my expanding waist. “Can you see that I've gained weight?”

She gave a nod.

“Oh dear,” I said, and sat back on the edge of the bed. These past months I had ignored the cessation of my monthly flow and the increasing tenderness of my swollen breasts, but I could no longer hide the truth, especially from myself.

I was not a fool, and from the start knew a pregnancy could result, but I was so in love with James and so caught up in our passion that I refused to steal from my happiness by dwelling on a possible complication. Faced with the reality, I was not altogether unhappy. The idea of having James's baby rather excited me. I didn't foresee a problem presenting the child as Mr. Preston's, and since he was not in a position to judge, I felt certain of his support.

I fully expected James to be pleased with the news, for it was, after all, his progeny. Should he have hesitation, I would assure him of my health, for I had never felt so alive. Furthermore, other than needing a few weeks for recovery following the birth, I saw no reason why the pregnancy should impact our affair. Yet before I presented James with my condition, I decided it would be helpful if I came to him with my husband's support.

Approaching Mr. Preston with the news did not overly concern me, for he once said that he would like to have a child, and we both knew that if it were left up to the two of us, we would never have one of our own.

Since my affair with James had begun, my husband and I had grown more civil, and during the day we might share an exchange about the weather or have a word or two about attire for some upcoming event. But civility was lost when alcohol was introduced. Then he almost always overindulged, and if his mood turned belligerent, his fury was often directed at me. “If you were more a woman,” his rant would begin, and I would try to make my exit before he began his accusations of how my father had coerced him into this marriage.

Following these nights, apologies were few, but his remorse was often evident. I decided that should he object to this pregnancy, I would use his guilt to settle my case.

I
N THE MORNING
I had my maid deliver a handwritten note to my husband. Though he and I seldom shared a meal at home, he agreed to join me that night for an early supper.

I had our cook prepare my husband's favorite Italian dish of macaroni and cheese and, for dessert, a bread pudding with his favorite custard sauce. I dressed for the evening in my new pink silk, though I was soon sorry, for it was somewhat oversnug. I might have changed, but the downstairs maid had come to tell me that my husband was waiting.

After our meal was served in silence, I dismissed the servants so we might be alone. My husband's eyes were wary, but enticed by his favorite food, he began to eat. I tried some banter. When that failed, I fingered the heavily worked pattern of silver cutlery that Mother had chosen for us until I finally blurted out, “I am going to have a child.”

His eyes lifted. “Is it Burton's?” he asked.

My face went hot. “How do you know?”

“I have my ways,” he said, smirking at my surprise.

I felt nauseated as he forked in another bite of the macaroni. “I don't know what to say,” I said.

“You say nothing,” he said. “We will raise the child as our own.”

My dress restricted a deep sigh of relief. “I was hoping you would agree to do so,” I said, grateful enough for his unexpected generosity that I was close to tears.

He drained his glass of wine, then looked up at me after he poured himself another. “Naturally, you will stop the affair,” he said.

I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“You must end the affair.”

“No. Certainly not!”

He drained the fresh glass of wine. “Yes, you will! I will not have the child's paternity questioned.”

I braced myself against the table. “But I love him! I must continue to see him!”

“You love him! Caroline! Simple as you are, surely you know that he is using you, just as he has used half of the women—”

I partially rose from my seat. “He has not! How dare you!”

“Caroline, don't act more the fool than you are. Sit down!”

I dropped back into my chair. “He isn't using me!” I felt weak at the thought.

He gave me a pitying smile. “He is known for it!”

“Don't say that! That is not who he is!” I flung my napkin onto the table and began to sob.

“For pity's sake!” he shouted. I winced when he rose from his seat so forcefully that his chair flew back. “Don't start with those damn tears! Always! Women and their damn tears!” He straightened his dinner jacket before he picked up his chair, then reached for the unfinished bottle of dinner wine before he left the room.

My tears! How dare he! The only time he saw me cry was during his alcoholic rages.

When I flung my knife across the table, the weight of the silver caught the edge of his crystal water goblet and sent shards of glass to the floor. Stunned by my own outburst, I sat for a minute before I burst into wild tears.

T
HE DAY FOLLOWING
that dreadful supper with my husband was a Tuesday. James and I regularly met on Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, and until now I had kept to this pattern. However, all day Tuesday, I grew increasingly concerned that my husband might contact James about my pregnancy, and by the evening, frantic with worry, I made a rash decision and went unannounced to my lover's home.

I had not slept the night before, wondering if it was possible that what my husband had said about James was true. Had he been using me? Were there other women? After all, hadn't Mother suggested the same months before? And how would that affect the way he would feel about my pregnancy? I had been so certain of him, but now the questions haunted me.

Snow was falling heavily when I arrived at James's house, so I didn't have my carriage go around to the back as I usually did; instead I had it pull up to the front door. Robert sensed something amiss and led me directly to the library before he went to fetch James.

Faint from upset and my tight corset, I sat on the edge of a chair to wait. When James rushed in, I was so relieved to see him that I could not find words.

He knelt at my side. “What is it?” he asked. “Caroline, this is foolhardy, coming here like this. My lawyer will be here within the hour.”

“Your lawyer?” I asked stupidly.

“I'm arranging to sell my business,” he answered, as though he, too, could think of nothing else to say.

