Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(55)

Approaching Mr. Preston with the news did not overly concern me, for he once said that he would like to have a child, and we both knew that if it were left up to the two of us, we would never have one of our own.

Since my affair with James had begun, my husband and I had grown more civil, and during the day we might share an exchange about the weather or have a word or two about attire for some upcoming event. But civility was lost when alcohol was introduced. Then he almost always overindulged, and if his mood turned belligerent, his fury was often directed at me. “If you were more a woman,” his rant would begin, and I would try to make my exit before he began his accusations of how my father had coerced him into this marriage.

Following these nights, apologies were few, but his remorse was often evident. I decided that should he object to this pregnancy, I would use his guilt to settle my case.


IN THE MORNING I had my maid deliver a handwritten note to my husband. Though he and I seldom shared a meal at home, he agreed to join me that night for an early supper.

I had our cook prepare my husband’s favorite Italian dish of macaroni and cheese and, for dessert, a bread pudding with his favorite custard sauce. I dressed for the evening in my new pink silk, though I was soon sorry, for it was somewhat oversnug. I might have changed, but the downstairs maid had come to tell me that my husband was waiting.

After our meal was served in silence, I dismissed the servants so we might be alone. My husband’s eyes were wary, but enticed by his favorite food, he began to eat. I tried some banter. When that failed, I fingered the heavily worked pattern of silver cutlery that Mother had chosen for us until I finally blurted out, “I am going to have a child.”

His eyes lifted. “Is it Burton’s?” he asked.

My face went hot. “How do you know?”

“I have my ways,” he said, smirking at my surprise.

I felt nauseated as he forked in another bite of the macaroni. “I don’t know what to say,” I said.

“You say nothing,” he said. “We will raise the child as our own.”

My dress restricted a deep sigh of relief. “I was hoping you would agree to do so,” I said, grateful enough for his unexpected generosity that I was close to tears.

He drained his glass of wine, then looked up at me after he poured himself another. “Naturally, you will stop the affair,” he said.

I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“You must end the affair.”

“No. Certainly not!”

He drained the fresh glass of wine. “Yes, you will! I will not have the child’s paternity questioned.”

I braced myself against the table. “But I love him! I must continue to see him!”

“You love him! Caroline! Simple as you are, surely you know that he is using you, just as he has used half of the women—”

I partially rose from my seat. “He has not! How dare you!”

“Caroline, don’t act more the fool than you are. Sit down!”

I dropped back into my chair. “He isn’t using me!” I felt weak at the thought.

He gave me a pitying smile. “He is known for it!”

“Don’t say that! That is not who he is!” I flung my napkin onto the table and began to sob.

“For pity’s sake!” he shouted. I winced when he rose from his seat so forcefully that his chair flew back. “Don’t start with those damn tears! Always! Women and their damn tears!” He straightened his dinner jacket before he picked up his chair, then reached for the unfinished bottle of dinner wine before he left the room.

My tears! How dare he! The only time he saw me cry was during his alcoholic rages.

When I flung my knife across the table, the weight of the silver caught the edge of his crystal water goblet and sent shards of glass to the floor. Stunned by my own outburst, I sat for a minute before I burst into wild tears.


THE DAY FOLLOWING that dreadful supper with my husband was a Tuesday. James and I regularly met on Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, and until now I had kept to this pattern. However, all day Tuesday, I grew increasingly concerned that my husband might contact James about my pregnancy, and by the evening, frantic with worry, I made a rash decision and went unannounced to my lover’s home.

I had not slept the night before, wondering if it was possible that what my husband had said about James was true. Had he been using me? Were there other women? After all, hadn’t Mother suggested the same months before? And how would that affect the way he would feel about my pregnancy? I had been so certain of him, but now the questions haunted me.

Snow was falling heavily when I arrived at James’s house, so I didn’t have my carriage go around to the back as I usually did; instead I had it pull up to the front door. Robert sensed something amiss and led me directly to the library before he went to fetch James.

Faint from upset and my tight corset, I sat on the edge of a chair to wait. When James rushed in, I was so relieved to see him that I could not find words.

He knelt at my side. “What is it?” he asked. “Caroline, this is foolhardy, coming here like this. My lawyer will be here within the hour.”

“Your lawyer?” I asked stupidly.

“I’m arranging to sell my business,” he answered, as though he, too, could think of nothing else to say.

“Sell your business?” I felt light-headed from fear. “Are you leaving Philadelphia?” I gripped the arm of the chair, prepared to hear the worst. So my husband had already been here!