Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(53)

The library was dark, though the mid-July sun beat against the drawn curtains. This was one of the rooms I had not yet redone, and I hoped that the brown velvet drapes didn’t look too worn as I hooked one of the panels back. When I turned around, Caroline, bathed in the light, appeared a mirage.

“Caroline. Caroline!” I came toward her, whispering her name as one might a prayer.

She stared up at me. Her eyes had gone the same shade as the blue silk she wore. When she began to weep, I reached for her. “Don’t cry,” I said. “Please don’t cry.” She dropped her head on my chest. “I am desperate for you,” I whispered.

She looked up at me. “And I for you,” she breathed.

When she offered me her mouth, all reason left, and I was lost.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


1829


Caroline


WE HAD REACHED the point where James had offered to teach me to paint with a pinfeather, but art was forgotten when we were alone together, for time was limited and our passion was strong. We met every Saturday after class, but soon, too hungry to wait out the days, we arranged to meet during the week as well.

I lied to Mother, using one excuse and then another about why I had less time for her. Though she never questioned me and likely guessed the reason, I was beyond caring.

My time with James was always too brief, but on the occasional glorious afternoon when time was not as critical, I relished what little I learned about him. Though he was guarded about himself, he encouraged me to chatter on. He inquired of my childhood, and I spoke willingly of that lonely time. When I shed a tear in the telling, he kissed it away. Yet he did not question me about the circumstances of my marriage, and I soon guessed that he placed such boundaries so I would not cross his own. Though he did not verbally share himself, his loneliness was palpable and as great as my own. It was in our lovemaking that we completed each other, and parting was anguish.

One Saturday afternoon, both spent, we lay across his tall four-poster bed. I was cradled under his arm, and from there I lazily studied the carvings on the dark oak bedposts, then the thick green-and-cream-colored fabric of the bed curtains. On his dressing table, reflected in the mirror, were several bottles of cut glass, each capped with an elaborate silver stopper. To the side sat two black eye patches, and I realized I had never seen him without one.

“James, will you tell me what happened to your eye? Why do you wear the eye patch? I have never seen you without it.”

He gave a light laugh. “There is nothing much to say. I was born with the affliction. I have no sight in the eye, and Mrs. Burton suggested I cover it with a patch. I’ve become used to it.”

“Will you show me your eye?”

“Sit up,” he said, and when I did so, he lifted the patch and looked at me. The white glaze that covered his affected eye made him look more vulnerable.

“Can you see anything with it?” I asked.

“Just shadows,” he said. I reached for his head and gently kissed both his eyes before I snuggled back under his arm. There I turned my head onto his warm chest, wondering which of his toiletries he had used, for I loved his fresh scent. In the intimacy of the moment, I wanted to know everything about him.

“How did you come to be adopted by the Burtons?” I asked.

He stopped stroking my head. “I needed a family, and they adopted me,” he said.

“But what of the parents before them?” I asked. “What happened to your first parents?”

“Both of them died,” he said abruptly.

“Oh, dearest! It must have been difficult, losing both. How old were you?”

He was silent. I circled my hand lightly on his chest and flattened it across his heart. I felt the steady rhythm, and though I sensed he was uncomfortable, I wanted to know more. What had he been like as a child?

“Jamie,” I said, trying out a pet name. “Jamie, dearest, I know so little about you.” There was such a long silence that I feared I had crossed a line.

Then suddenly: “You called me Jamie,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Mother called me Jamie,” he said. “Well, I thought she was my mother, but in the end I discovered that she was my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother! Where was your mother?” I asked. “Had she already died?”

Again he was silent, but his breathing had turned shallow, and my hand felt the increasing thump of his heart. I raised myself up on my elbow to look at him. “What is it, dearest? What is upsetting you?”

He looked away. “Caroline, there are some things that I need to—”

I sat up. “Tell me everything! I want to know everything about you.”

He gave an odd laugh. “You only think that you do.”

“But I do! I do!”

“What if I told you that I not only have feet of clay but that I am made of it? Dark brown clay.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Oh, James. I often think of myself the same way. Well, not so much me, but that my marriage is covered in mud. Although—and forgive my obscenity—my mud is more like manure.”

He laughed. “Manure, is it? My Caroline is stuck in manure! Whatever shall I do?”

“Since your feet are already of clay, you can’t object to rescuing me.” We laughed, and when he reached for me, I playfully pushed him away while I noted the time. My husband cared little for my whereabouts, but that evening we were expected for supper at my parents’ home, and for that we dared not be late.