I ARRIVED AT the Cardons’ home that first evening to find I already knew some of the other guests, as they were now my customers. Nonetheless, Mrs. Cardon took my arm and introduced me around, and though her voice remained cheerful, her hand stiffened when we came to her husband. “Mr. Cardon, this is the young man I was telling you about. He is the artist—the silversmith artist James Burton. Do you recall me speaking to you of him?”
“I certainly recall his bill,” he said. He laughed then, as though to dismiss the insult, and when his repeated glance at my eye patch alerted me to his curiosity, I ignored it, knowing with some satisfaction that good manners prevented him from asking the question he most wanted answered.
Dinner went by smoothly as our skilled hostess kept dinner conversation light and free of controversy. After the meal, I was disappointed to learn that dancing was canceled; instead we were led into a large parlor off of the dining room where chess and backgammon were set up. As a child, I had become quite skilled at these games, so I readily took a seat, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough.
Because of Mrs. Cardon’s sponsorship, invitations from her friends followed, and as they served as a distraction from my loneliness, I began to attend. Most of these evenings followed the same pattern: guests were liberally doused with spirits as elaborate meals were presented. Because more liquor was served later in the drawing rooms, the games that then took place were enjoyed more freely than they might have been otherwise. Occasionally, a small orchestra provided music for dancing, and in this way I put to good use the skills that my instructor had taught, but it was over cards or backgammon that the more intense flirtations abounded, and when Mrs. Cardon was in attendance, her attention was always on me. More than once she hinted at her availability, but I skirted the issue, and because there was no outright rejection, she did not appear to take offense as she had that day back in the silver shop.
Curiously, it was she who introduced me to eligible women, and it seemed that she took perverse pleasure in their interest in me. Some of these women caught my eye, and the more forward of them maneuvered to be alone with me to offer up a kiss or two. A few offered more, and though I participated, I did not push for these interludes. I had not forgotten who I was, nor what was at stake, but I was a healthy man, and the frustrations that followed were uncomfortable. In time I learned through the men who gathered in the smoke-filled drawing rooms for heartier drink and easier talk that houses existed where men could visit to relieve themselves of this primal tension. I gave some thought to it, but afraid of disease, I stayed away, though as the next few years passed, I began to give the possibility more consideration.
Then, in the summer of 1828, I met Caroline, Mrs. Cardon’s daughter.
IT WAS AT a dinner hosted by a close friend of Mrs. Cardon’s to welcome Caroline and her husband home after the years they had spent traveling abroad. Only twenty or so had been invited to the dinner, held prior to a large reception. Though the dinner number was restricted, I was accustomed, as an eligible man, to being included when seats were at a premium. I had been to this home before, and though it was not as grand as the Cardon residence—few were—this one had a large drawing room that opened to a magnificent rose garden.
It was a mild June evening, and dinner was served outdoors in the lush blooming garden, where hundreds of suspended candles and lanterns flickered in the twilight. When the guests of honor arrived, they were too late for introductions, and we were all seated immediately, as the reception was soon to follow.
Caroline’s husband, Mr. Thomas Preston, took his seat across from me, and as he nervously adjusted his spectacles on his long thin nose, he acknowledged those around with a stiff nod of greeting. His neck was restrained by an exceptionally tall white shirt collar and held in place by a wide cravat, and when the woman seated next to him complimented him on what she referred to as his European fashion, his pale narrow face flushed with pleasure.
Caroline was seated farther down, so I didn’t take notice of her right away, but what I did note was that before we had finished the vichyssoise, Mr. Preston had already consumed more than enough wine.
It wasn’t until the oysters were served that I looked down the table and saw Caroline. I had been looking forward to meeting her, expecting to see a younger version of her mother, but how wrong I was. Though Mrs. Cardon was handsome enough, her daughter was a true beauty. Dressed in a pale gray-blue silk, Caroline leaned in to better hear the man seated next to her, and when she tilted her head up in my direction, her dark blue eyes locked on mine. I stared, and when she offered a slight smile, I became flustered and turned away. Had she taken me for someone else? Unable to deny myself another look, I turned back. Still in conversation, she again met my gaze, and she repeated her sweet smile. A toast was offered, and when she lifted her glass of wine, her long fingers cupped the bowl so gracefully that I found I was again staring and forced myself to look away. With some guilt, I looked to her husband, but his attention was on having his wineglass refilled.
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.