Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(59)

March and then the first weeks of April passed, and my departure date grew closer. Still I heard nothing from Caroline. Daily I waited for a summons from Mrs. Cardon. I could not understand why it was not forthcoming. There was always the possibility that Caroline had confided in her mother and her mother had convinced her not to see me, but that idea only made me more desperate to see her. My greatest concern was for Caroline’s health, for she had looked too pale and thin when I saw her at the event. I struggled against taking matters into my own hands, but the situation was already so tenuous that I dared not.

In the third week of April, while I was signing the final papers for the sale of the silver shop, Robert interrupted my meeting to present a note from Mrs. Cardon requesting that I come to Stonehill as soon as possible.


STONEHILL WAS WIDELY known as the Cardons’ magnificent country home, set high on the banks of the Schuylkill River. Had I not been so worried about my mission, I might have enjoyed the scenic two-hour carriage ride there.

The home was the most luxurious I had yet encountered. Georgian in style, it was a massive two-story brick house, easily fifty feet square, with a hipped roof of such low pitch that it gave the appearance of being flat. To the back of the house were a number of handsome brick outbuildings, among them the stables and a large greenhouse, while to the left a two-story outdoor kitchen was connected to the house by a covered walkway.

A manservant I did not recognize met me at the door and, after taking my coat and hat, led me to a front parlor. There, as I waited, I walked about the room to calm myself. I felt sick with my upcoming disclosure, but as I paced the light-filled room, I couldn’t help noting the extravagance. The walls were covered in a yellow and gray silk stripe that traveled up to the high ceiling and there met with wide white detailed molding and plasterwork. Four bergère chairs covered in yellow silk surrounded a marble-topped table and I might have taken a seat had I not been so nervous.

I was tinkering on a harpsichord when Mrs. Cardon rushed in. On seeing me, she paused and, with a sweep of her hand, brushed back her unkempt hair before waving me through tall pocket doors into a smaller connecting parlor. There she closed us in. “For weeks I’ve tried to dissuade her from seeing you, but she insists!” Her voice was so shrill that I was taken aback. She swung toward me. “Do not act the innocent! She has told me that you are the father of her child!” The words drained the fight from her, and she sank into a chair and began to weep. “She is so ill, Mr. Burton! She is so ill.”

Alarm broke my silence. “What do you mean? Is it her time?”

She looked up at me, her face drawn and afraid. “No, but she is due very soon. The doctor has been here, and his concern is that she weakens more every day. He has bled her over and over, but nothing relieves her.”

Now my voice turned harsh. “How long has she been ill like this?” I asked.

She became apologetic. “Almost from the moment we arrived. I wonder now if the carriage ride was too difficult. We should never have left town; we are so isolated out here. She is too ill to return. I am so afraid. I have not left her side.”

“Is she alone now?” I asked, concerned at the thought.

“No. There is a housemaid with her, but she is new to us.” She shook her head. “I made such a mistake. Mr. Cardon hates to have our town house disrupted, so I left him with our staff and hired new to come with us. I—”

I spoke over her to cease her rambling. “The doctor?” I asked. “When was he last here?”

“Two days ago. He is due again tomorrow, along with Mr. Cardon.”

I walked to the door. “Please take me to her,” I said.

“I don’t know! If Mr. Cardon should ever discover that you—”

I interrupted again. “Mr. Cardon knows of my involvement?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Mr. Cardon? Oh! No! No! He must never know!”

“I agree,” I said, “but we will speak of that later. Now please take me to Caroline.”

She stayed sitting and shook her head as though arguing with herself. “If he ever finds out . . . he will kill both of us!”

“He won’t find out,” I said.

She studied me for a brief moment before she pushed herself to her feet. “Come,” she said, “but you must be gone before Mr. Cardon arrives tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes,” I said.

The decision made, she moved quickly up the massive staircase and down the vast hallway, the dark red walls lined with massive gold frames outlining portraits of family ancestors. At the door to Caroline’s room, Mrs. Cardon straightened her shoulders and filled her lungs. “We must stay calm,” she said as though to herself before she opened the door. A young Negro maid came forward, silencing us with a finger at her lips. I stood back, waiting for direction from Mrs. Cardon, for under ordinary circumstances, I would not have been given entrance to this room.

When she saw that Caroline was sleeping, Mrs. Cardon directed me to take a seat. The maid, while bringing over a chair, bumped into the bedpost and jarred Caroline awake.

The circles under my beloved’s eyes were as violet as the color of the room, and the pink in her face had been replaced by alabaster white. On seeing me, she struggled to sit, but her swollen stomach made her movements difficult. Forgetting all else, I rushed to her bed. She grasped hold of me as she might a savior. “James,” she cried. “Oh, James! You’ve come!”