Glory Over Everything (12 page)

“Come, come,” Delia called to me from the door to the dining room, and as she opened it, she pushed me through. No sooner did the door close behind me than a large white bird swooped past in a dive toward the dining room table. A feather duster slammed out from under it, further inciting the bird, and with a screech the bird dove in again. To my amazement, I saw Robert under the table, wedged in between chairs and hitting out with the duster in an attempt to protect himself.

“Throw the duster away,” I called to him.

“But I need it!” he called back.

“Throw it away,” I repeated. “The bird thinks that it's another bird attacking him.”

The cleaning tool flew by me and crashed against the wall. As the white bird lit on it, I slid back two of the chairs. “Get out while he's distracted,” I said.

Needing no further encouragement, Robert scrambled up and out the door, leaving me alone to face the bird. But I was more fascinated than frightened by this beautiful creature. Seeing bread on the table I made my way over to it and then sat quietly. When the bird took note of me, he flew over to perch on a neighboring chair. “Here,” I said soothingly, and fed him a chunk of bread. He continued to squawk and complain, but his crest of bright red-orange plumes was no longer at full tilt, and I was fairly certain that meant he was calming down. Suddenly, he flapped onto my shoulder and, between bites of bread, began to gently nibble on my ear. Instinctively, I knew it to be a caress.

There was a soft rap on the door. “Hello! Are you alive in there?” a voice called.

“We are,” I called back.

“I'm coming in,” the woman announced, then slipped into the room. I rose from my chair, for I correctly guessed this to be Mrs. Burton.

She hobbled over to the chair nearest me, and with the bird still on my shoulder, I received the canes that she handed me before she sat down to regulate her breathing. She was a short, heavyset woman with a snub nose and a round pleasant face. Her gray morning dress, the exact color of her braided hair, did nothing for her gray pallor. “Sit,” she instructed, and I did so. “You must be James Smith, my husband's new apprentice.”

“I am,” I said.

The bird squawked for her attention. She laughed and waved her finger at him. “Oh, Malcolm. You are a naughty boy, flying away from me like that!” She chuckled. “Oh my, I haven't laughed like that since I can remember. Poor Robert. I don't know why he is so afraid of this bird!” She dabbed at her eyes as she began to laugh again. Her merriment was so appealing that I began to laugh, too.

“What happened when you got in here?” she asked, and I described what I had seen of the bird's attack on the feather duster.

“Under the table? Oh, stop!” she said, laughing and gasping as she clutched my arm. “I cannot breathe as it is.”

“Naughty boy! Naughty boy!” Malcolm offered. At that we both whooped, and that was how Mr. Burton found us when he opened the door.

“What is going on?” he asked, appearing bewildered to see me with Mrs. Burton.

“Oh, Mr. Burton!” His wife sighed, drying her eyes. “If only you had been here.”

He came forward to kiss the top of his wife's head. “It is good to hear you laugh,” he said to her, and smiled at me in thanks.

I rose to leave, but Mrs. Burton reached for my arm. “No, no, you must stay,” she said. “Please stay. Come, husband, sit with us while we tell you.”

“Could we have some tea while you do so?” Mr. Burton asked, stepping to the fireplace and rubbing his hands together. “It is cold and I am chilled.”

I stood quickly. “I will go to the kitchen for it,” I offered.

“Have Delia send up a pot of hot water and some cups. I have the tea caddy up here,” Mrs. Burton said, nodding toward the sideboard. “And don't forget to have her include a cup for yourself.”

I felt lighthearted when I left the room, but I sobered myself before I got to the kitchen. I had concern that Robert would be embarrassed and possibly angry at my having witnessed his altercation with the bird, but to my surprise, he greeted me as the conquering hero. Not so Delia. As Robert sang my praises, her face puckered in annoyance, and when she heard of Mrs. Burton's request that I join her for tea, Delia looked at me in disbelief.

“You sure she mean that you go back up?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, trying to curb my anger. “She said that you were to include a cup for me.”

Delia clucked her tongue and shook her head. Her dislike of me only grew with each new encounter.

