Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(56)

“No! Of course not! I meant to surprise you with this. I’m selling my business, and I’m finally going to illustrate that book of birds.” He reached for my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “But tell me, what has happened? You are too pale. What is it?”

“Do you love me?” I whispered.

“You know I do!”

I was trembling. He was my whole life! What would I do if he turned from me? I could not live without him! “I am going to have a child,” I whispered.

His hands gripped my shoulders before he suddenly released me. He stood and dropped his head into his hands, then lifted his head again to stare at me. “You are certain of this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He looked about as though searching for words.

“James, it is your child,” I reminded him.

“Of course it is!” he said sharply. “That is the issue!”

I had not expected his anger. Surely he had known this could happen. Why did he so hate the idea of a child? Would it restrict him with other lovers?

He walked to the window, then came back and stood beside me. I could not look at him, terrified of what he was about to say. Did he mean to end the relationship? I couldn’t bear it!

“Caroline, there are some things I must tell you about myself. I have been unfair to you.”

Dear God! Here it was! My husband was right! Now he would confess to the other women. He would say that he had never loved me. I couldn’t suffer those words. I covered my ears and shook my head as a child might. “No!” I said. “No! Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!” I lost all restraint and sobbed so desperately that he knelt beside me and pulled me into his arms. When a clock bonged from the upstairs hall, announcing the hour, I felt him tremble as he held me away.

“Caroline, you must go now. He will be arriving any moment. I will see you soon, and then we must talk. I will tell you everything.”

I shook my head. “Please, James,” I begged. “I don’t want to know! Please! Leave it as it is.”

“All right,” he soothed, but his face was pained and troubled as he helped me into my carriage.


THROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING day, I awaited a note from James, as per our routine, telling me to come for our Wednesday appointment. But nothing came.

On Friday I received an impersonal note announcing that the art classes were discontinued until further notice.

Against my better judgment, I sent James a return note:

Please, please, let me come to see you.

His response:

Be patient. In view of everything, we cannot risk it while I am in the middle of negotiating the sale of my silver business. I will be in touch as soon as the transaction is secured.

I felt sick from needing his reassurance, and each day that passed without further communication filled me with increasing anxiety. I canceled all my engagements, unwilling to leave my home should a summoning note arrive.

I waited every long day for all of that dark February. I refused visitors and made constant excuses to my mother until, at month’s end, she brushed by both the housekeeper and then my maid, Mary, to appear unannounced in my bedroom.

Weeks before, when I had told Mother of my pregnancy, her response had been to the point: “Pardon me, darling, for saying this, but Father and I were under the impression that you were not having relations with . . . Let’s just say this is something of a surprise.”

“Yes, it is, for me as well,” I said.

“You are happy?” she asked, trying to read my eyes.

“I’ve never been happier,” I said, smiling.

“And?” She nodded toward my husband’s study.

“He is pleased as well.”

“What a relief,” she said, though her stiff congratulatory embrace did not convey the feeling.

But now, this day in late February, she greeted me with an unhappy look. “Darling! Have you lost weight?”

“I don’t know,” I answered listlessly.

“What is wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”

“I suppose it is the winter . . . or perhaps the effects from carrying a child.”

“But you must be about six months along,” she said. “You should be feeling quite well.”

I pulled my shawl tight around my shoulders; though there was a strong fire warming my bedroom, there were drafts, and I couldn’t feel warm. “Don’t frown so, Mother,” I scolded, uncomfortable with her stare.

Mother sent Mary to the kitchen for some tea, then tossed her red wool fur-lined cloak on the foot of my bed. “I don’t like the way you look, Caroline,” she said. “You look ill.”

“I am only tired,” I said. What else could I say? I couldn’t very well tell her of my abandonment.

“And that is all?” she asked. “There is nothing else wrong?”

“I suppose I’m afraid,” I offered.

She dragged a chair to the side of my bed and sat. “Of course you are,” she said. “Every woman fears childbirth. But you must pull yourself out of this mood for the sake of the child. You must look for other things to distract you.” She paused. “Does Mr. Preston support you? Has he . . . been unkind?”

“No, Mother,” I said, sighing, “all is as usual.” I did not tell her that it was I who was cool with Mr. Preston, for I strongly suspected he had played a role in James’s staying away. “I like your new dress, Mother,” I said, changing the subject before she had time to quiz me further.