Glory Over Everything (13 page)

“He is beautiful,” I said, settling myself into the chair.

“He belonged to my son,” she said.

“Did Malcolm miss him after he . . .” I stopped myself, wondering if I should have brought up such a painful topic.

“When Gerard passed, Malcolm was as upset as I was. He wouldn't eat for days, and he didn't speak for months. For me, it was almost a consolation to see him so lost—he was as devastated as I,” she said. As she spoke, the bird flew back and lit on my shoulder to nuzzle my ear with his beak.

She dabbed at tears. “Forgive me,” she said. “It touches me to see him respond to you in this way. He was never the same after we lost Gerard, and he has been something of a problem for us, but I couldn't let go of him. Now, seeing him with you—well—this is how he behaved with Gerard.”

“I don't want to make you cry,” I said. “Should I put him away?”

“No! No, I've finished with my tears,” she said, then blew her nose and gave me a tender look. “Thank you for being so thoughtful, though. Your grandmother certainly raised you well. May I call you James?” she asked.

“Or Jamie,” I suggested.

“Is it the name your grandmother used for you?”

I nodded, afraid to speak.

Her voice was soft. “Well, then, I will call you Jamie.” She studied me as though gauging my sensitivity about the upcoming subject. “Jamie, I have a personal question for you. It is about your eyes.”

“Yes?” I asked, looking at her warily. Recently, with others noting it, I had become sensitive to the subject.

“Does your good eye pain you when you paint? That is to say, do you feel that you put a strain on it?”

“No,” I said, “It doesn't bother me.”

“Good,” she said, “I was hoping for that. Pertaining to your affected eye, might I have a suggestion?”

“Yes,” I said again.

“My husband has a friend, one who, in his youth, lost an eye. He wears a black patch to cover it, and I must say that all of the ladies considered it quite dashing. I was wondering if you would care to have something similar fashioned for you.”

“Well, yes. I would give it a try.”

“That is settled, then.” She looked down at my painting in her lap. “Jamie,” she said, “this is one of the best representations of a salmon-crested cockatoo that I have ever seen.”

“I did the best I could from memory.”

“It is so fine that I will have it framed. Have you ever considered attending some art classes?”

“Grandmother often spoke of it,” I said. “But now . . .”

She smiled. “Well, dear, your grandmother was right. You have a God-given talent. We must have it developed.”

Malcolm, seeking attention, gave a human chortle so true that he startled us both. We looked at each other and giggled, then burst out laughing when Malcolm repeated himself. “Oh dear!” Mrs. Burton said, drying her eyes, and then smiling at me. “You have no idea how good it is to laugh again.”

But I did. I did! I had not laughed since Grandmother's death; nor had I felt this comfortable with another since fleeing my home. I liked and admired Mr. Burton for the man he was, but Mrs. Burton represented all I had lost with Grandmother, and I only wanted more.

T
HE FOLLOWING
S
UNDAY
I was invited to join the Burtons for their Sunday dinner and there was no want of conversation. As soon as Robert served the soup, my host and hostess began to entertain me with stories of their earlier life.

Before their son was born, they had traveled to the West.

“She was fearless,” Mr. Burton said of his wife. “You should have seen her. She rode—”

“I rode astride the horse,” she interrupted. “If my parents had seen me! No sidesaddles were to be found. What freedom!” When she giggled like a young girl, I noticed Mr. Burton and Robert exchanging a smile. “Do you remember what I wore, Mr. Burton?” she asked.

“How could I forget? You wore my trousers!” he exclaimed, then addressed me. “I will never forget the sight of my young wife flying through the tall grass on that spotted Indian pony.”

“It was brown and white and went like the wind!”

Mr. Burton beamed as his wife came to life, while I moved to the edge of my chair. “Was it a true Indian pony?” I asked.

Mr. Burton nodded. “It was given to her by the Indians.”

“You actually met Indians?” They assured me they had, and my eager questions tumbled out, making our meal such a success that I was invited back.

