Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(49)

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.

“You painted it with a pinfeather? Of a bird?”

“Yes. It is a very old craft.”

“And where do you find these pinfeathers?”

“Hunters shoot woodcock as game and bring them to the market. Through the winter months, I purchase all I need.”

“How remarkable! In England I heard of a woman who used a bird’s pinfeather to paint on ivory.”

“You did? I must tell Mr. Leeds, my art instructor. He believes it a lost art.”

“Mr. Leeds is your instructor? Perhaps he will teach me as well.”

“I’m afraid he has grown old and no longer teaches.” She was so breathtakingly beautiful, and I was so drawn to her, that her nearness felt dangerous to me.

“Oh,” she said, “how unfortunate for me.” She tilted her head while her fingers played with a small curl that hung to the back of her neck. “Might you consider giving me a few classes?” She smiled with her full pink lips, and though I knew the danger, I was lost.

“When would you like to begin?” I answered so quickly that Caroline laughed, as did I.

“Perhaps in a few months? I should have my house in order by then,” Caroline said, just as her mother, panting and short of breath, rejoined us.

“Your husband is holding forth, and he is quite inebriated,” Mrs. Cardon scolded.

“Yes, I am sure he is, Mother,” said Caroline. Mrs. Cardon pursed her lips and stared back in the direction of Mr. Preston. “Mother,” Caroline went on brightly, “Mr. Burton has agreed to give me some painting instructions.”

Mrs. Cardon turned her attention toward us and assumed a smile. “Oh, darling,” she said, “when will you find the time? You have your home to set up.”

“Mr. Burton has agreed to wait until the fall. By then everyone will be tired of seeing me, and I shall have something to look forward to when the snow comes.”

Mrs. Cardon patted her daughter’s arm. “Well, if it is an art class that will make you happy, then we must find you an art instructor. Mr. Burton is a busy man. Surely you won’t impose on his time.”

“He already has agreed, haven’t you, Mr. Burton?” Caroline smiled up at me. Caught in the cross fire, I had no choice but to agree with Caroline.

“I see.” Mrs. Cardon looped her arm through her daughter’s and flashed me a smile that lacked warmth. “You will excuse us, Mr. Burton. Others have yet to greet Caroline.”

“Naturally,” I said, and after they walked away, I soon left for home, where I tried to make sense of this uncomfortable fascination I felt for Mrs. Preston.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


1828


Caroline


FOR WEEKS I vacillated over sending a note to Mr. Burton reminding him of the art classes, until one day we met by chance.

Early in October I agreed to accompany Mother and her gardener, Phelps, to visit the greenhouses at Bartram’s gardens, but on the morning of our intended visit, Mother was struck with headache and had to forgo the trip. It was a lovely day, and as I knew the place, I decided, rather than spending the afternoon alone, I would accompany Phelps. I packed my sketchpad with the idea that I would visit the gardens while our gardener went about his business and made his selections.

Phelps and I were easy company on the carriage ride over. I had known him all my life, and he had always been my most reliable source for botanical questions. He laughed still in remembrance of the time when, as a child, I asked if the wings of his dark mustache were meant to attract butterflies.