“And why should he not join them?” Robert said, addressing Delia. “They both need a distraction, Mrs. Burton in particular. A new face will be good for her.” Then he noted my nightshirt. “But go,” he said, “and dress yourself more appropriately.”

So while Delia put together the tray, I went for a shirt and jacket. When I reappeared, Delia's look was so disapproving that when she carried the tray up, I kept a good distance behind her.

In the dining room, after Delia set out the cups and was then dismissed, Mrs. Burton waved me to the sideboard. “Bring the caddy and the sugar canister to me, would you, please?”

I recognized the silver sugar canister but was uncertain what held the tea.

“It is the wooden pear,” she said, pointing to the small polished box, cut in the perfect shape of a pear.

“How pretty,” I said as I brought it to her.

“Yes, isn't it?” she answered, smiling up at me, and I smiled back. I felt at ease with her. The way she looked at me reminded me of my grandmother.

The tea caddy was beautiful. “What kind of wood is it?” I asked, rubbing my finger over the polished dark grain.

“I believe it is rosewood,” she said.

“Rosewood?” I asked.

Mr. Burton, who had taken a seat at the table, joined in. “It is a wood found in the tropics,” he said. Addressing his wife, he went on. “This young man is quite gifted with drawing and also has a talent for carving.”

“You do?” she asked, taking the pear-shaped box from me. “Perhaps I could see some of your work.”

I flushed with the unexpected attention and stood silently by as Mrs. Burton fingered the chatelaine at her waist until she found the right key to unlock the tea caddy. Then, after carefully measuring out what was needed of the aromatic black leaves, she locked the box again and had me return the caddy to its place on the sideboard.

Mrs. Burton tapped at the chair next to her, and I sat. “Mr. Burton tells me that you are a quick study.”

I glanced over at my employer. “I like the work very much,” I said.

Malcolm squawked and Mrs. Burton turned to her husband. “Could I ask you to return Malcolm to his room? He has had something to eat, and I don't want to have to ask Robert to clean up after his enemy.”

“Oh my!” Mr. Burton rose quickly. He held out his arm and spoke with authority. “Come on, you naughty boy. You've created enough of a stir for one day.”

“Naughty boy. Naughty boy,” Malcolm said to the room on his departure, causing another round of laughter.

As soon as her husband was out of the room, Mrs. Burton turned to me. “So, tell me now, do you genuinely enjoy your work?”

I answered her honestly. “Oh yes!” I said, but then became concerned. “Does Mr. Burton have a complaint?”

“Not at all,” she said, giving me a smile.

I sighed in relief and again returned her smile. “I am relieved to know that.”

“Malcolm certainly took to you,” she said. “You like birds, I take it?”

“I do,” I said. “I have been interested in them all of my life.”

“When did this interest begin?” she asked.

“It began when I was a child and was given a book that had beautiful illustrations of birds. After I taught myself to copy their likenesses from the book, I spent hours and hours at the window, drawing birds that nested outside in our trees.”

“Why did you not go outdoors?” she asked. “Were you ill?”

“No, I was in good health, but my grandmother needed me at her side,” I said. “When she was very ill, I would draw and I could forget everything around me.”

While Mrs. Burton checked the readiness of the tea, I looked around, and for the first time since my arrival in Philadelphia, I felt a stirring of content. This room reminded me of home—of Tall Oaks—with the high ceilings, the vibrant green walls, the tall windows draped in gold velvet, and the long polished dining table and sideboard. An attractive portrait of a young Mrs. Burton hung over the mantel, and on the opposite wall was a portrait of Mr. Burton, painted when he had a full head of hair.

“Were we not a handsome couple?” she asked, seeing my interest.

“You were very beautiful, but it is odd to see Mr. Burton with all of that hair,” I said.

She laughed aloud.

“That was unkind,” I said, feeling my face grow hot.

“It would have been insensitive if he were here to have heard it,” she said, “but I see no need for either of us to repeat it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Mr. Burton has been very kind to me.”

“And how is it that you came to Philadelphia?” she asked. “Where is your family?”

