8. Caroline

8

Caroline

N ew York.

A week since David asked her to accompany him on his rapidly approaching trip to America, she still hadn’t given him an answer. The journey wasn’t a quick one—it would take just over a week for the ship to get there, and then they’d be staying at David’s sister’s home for a month before getting aboard the ship for another week to come home.

Half of her was terrified of the idea; even the prospect of getting aboard a ship was a daunting one. Sure, passenger lines had advanced since RMS Titanic had sunk, but fourteen years wasn’t that long ago.

If she stayed behind—safe in this office—the chances of her dying an icy death in the Atlantic were nil.

But what would she be missing out on?

Pathetic, her mother’s voice hissed quietly.

Languishing in her indecision, Caroline tried to push the thought away, quickly adding up the list of expenses the marquessate had paid in June of last year. She’d always been good at mathematics, despite her mother trying to push her towards things like sewing and piano lessons.

But the things that disappointed her mother seemed to delight David. For the first time in her life, she was being complimented on her intelligence rather than insulted for it, and Caroline loved it .

Not only that—he was teaching her things her mother would never have permitted her to do.

“You’ll be brilliant at it, Caroline.” David’s voice was a gentle brush of encouragement. “If you can tackle those calculations without a second glance, then you can do anything.”

Her hands were clenched around the smooth grey metal of the telephone receiver. God knows how many telephone calls she’d seen since she’d moved to Scarlett Castle—her mother, of course, had eschewed such modern technology. But she’d rarely been around to see how the call began. From what she gathered, it often involved quite a lot of waiting.

But David assured her this one wouldn’t.

With a deep breath, Caroline picked up the receiver and held it to her ear whilst holding the telephone’s candlestick up to her mouth.

Nothing happened for the first couple of seconds, just as David had said, but then there was a click. “Weithredydd?” a feminine voice said. Operator.

She swallowed. David had taught her what that meant and that it was perfectly fine to answer them in English. “Bore da,” Caroline replied, hoping that her pronunciation was all right. Good morning . “I’d like to make a call to Anglesey 103 please.”

As soon as the next click came, Caroline knew the operator had started to connect the phone call. She quickly thrust the receiver and the candlestick telephone towards David, as agreed.

“Well done,” he murmured to her, his smile full of pride. “You were perfect.”

Trying not to beam, she pulled her notebook towards her. As the call connected and David began to speak—with the managing director of his mining company, no less—Caroline’s thoughts drifted. It hadn’t really been that difficult after all. No wonder everyone at Scarlett Castle knew how to make telephone calls .

Thanks to her mother’s hatred of anything modern, Caroline had always been behind her peers when it came to knowing how to do things. And then, out of embarrassment, she’d avoided them rather than admit she didn’t know how to do them.

Even things as simple as a phone call, it turned out. All she had to do was give the operator the number. They weren’t going to laugh at her or mock what she was saying, even when her first attempt at Welsh had been as feeble as bore da .

In this instance, she’d well and truly made a mountain out of a molehill.

Was her agonising over whether or not to accompany David to New York just another molehill? A telephone call was a lot quicker than a month in America.

“…to a total production of 98,890 tons over the last 12 months—at around ￡64 and 10 shillings per ton. An increase on our total annual production this time last year,” the mining company’s director was saying, his voice slightly muffled.

As Caroline noted the figures down, David nodded, tapping his desk. “And how much of that is from the land to the north of the current mining operation?”

“Approximately 45 percent.”

“I don’t have the figure to hand—what was the total production of the year before last? And how much of that was from the northern land?”

The sound of paper being rapidly flipped rattled down the telephone line. “The 1924 to 1925 annual production was 81,193 tons, with just 5,269 tons being from the northern land. Sold at ￡62 and 10 shillings per ton, on average.”

Caroline didn’t catch David’s next question, sketching out the figures to give him a more tangible number. If he was anything like Oliver had been, larger numbers would disintegrate into a vague nothingness .

