Glory Over Everything (19 page)

But I was impatient. “Before we discuss that, I would like to show you this. Come,” I said, waving her over to the window, where I opened the small blue box in the sunlight. As I knew it would, the tiny silver parakeet gleamed against the dark blue velvet, and the small ruby in the eye of the bird sparkled. Mrs. Cardon gasped as she lifted it from the box, then opened the bird's miniature wing to expose the ornamental grille. “Oh! Mr. Burton! It is beautiful! Caroline will love this.”

“Do you think so?” I asked, enjoying her pleasure.

“Oh yes! She will!” When she caught my smile, her eyes filled.

“What is it?” I asked, concerned at her sudden change of mood.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, handing the silver piece back to me before reaching into her soft leather reticule for a handkerchief.

I went over and closed the office door. “Please, sit,” I said. “You must be forthright. Do you not like the piece?”

“Oh, no. No. I love it! My problem is . . . that is, it is more . . . personal.” She glanced at the closed door.

“What you tell me will not leave this room,” I assured her.

“You give me your word? It will stay between the two of us?” she asked.

“Certainly!” I answered.

“Just this morning, as I dressed to come here, Mr. Cardon informed me that he had finalized arrangements for Caroline's marriage,” she said. She looked at me, her eyes pained. “The match is wrong, all wrong, but he is insisting on it.”

“You do not approve of the young man?” I asked, trying to better understand.

“I do not! And neither will Caroline!” Bitterness coated her words.

“Can she not refuse?”

“Refuse? Caroline? No one refuses Mr. Cardon. Least of all his daughter.”

“And your husband has no regard for your opinion?”

She looked at me in disbelief. “My opinion? His opinion is our opinion. It is as simple as that,” she said. With her elbow on the arm of the chair, she leaned her head into her hand. “This marriage will destroy my daughter's life.”

I tried for words of comfort. “But at least she will be here with you in Philadelphia,” I reminded her.

“No,” she said, staring up at me with stricken eyes, “they are to go abroad. For two years! It is part of the arrangement. The boy's father wants him to travel, and my daughter is to go with him.”

“I see,” I said.

She turned on me. “No! No, you don't see! The boy is already a ruin. And this is my only child—my only daughter! Can you understand what this means to me? What it will mean to her?”

She looked so lost that I rested my hand on her shoulder, then quickly removed it. “I do,” I said. “I do understand.”

“Oh dear.” She straightened her shoulders as she struggled to collect herself. “I am sorry, so sorry, to have burdened you with this.”

I was struck at her difficult position and wanted to console her, but I could find no words. I rose and went for the small painting of Malcolm. “I want you to have this,” I said, handing it to her. “It is my gift to you.”

“Oh!” She stood when she reached for it and held it to her bosom. “How dear of you.”

“I only want to see you smile again,” I said, but realized too late the intimacy those words invited when she stepped close and placed her hand on my arm. “Am I to understand. . . . ?” she asked, her voice soft and inviting. “Perhaps next Wednesday afternoon? I am free.”

“I . . .” I stumbled over words as I tried to reestablish a boundary. “I wish I had the time, but I'm afraid my days are taken up with work.” As though on cue, my pocket watch pinged, marking the hour.

“Of course,” she said, pulling back her hand. “You are busy. How foolish of me to think otherwise. Naturally.” She laughed lightly as she busied herself and tucked her handkerchief away.

“I am sorry,” I said, knowing that I had insulted her. “Perhaps dinner?”

“Certainly,” she said. “I shall send you a dinner invitation. You must meet my husband.”

“It would be my pleasure,” I said, hating the distance now between us.

Before she left, she opened her reticule. “You have created two pieces of art,” she said. “Now tell me, what does my husband owe you? I will always consider the painting a gift, but I must insist he pay for both.”

L
ONG BEFORE
I received my first invitation to Mrs. Cardon's home, friends of hers began to frequent my silver shop. These were women of enormous wealth who were not opposed to spending extravagantly, and because of them, the silver business again flourished.

