Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(47)

“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.”


LONG 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.