“Shhhhh.” Caroline sat on the side of the bed, smoothing her hands over the coverlet while General Van Alen’s ultimatum rang out, again and again inside her head. She couldn’t shake it loose.
“I feel like part of me has died,” said Emily. “It hurts so badly. Sometimes I can hardly breathe.”
“Your first heartbreak always hurts the most,” said Caroline. “But you’ll see”—Emily rolled back onto her side—“your heart will mend, stronger than it was before. I promise you that. The heart is resilient. The more it breaks, the stronger it becomes.”
“I can’t talk about this right now. Please, just let me be.”
But Caroline didn’t know how to let anything just be. It wasn’t in her nature. She was a doer, an organizer—the one who smoothed ruffled feathers, who made problems disappear, who—in the eyes of her children—possessed mythic powers. But for once, Caroline was at a loss. There was no good outcome for this.
No one teaches you how to be a mother, she thought, easing off the bed. They teach you everything else—how to set a proper table and dance the cotillion, speak French, but there were no lessons for raising children. Unlike her own mother, and despite having a staff of nurses and governesses, Caroline had always been involved with her children. She’d bathed them herself, changed them, read them bedtime stories. It was all trial and error, and Emily, being her first, was the recipient of more than her share of mistakes. Caroline feared she was about to make another one where Van Alen was concerned.
She wandered into her bedroom and leaned up against the back of the door, staring about the room. It was large, large enough to double as her office, and in the corner was her desk, designed for her in Paris by Alfred Emmanuel Louis Beurdeley. She’d fallen behind in her correspondence and thought some letter writing would take her mind off things. Removing a piece of vellum stationery, off-white with her name engraved at the top, she began a letter to Matilda Browning, a cousin twice removed who’d been seeking advice on her daughter’s debut. An acrid scent escaped from the crystal ink bottles on the silver footed tray as she studied what she’d written. She was unhappy with her penmanship. The D in Dear was not in alignment with the C in Cousin or the M in Matilda. She tore it up and started over again but only got halfway through before she tore that one up as well.
Caroline gave up and went over to the leather club chair where she had a splendid view of the cliffs and the water. The sound of the waves breaking usually brought her solace, but not on that day. Resting her head in her hands, she asked, What am I to do? What have I done wrong?
When she considered all her daughters, Helen was the only one who seemed content to follow in Caroline’s footsteps and build her life in society, whereas Charlotte, well, Charlotte was a rebel. Contrary in nature, she’d deliberately take an interest in just about anything and anyone that Caroline would oppose. And then there was Carrie. Her youngest daughter loved to draw, to paint, rendering portraits of her sisters, her brother—anyone willing to sit still long enough for her to capture. And she wasn’t without talent . . .
Caroline recognized that her daughters were coming into their own, developing their own interests and passions, but she didn’t know how to let go and trust that they’d find their way. She’d tried so hard to wrap her arms around them all, contain them, keep them from straying into unknown territory, but she was losing that battle. The one thing she knew was that she didn’t want to be like her mother. Caroline cringed each time she’d catch herself saying things like Did you do something to your hair? Meaning, whatever it was, she didn’t like it. Or Why? Because I say so. Or Shoulders back, young lady and What did I tell you about ____?
But she couldn’t dwell on that just now. Her mind was blistering with worry over Emily and fears about the duel. By ignoring General Van Alen’s request for an apology, William had as good as accepted the challenge, and the very thought of her husband dueling with Van Alen left Caroline with a pit in her stomach. Van Alen was an expert marksman. A duel with him was a death wish.
There was a knock on the door, and Hade appeared with a decanter and a crystal tulip-cut copita glass on a silver tray. “I thought perhaps a bit of sherry might be in order, madam.”
Hade had been with Caroline for only a few years, having replaced her previous butler who’d perished in his sleep one night. Hade had come to the Astors highly recommended and quickly proved himself to be a gentleman, devoted to a life of service. Nearly middle-aged, he had a tinge of gray in his otherwise dark hair. He was tall and lean and spoke with a deep, rich baritone. One of Hade’s greatest assets, aside from her children adoring him, was his uncanny ability to anticipate Caroline’s every need, whether that be adding a log to the fire or bringing her a cup of tea—or, in this case, something stronger.
Caroline never drank in the afternoon, but she made an exception that day and was grateful that Hade had left the decanter for her. She took a sip, feeling the warmth spread across her chest. After finishing the one sherry, Caroline contemplated another. Emily was still in her room, Helen and Charlotte were at the beach, Carrie was sketching her grandmother on the veranda, and Jack was out walking with his governess, who had promised him biscuits in exchange for a little exercise. Caroline poured a second glass and sipped it while rehearsing her lines. When she felt prepared, she finished the last of her sherry, set the decanter aside and went off in search of William.
She found him in the game room, sitting on the edge of the settee, surrounded by his various sailing trophies. He was lacing up his white balmoral footwear with the rubber soles that he always wore on his yacht.
Her heart sank. “You’re going sailing?”
“Yes, and why not?”
“Today of all days?” She was still standing in the entranceway, squeezing the doorjamb, staring at the billiard balls scattered across the table.
“And what would you prefer I do? Sit here, fretting, waiting for Emily to appear? She’ll come out of her room when she’s good and ready.”
Emily? She wasn’t nearly as worried about Emily as she was about him. Her gut tightened. “William, you absolutely must stay here and write your apology to—”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind.”
This was exactly what she’d feared; he was too proud to back down. She made her way over to a chair, perched herself on the edge, trying to think of a way to reach him. She wanted to say she feared for him, that his children needed him, that she needed him. She wanted to say she loved him, but what she said instead was: “You’re a fool. Van Alen is a brigadier general. Your hands shake unless you’re holding a drink. He’ll kill you on the count of ten.”
William stood up and crossed the room, turning his back to her, feigning interest in something outside the window. But she could see his reflection in the glass, the way his face was locked in a grimace. He was rattled. They both knew she was right.