When she was done, she passed it over for him to read.

“Ah.” He grinned at her, with a small shake of his head that might have been disbelief. “My assistant has just informed me that this year’s annual production is an increase of 25.69%.”

The managing director gave a burst of laughter. “I didn’t know you already had the figure. My numbers man has been in his office all day tapping away on his adding machine. Could have saved him the trouble.”

“I didn’t. She calculated it just now.”

A pause. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m not.” David sat back in his large leather chair, a soft look in his eye. “I just watched her do it.”

For a moment, there was silence. But then the managing director cleared his throat in a quick rasp. “If my numbers man comes out with the same 25.69% figure, then I might have to pinch your assistant off you.”

Caroline’s eyes widened as she strove to hide a delighted smile.

“She is rather brilliant, isn’t she?” David replied softly. “But it would have to be up to her.”

Even so, she shook her head. “Perhaps I could be a numbers checker. From Castell Du'r Arddu.”

“Caroline says she’ll be your quality control. But she wants to remain where she is otherwise.”

Quality control. That sounded official.

Although she’d always helped Oliver at a basic level, English had never been her real passion—that honour had gone to mathematics. The governess she’d grown up with hadn’t even touched on the subject, preferring to focus on the arts such as painting and literature.

But the library at Holyhead—the Holyhead she’d grown up in, not the Holyhead near Castell Du'r Arddu—was an extensive one, and she had been an eager student. She was always looking for a puzzle to solve, or a problem to untangle.

And that, she felt, had led to her abilities in mathematics.

Caroline had always known she was particularly tenacious when it came to problem-solving. During her childhood, she had directed that tenacity at helping Oliver, reading textbooks, and solving the issues she had in her everyday life.

After she’d arrived at Scarlett Castle, she and Emmeline hadn’t been close. Far from it. But Caroline persisted, and by the time she had stupidly fled in the night, they had been as close as sisters. She missed Emmeline with a physical ache. Half of her was bursting to tell her cousin that she might be going to New York , of all places.

But it was during her time at Scarlett Castle that Caroline’s mathematical skills had grown the most.

Because Emmeline had hired her a thrice-weekly mathematics tutor.

It wasn’t a Christmas gift that young debutantes would typically be overjoyed to receive, but Caroline had been ecstatic.

The first thing the tutor had done was to hand her a copy of Calculus Made Easy by Silvanus Thompson. A book that focused on getting the reader to understand mathematical concepts in the simplest of ways, prior to throwing advanced equations in their face.

And now one of the biggest copper mines in the world wanted her to act as quality control for their numbers man —whatever that job position entailed. She presumed its official title was something more impressive, for the man’s sake.

Throughout the rest of the day, David’s words floated around in her head. If you can tackle those calculations without a second glance, then you can do anything .

Caroline had lived with her mother’s hateful remarks for so long that she’d stopped questioning them. But it wasn’t just David saying such things; the managing director of a million-pound company wanted her mathematical expertise.

That fact stayed with her for the rest of the day. As she moved on to a stack of invoices from last July, she found an open address book embedded within it, its spine as flat as a pancake from being squashed for so long.

B. It was open on the letter B.

Harry Burton was first on the list with his stylish London address—followed by his phone number.

Caroline swallowed, glancing around the empty office. In the window, the blackness of night was beginning to overtake the last of the day, and David would no doubt still be in the steward’s office half a mile down the road.

And right next to her own desk was the telephone, its dark metal even darker in the low light. Adrenaline began to pump through her veins, edging her closer to a decision until she got to her feet. It wasn’t likely that any of the staff would come in, but she closed the door and the curtains both, flicking on the light to see the path before her.

Unlike last time, she was quick to pick up the phone, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the click of the operator picking up.

“Gweithredwr?”

“Bore da,” Caroline replied quickly, realising a second later that it wasn’t morning anymore. Oh well. “Knightsbridge 846 please.”

“That’ll be a trunk call. Is that all right with you?”