That autumn, when an invitation arrived from Mrs. Cardon, I was happy for the distraction, for my own home was a lonely place. I missed Mrs. Burton more than I could have anticipated, and sometimes, in my loneliness, I visited her rooms with Malcolm. There I sat at her bedside, fingering the books we once read aloud to one another, while Malcolm flew about distractedly. Usually, though, he did not settle, and we would have to leave when he, in his frustration at not finding her, would chew at the engraved bedposts.

I had come to dread the solitary meals served in the large dining room, until Robert suggested I take them in the small back parlor. There, in a more intimate setting, Malcolm and the crackling of a small fire gave me some company while I ate.

I looked forward to teaching my Sunday art students, not only for the company they provided, but for the stimuli of my own artwork. Many evenings I found solace in painting as I worked to perfect the technique of using a pinfeather, often dreaming of the day I might travel and create a small handbook similar to Bartram's.

I
DID NOT
see Mrs. Cardon after our last meeting at the silver shop, but throughout the summer I heard through her friends about her daughter's extravagant wedding.

In the fall, Mrs. Cardon sent me an invitation for a dinner. Though a month away, it presented a dilemma, as it included an evening of dance, a skill I had not yet learned. After Robert made some discreet inquiries, he found a dance master who agreed to come to my home and teach me not only how to dance but also the required etiquette of the ballroom.

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the exercise. The dance master's handsome young wife laughed as we giddily circled the room. “I prefer the waltz to any of the other dances!” I called out above the music, enjoying the easy rhythm and liking the idea of having only one partner.

The dance master suddenly stopped playing the spinet that Robert had moved from the back parlor into the more spacious front parlor. “It is not good form to hold your partner that close,” my instructor sniffed. “And though the waltz is done at Mrs. Cardon's affairs, you will not find it so in the more conservative ballrooms. The intimacy of it is considered quite scandalous,” he said, glaring first at his pink-faced wife and then at me over his spectacles.

I
ARRIVED AT
the Cardons' home that first evening to find I already knew some of the other guests, as they were now my customers. Nonetheless, Mrs. Cardon took my arm and introduced me around, and though her voice remained cheerful, her hand stiffened when we came to her husband. “Mr. Cardon, this is the young man I was telling you about. He is the artist—the silversmith artist James Burton. Do you recall me speaking to you of him?”

“I certainly recall his bill,” he said. He laughed then, as though to dismiss the insult, and when his repeated glance at my eye patch alerted me to his curiosity, I ignored it, knowing with some satisfaction that good manners prevented him from asking the question he most wanted answered.

Dinner went by smoothly as our skilled hostess kept dinner conversation light and free of controversy. After the meal, I was disappointed to learn that dancing was canceled; instead we were led into a large parlor off of the dining room where chess and backgammon were set up. As a child, I had become quite skilled at these games, so I readily took a seat, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough.

Because of Mrs. Cardon's sponsorship, invitations from her friends followed, and as they served as a distraction from my loneliness, I began to attend. Most of these evenings followed the same pattern: guests were liberally doused with spirits as elaborate meals were presented. Because more liquor was served later in the drawing rooms, the games that then took place were enjoyed more freely than they might have been otherwise. Occasionally, a small orchestra provided music for dancing, and in this way I put to good use the skills that my instructor had taught, but it was over cards or backgammon that the more intense flirtations abounded, and when Mrs. Cardon was in attendance, her attention was always on me. More than once she hinted at her availability, but I skirted the issue, and because there was no outright rejection, she did not appear to take offense as she had that day back in the silver shop.

