Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(48)

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.


IT 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.