The Burtons had lived a full life and became enlivened when they relived their stories. I was enthralled, not having imagined such lives of adventure, and I was filled with questions. Soon our Sunday dinners became routine. Increasingly, Mrs. Burton began to note aloud how similar some of my habits were to her son.

“Look, dear, how Jamie folds his hands when he speaks. That's exactly what Gerard always did, don't you remember?”

In the beginning Mr. Burton only nodded in reply, but gradually, he, too, made like references. With each mention I felt more included and, hungry for family, utilized every behavior to foster more of the same.

In time Mrs. Burton voiced concern that my room downstairs was too small, and though I assured her that it was fine, it was a happy surprise when, in spring of the following year, Mr. and Mrs. Burton announced that I was to move to their son's quarters on the fourth floor.

D
ELIA WAS OUTRAGED
when she saw Robert assisting me with the move, and she didn't hold back. “This not right! What they doin' puttin' you in their boy's room?” she said.

“Delia!” Robert stopped her. “You should be pleased that Mrs. Burton has finally cleared out Gerard's room. Why shouldn't James take it over?”

From the kitchen, we carried my few belongings up three flights of stairs to reach the fourth floor. I had never been to this top story of the house, and as Robert led me down the long corridor, I glanced into some of the rooms that once served as the nursery and servants' quarters. Most of them were small and stood empty, though Gerard's room, at the end of the hallway, was spacious. The ceiling was low, but four dormers provided plenty of light. While the white-painted room retained the furnishings of a well-appointed bedroom, Gerard's personal belongings had been removed, and the space felt oddly empty and abandoned.

I began to have second thoughts about the move. “Robert, I don't know if I should do this.”

“You must think of the Burtons,” he said, straightening the blue coverlet on the bed. “You have brought happiness to this household again. They are doing this to please you, and opportunities such as this don't come often to people such as oursel—” He stopped himself. “I am always here to help you,” he added before he quickly left.

I stared after him. Did he mean to say “ourselves”? What could he have meant?

I shook off the question and perched on the edge of the bed to look about. It was the quiet that struck me; this far away from everyone, the silence felt lonely. I looked across the room at the fine dressing table and the oak desk, and then I spied the large chest-on-chest. Although others might have appreciated the beauty of the burled walnut or the nine spacious drawers, for me it offered something much more precious. The bottom drawer held a lock and a key! Finally, I had a place to keep safe my belongings from Delia's prying eyes.

F
OLLOWING MY MOVE
upstairs to Gerard's quarters, I came to dread the night. I had difficulty falling asleep, and when I did, nightmares were so vivid that I often woke myself calling out. Afraid to go back to sleep, I sat up late into the night, but in that state of fatigue, memories that I fought off during the day more easily broke through.

I was eight years old when, for the first time, I realized how Marshall hated me. It was a pleasant June day, and our small household was outdoors, enjoying a picnic under the large oak that stood back from the big house. It was unusual for Mother—that is, Grandmother—to be outdoors, but her daughter-in-law, Marshall's wife, Lavinia, had convinced her to enjoy the pleasant weather.

At this early age, I was infatuated with Miss Lavinia. That day she leaned down to place a large book in my lap, and when I couldn't resist touching a strand of her red silky hair that brushed against my face, she smiled, took my hand, and kissed it. It was her gentleness that made the abuse she later suffered under Marshall so upsetting to me.

“Jamie dear,” she said, “this is for you. I ordered it months ago for your birthday, but it has only just arrived.”

I read the title aloud. “
The Illustration of Birds.
”

“How lovely, dear,” Grandmother said to her as I opened the book to stare at the pages.

Miss Lavinia patted my head. “I've never known anyone to be so taken with birds as our dear Jamie.”

“It's the perfect gift. I wish I had thought of it,” said Grandmother.

“But Mother, I loved the watercolors you gave me,” I said, quick to reassure her so as not to have her upset. She reached down to where I was seated next to her chair and pushed back a lock of my hair that had fallen on my forehead. “I would give you the world if I could,” she said, looking deep into my eyes.

I smiled up at her and waited until she sat back. Only then did I dare turn my attention back to the book—the one that in time became my most treasured possession.