My heart began to pound. When I was a child and Grandmother's hysteria frightened me, I learned to calm myself by quietly counting each finger before interlocking my hands. Now I did the same until, hands folded, I answered Mrs. Burton. “I am alone,” I said. “My mother—that is, my grandmother—died.”

“And your parents?”

I looked away. “They are both dead,” I lied. “My grandmother raised me.”

“I see,” she said. “And was your grandmother's death recent?”

“Yes. There was a fire.”

“In her home?”

“Yes. In our home. We had a farm.”

“How unspeakably sad for you!” she said softly. My eyes stung from her unexpected words of empathy. How tempted I was to tell her the truth.

“And you were left destitute?”

“I have Grandmother's jewelry,” I said. “But I don't want to sell it.” I hung my head and mumbled, “It is all that I have left of her.”

“I understand, dear boy. I lost my only son seventeen years ago, but his room stands as he left it. Even now, the loss is difficult for me to talk about.”

Until this moment, no one had acknowledged my grief, and her words touched me deeply. Not only did she understand, but she had suffered the same. My attachment to Mrs. Burton began that day.

I
WANTED TO
see Mrs. Burton again. I had a plan. At work on Monday morning, I asked Nicholas for help in locating a paper and art supply store. He knew of such a place, and in the afternoon, with Mr. Burton's approval and coins in my pocket, I went out to find it.

I had not imagined a shop as wonderful as this. I had never seen embossed paint cakes sold for watercolor; nor had I ever imagined such an assortment of brushes and paper. A clerk helped me select what I required, and I was so excited on my return to the silver shop that I found it difficult to focus on the silver polishing that Nicholas had set out for me to do.

That evening I ate quickly, then, as usual, went off to my room. I worked late into the night and did so every night throughout the week. By Saturday evening I was satisfied, and on Sunday morning, after Mr. Burton left for church, I rolled up the small watercolor of Malcolm and gave it to Robert, asking that he give it to Mrs. Burton.

He eyed the roll with some curiosity, but he acted on my request. Later, as I had hoped, Robert returned with an invitation for me to join Mrs. Burton in what was known as Malcolm's room.

F
ROM THE KITCHEN
I followed Robert up to a second flight of stairs to the third floor and there to a large and open landing. As we walked down the long hallway, past Mr. and Mrs. Burton's bedrooms, I noted a handsome tall-case clock. I had never seen one but had read of the pendulum workings, and I paused at the shining black walnut case, intrigued by the loud click-clock sound it made. When the machine suddenly bonged, I yelped in surprise, startling Robert. He gave me a sour look, for he was already on edge, having earlier voiced his concern about Malcolm being safely ensconced in his cage.

After Robert knocked on one of the doors, he gave me a look of relief when I offered to enter before him.

“Hello again, young man.” Mrs. Burton welcomed me from a chair that sat next to the fireplace.

“Greetings!” Malcolm interrupted in a perfect imitation of Robert's voice. “I say, greetings!”

Robert gave a nervous glance, but Malcolm was in his large white metal cage.

Malcolm grew louder: “Greetings! Greetings!”

“You had best say hello to him. He won't stop until you do,” Mrs. Burton said to me. “Robert, you go ahead. I'll ring if I need you,” she instructed.

I was as intrigued by the bird as before, but when I reached my hand in to stroke his feathers, he put his beak around one of my fingers. “Careful,” I said, lowering my tone. He held it, though he did not bite down. “Naughty bird,” I said, and when he released me to repeat the phrase, I laughed aloud.

“Bring him out if you like,” my hostess instructed.

Malcolm danced nervously while I worked to undo the enormous latch.

“Offer him your arm,” Mrs. Burton said, and when I did, the bird hopped on. As I made my way over to her, Malcolm climbed up my arm to sit on my shoulder and there took hold of my earlobe.

“Ehhh,” I warned in a low voice.

“Ehhh,” he repeated to me, and when I laughed, he mimicked that, too.

I glanced to see if Mrs. Burton was enjoying this as much as I, and though she smiled, she appeared to have something else on her mind. She pointed to a red velvet wingback. “Come sit with me,” she invited. When I did so, the bird flew up to a perch that swung in front of a window. “You have a remarkable understanding of him.”