Curiously, it was she who introduced me to eligible women, and it seemed that she took perverse pleasure in their interest in me. Some of these women caught my eye, and the more forward of them maneuvered to be alone with me to offer up a kiss or two. A few offered more, and though I participated, I did not push for these interludes. I had not forgotten who I was, nor what was at stake, but I was a healthy man, and the frustrations that followed were uncomfortable. In time I learned through the men who gathered in the smoke-filled drawing rooms for heartier drink and easier talk that houses existed where men could visit to relieve themselves of this primal tension. I gave some thought to it, but afraid of disease, I stayed away, though as the next few years passed, I began to give the possibility more consideration.

Then, in the summer of 1828, I met Caroline, Mrs. Cardon's daughter.

I
T WAS AT
a dinner hosted by a close friend of Mrs. Cardon's to welcome Caroline and her husband home after the years they had spent traveling abroad. Only twenty or so had been invited to the dinner, held prior to a large reception. Though the dinner number was restricted, I was accustomed, as an eligible man, to being included when seats were at a premium. I had been to this home before, and though it was not as grand as the Cardon residence—few were—this one had a large drawing room that opened to a magnificent rose garden.

It was a mild June evening, and dinner was served outdoors in the lush blooming garden, where hundreds of suspended candles and lanterns flickered in the twilight. When the guests of honor arrived, they were too late for introductions, and we were all seated immediately, as the reception was soon to follow.

Caroline's husband, Mr. Thomas Preston, took his seat across from me, and as he nervously adjusted his spectacles on his long thin nose, he acknowledged those around with a stiff nod of greeting. His neck was restrained by an exceptionally tall white shirt collar and held in place by a wide cravat, and when the woman seated next to him complimented him on what she referred to as his European fashion, his pale narrow face flushed with pleasure.

Caroline was seated farther down, so I didn't take notice of her right away, but what I did note was that before we had finished the vichyssoise, Mr. Preston had already consumed more than enough wine.

It wasn't until the oysters were served that I looked down the table and saw Caroline. I had been looking forward to meeting her, expecting to see a younger version of her mother, but how wrong I was. Though Mrs. Cardon was handsome enough, her daughter was a true beauty. Dressed in a pale gray-blue silk, Caroline leaned in to better hear the man seated next to her, and when she tilted her head up in my direction, her dark blue eyes locked on mine. I stared, and when she offered a slight smile, I became flustered and turned away. Had she taken me for someone else? Unable to deny myself another look, I turned back. Still in conversation, she again met my gaze, and she repeated her sweet smile. A toast was offered, and when she lifted her glass of wine, her long fingers cupped the bowl so gracefully that I found I was again staring and forced myself to look away. With some guilt, I looked to her husband, but his attention was on having his wineglass refilled.

With dinner over and the dancing begun, Mrs. Cardon brought over her daughter and son-in-law for introduction. She scarcely had time to present them before a small crisis occurred and the hostess sent word for Mrs. Cardon's assistance. As she left to give her help, Mr. Preston mumbled something unintelligible, and then he, too, swayed off, leaving Caroline alone with me.

“I apologize for my husband's behavior,” she said. Close up, she was even more beautiful, and I struggled to make conversation.

“I am sure coming home is an adjustment,” I said, offering her an excuse.

“Yes,” she said. “He hated to return.”

“And you?”

“I never wanted to leave home in the first place,” she said.

“You didn't?”

How vulnerable she looked as she stared up at me. I had asked too intimate a question, and I tried to think of something else to say. “Might I ask if you had opportunity to use the vinaigrette I fashioned for your birthday?”

“Forgive me! I meant to mention it first thing after I recognized you at dinner.”

“But we've never met.”

“No, but your eye—” She caught herself. “I'm sorry, that was unkind.”

“Don't be sorry. I am quite used to it, and I suppose it is a distinctive enough feature.”

“It is,” she relied honestly, then adeptly changed course. “Please know how I treasure my vinaigrette! It is a true work of art.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You also paint?”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Did you not paint that beautiful miniature of a cockatoo? The one Mother has?”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I did,” I said.

“It is so tiny yet so detailed. I've studied it many times. However did you achieve it?”

“Instead of a sable brush, I used a pinfeather,” I said, surprised at her interest.