But the memory darkens with Marshall's sudden appearance. We seldom saw him, for he was away much of the time. A tall, imposing man, he wore a permanent frown, and if he had a pleasant word to say, I never heard it. Until my final year at Tall Oaks, the year I killed him, I mistakenly believed he was my brother, while to him I must have been a miserable reminder of his unnatural coupling with a Negro servant.

Lavinia stiffened on her husband's approach. Marshall's disapproving glance went straight to Sukey, Miss Lavinia's much loved servant, who sat on our blanket alongside her mistress.

“Get her up,” he began. “Teach her to stand when I—”

“Please stand, Sukey,” Miss Lavinia quickly instructed. The young Negro girl leaped to her feet.

Marshall turned toward his mother. “Wine so soon in the day, Mother?” he asked.

“It helps my nerves, dear,” Grandmother said, but her voice quavered and I hated him for how he frightened her.

“Yes,” he said, “I'm sure it does.” When his look finally settled on me, it was with such loathing that I turned toward Grandmother. What had I done? Why did he hate me so?

“And what in God's name is he doing here?” he asked. When he took a step toward me, Grandmother reached for my arm, and though her fingers dug in, I was so frightened that I didn't object.

At once Lavinia was on her feet, shaking out her skirts and standing to obstruct Marshall's view of me. “Marshall, won't you join us? I'll have the children leave. Please stay and have some of our cake?”

We had been having such fun. I hated to hear the strain in her voice. I resolved again that when I was grown, I would send this miserable brother of mine away from the place.

“I don't eat with nigras!” Marshall spat out, and he glared at me with such vehemence that I shrank back. He left as quickly as he had come, but Grandmother's nerves were so affected that she needed to go back to her bedroom for a strong dose of laudanum.

I was always relieved when the medicine put her to sleep, for I dreaded the times when her nerves took over. Her terror frightened me. As everyone scurried about trying to calm her, I retreated into my own world with my pencils and paints. There I sketched and colored, imagining myself in a forest, while convincing myself that Grandmother's screams were nothing more than the cries of a foreign bird.

Now, as memories surfaced in the still of Gerard's room, I spent nights of agony wondering if Grandmother had cried out like that when she died in the fire.

Finally, one such night I remembered my paints, and from then on, when plagued by memory, I would throw myself from the bed to sketch and paint. The distraction was so calming that when sleep did come, I almost always dreamed I was a bird in flight, with the sun warming my back and a gentle breeze cradling me in the air.

O
N THE EVE
of my fifteenth birthday, in February 1812, I awoke suddenly in the night to find myself drenched from a night terror. As I changed my nightshirt, I remembered that it was my birthday, and with that thought I remembered other birthdays celebrated at Tall Oaks. As pleasant memories came, my heart constricted with homesickness.

I felt a tug of guilt, for on the night of my departure, I had promised to send a note to my family to let them know of my safe arrival. Until now I hadn't done so, for I had been too afraid. Henry had cautioned me repeatedly to cut all ties to home, insisting that patrollers would be on the lookout. To reinforce this, he told me stories of runaways who were caught and returned to their owners after many years of hiding out. Thus, I hadn't dared send a letter, fearing that somehow it might be traced back to the Burtons. However, I had learned recently that I could obtain a post office box in my name, and given that anonymity, I felt it safe to make contact.

But to whom should I write?

I thought back to the night of my flight—when Belle, the slave woman, handed me my jacket wherein she had sewn Grandmother's jewelry. Before I left, she had attempted an embrace and I'd quickly turned away, repulsed by the recent knowledge that she was my mother. These two years later, I still cringed at the thought.

No. I would write to Miss Lavinia. She was the one who had cared for me through the years, and it was she who tried to protect me from Marshall. And so I wrote:

Dear Miss Lavinia,

I am writing to let you know that I am well. I live in Philadelphia and I am an apprentice at a silver shop. The owner tells me I have a talent for the work and he has given me a place to stay in his home. I hope that you are well and send my kind regards.