“Sell your business?” I felt light-headed from fear. “Are you leaving Philadelphia?” I gripped the arm of the chair, prepared to hear the worst. So my husband had already been here!

“No! Of course not! I meant to surprise you with this. I'm selling my business, and I'm finally going to illustrate that book of birds.” He reached for my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “But tell me, what has happened? You are too pale. What is it?”

“Do you love me?” I whispered.

“You know I do!”

I was trembling. He was my whole life! What would I do if he turned from me? I could not live without him! “I am going to have a child,” I whispered.

His hands gripped my shoulders before he suddenly released me. He stood and dropped his head into his hands, then lifted his head again to stare at me. “You are certain of this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He looked about as though searching for words.

“James, it is your child,” I reminded him.

“Of course it is!” he said sharply. “That is the issue!”

I had not expected his anger. Surely he had known this could happen. Why did he so hate the idea of a child? Would it restrict him with other lovers?

He walked to the window, then came back and stood beside me. I could not look at him, terrified of what he was about to say. Did he mean to end the relationship? I couldn't bear it!

“Caroline, there are some things I must tell you about myself. I have been unfair to you.”

Dear God! Here it was! My husband was right! Now he would confess to the other women. He would say that he had never loved me. I couldn't suffer those words. I covered my ears and shook my head as a child might. “No!” I said. “No! Don't tell me! I don't want to know!” I lost all restraint and sobbed so desperately that he knelt beside me and pulled me into his arms. When a clock bonged from the upstairs hall, announcing the hour, I felt him tremble as he held me away.

“Caroline, you must go now. He will be arriving any moment. I will see you soon, and then we must talk. I will tell you everything.”

I shook my head. “Please, James,” I begged. “I don't want to know! Please! Leave it as it is.”

“All right,” he soothed, but his face was pained and troubled as he helped me into my carriage.

T
HROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING
day, I awaited a note from James, as per our routine, telling me to come for our Wednesday appointment. But nothing came.

On Friday I received an impersonal note announcing that the art classes were discontinued until further notice.

Against my better judgment, I sent James a return note:

Please, please, let me come to see you.

His response:

Be patient. In view of everything, we cannot risk it while I am in the middle of negotiating the sale of my silver business. I will be in touch as soon as the transaction is secured.

I felt sick from needing his reassurance, and each day that passed without further communication filled me with increasing anxiety. I canceled all my engagements, unwilling to leave my home should a summoning note arrive.

I waited every long day for all of that dark February. I refused visitors and made constant excuses to my mother until, at month's end, she brushed by both the housekeeper and then my maid, Mary, to appear unannounced in my bedroom.

Weeks before, when I had told Mother of my pregnancy, her response had been to the point: “Pardon me, darling, for saying this, but Father and I were under the impression that you were not having relations with . . . Let's just say this is something of a surprise.”

“Yes, it is, for me as well,” I said.

“You are happy?” she asked, trying to read my eyes.

“I've never been happier,” I said, smiling.

“And?” She nodded toward my husband's study.

“He is pleased as well.”

“What a relief,” she said, though her stiff congratulatory embrace did not convey the feeling.

But now, this day in late February, she greeted me with an unhappy look. “Darling! Have you lost weight?”

“I don't know,” I answered listlessly.

“What is wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”

“I suppose it is the winter . . . or perhaps the effects from carrying a child.”

“But you must be about six months along,” she said. “You should be feeling quite well.”

I pulled my shawl tight around my shoulders; though there was a strong fire warming my bedroom, there were drafts, and I couldn't feel warm. “Don't frown so, Mother,” I scolded, uncomfortable with her stare.

Mother sent Mary to the kitchen for some tea, then tossed her red wool fur-lined cloak on the foot of my bed. “I don't like the way you look, Caroline,” she said. “You look ill.”

“I am only tired,” I said. What else could I say? I couldn't very well tell her of my abandonment.

“And that is all?” she asked. “There is nothing else wrong?”

“I suppose I'm afraid,” I offered.

She dragged a chair to the side of my bed and sat. “Of course you are,” she said. “Every woman fears childbirth. But you must pull yourself out of this mood for the sake of the child. You must look for other things to distract you.” She paused. “Does Mr. Preston support you? Has he . . . been unkind?”

“No, Mother,” I said, sighing, “all is as usual.” I did not tell her that it was I who was cool with Mr. Preston, for I strongly suspected he had played a role in James's staying away. “I like your new dress, Mother,” I said, changing the subject before she had time to quiz me further.

“Do you?” she asked as she pulled and puffed out the enormous sleeves on her costume. “What do you think? Are the sleeves too extreme? They are called gigot and are the latest in fashion, but in winter, with my cape, it is difficult for them to hold their shape.”

“The red flowers in the fabric look pretty with your cape,” I said, though soon her primping made me irritable. “So tell me, Mother. What have you been doing? What is the latest news?”

“Well!” she said, satisfied with her frock and settling her hands in her lap. “I'm quite excited, my dear. Your father and I have been asked to host the museum's annual event in our home!”

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound interested, “tell me about it.”

“Do you recall the annual ball given to celebrate the artists who are to receive funding for their projects? I'm sure you've already heard the news about James Burton.” She avoided my eyes as she turned again to her sleeves.