Her expression blanked. They hadn’t asked that last time. What in god’s name s a trunk call? “Yes?” she responded, her voice ticking up at the end.

Click .

Caroline waited with the eternal impatience of a woman making a decision too quickly. Was she even still on the line? It hadn’t taken this long to connect David to the mining company director. That had been less than a minute.

Just as she was losing hope, however, there was a final click—and Harry’s unusually trepidatious voice filled her ear. “Knightsbridge 846.”

She wasted no time with polite inanities. “I want a divorce.”

“Caroline?”

“Did you have another dissatisfied wife running around? Of course it’s bloody Caroline ,” she hissed.

A noisy sigh hissed out of the receiver until she could almost hear his eyes rolling. “For Christ’s sake. What do you want?”

“Did you not hear me?” she spat. “I said I want a divorce.”

Harry gave a short, humourless laugh. “Well, I want to remain married, so that’s the end of the conversation.”

God, she could have throttled the man. She’d expected some backlash, but she hadn’t expected for him to laugh in her face. Well, in her ear, technically. “That isn’t up to you. You don’t just get to dismiss me.”

“It is up to me, actually. Only men can request a divorce. You don’t get to request jack shit.”

Caroline felt the ground giving way beneath her, clutching the telephone’s candlestick so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t snap. One advantage of the telephone was that he couldn’t see her expression, however. “Well,” she stammered, “well, then I’ll request an annulment.”

“On what grounds?”

“The marriage was never consummated, as you well know—you spent the evening in the arms of your mistress instead.” The memory of the night shamed her. She’d left behind everything she knew in favour of a man she’d met thrice and exchanged a few letters with. Anyone could behave for an afternoon. Anyone could write a letter.

Even now, she was astounded by her own naivety.

“I’m afraid I remember the evening very differently, wife, and so does your lady’s maid. And who are they going to believe, you or the two of us?”

Burning hatred filled her, until she wanted to lash out, to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her. “I’ll cuckold you. I’ll humiliate you publicly. I’ll sleep with every man I find.”

Harry’s spluttered snort made the pain even worse. “Good luck with that, pet. Do whatever you want; I didn’t marry you because I wanted you.”

Then why did you?

Caroline knew she shouldn’t be hurt by his lack of affection for her, but to not even care as to whether she was faithful? He didn’t just lack affection. He was indifferent , and somehow that was even worse.

How could this be the same man that had penned her those letters speaking of love and commitment? Resignation shrouded her, until she could truly see no way out of the marriage.

She was stuck in a loveless union with an unfaithful man, just like her mother.

“I hate you,” she whispered, more to herself than anything. She’d signed her future away without a second glance.

Harry didn’t even sound surprised. “Join the fucking club.”

The sharp click at the end of the line had Caroline meekly putting the receiver back on the hook, careful not to displace the ticket sitting on the stand—the one David would need to be allowed on board the ship to New York.

So this was what the rest of her life was going to be? Angry telephone calls with an apathetic husband ?

She stared ahead, contemplating the next twenty, thirty, even forty years of her life.

As her vision began to blur with unshed tears, she closed her eyes, freeing them to run down her cheeks. Could women really not ask for a divorce? How could that be? All the advancements of the modern age, and yet some women were stuck in loveless marriages they were desperate to leave all because the legal system was stuck in the dark ages.

No wonder her mother had become a hateful, passive aggressive witch.

But there was one thing Caroline was certain of. She wasn’t like her mother.

With a determined twitch of her lips, she decided on her course of action. Harry didn’t care what she did? Good. Because she was going to experience life to the fullest, not wallowing in grief and pity. She might have been legally bound to Harry, but so what? He didn’t control what she did on a day-to-day basis. She was free to live her life as she pleased.

Do whatever you want; I didn’t marry you because I wanted you.

Caroline was going to throw caution to the wind and take whatever opportunities life afforded her. And, as she glanced at David’s passenger ticket to New York sitting on the stand, she knew exactly where the first opportunity would take her.