Glory Over Everything (16 page)

“I don't know,” came the reply. “Your driver downstairs won't.”

“Ed?” I asked.

Robert nodded.

“What are his injuries?” I asked.

“It's his head. He's unresponsive,” the doctor said, but I did not have time to discuss it further, as Mrs. Burton called out for me again.

T
OGETHER SHE AND
I remained in constant vigil. Laudanum gave Mr. Burton little relief, and his heart-wrenching cries could often be heard throughout the house. After two long days and nights, I persuaded Mrs. Burton to consider her own health; exhausted, she relented and left me to oversee his care.

It was almost two weeks before his condition improved enough that I was able to leave the house and go to the business, where I found Nicholas struggling to fill all of the orders.

I had been lent our neighbor's buggy, and during the ride home that afternoon I made the decision to purchase another buggy for the Burtons. On my arrival, I went to find Robert for his help with another driver and I was aghast to find him in the kitchen with his shirtsleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Delia needs help,” he said, nodding toward Ed's room.

“Then we must get someone in—someone to care for Ed.”

“She won't have it. She refuses to have anyone else,” Robert said.

“What is the latest from the doctor?”

“It is as before. Ed weakens daily. He will not live.”

“Then we must find another cook! You cannot be expected to carry Delia's load. After . . . this is all over . . . it is time for her to go.” Finally, I had found a way to get rid of the woman. What a relief to say those words! How I hated her and the threat she was to me. Before the accident, I thought daily of confronting her about the theft, but there was always the fear of what she might do in retaliation, so I kept my silence as my anger mounted.

The bell rang from upstairs, summoning Robert, who wiped dry his hands and hurried to answer the call. I was about to follow just as Delia appeared. She approached swiftly, grabbed the knife next to the pot of potatoes, and stabbed it into the table. “You think you get rid a me!” she hissed. “I hear what you say! We see what Mrs. Burton say! She my boss. Nobody else gon' tell me when I's done here.”

“I'm afraid that you are mistaken,” I said. “I am in charge now, and I say that a new cook will be hired.”

“And what I gon' do then?”

“You will continue to care for your brother.”

“And if he pass?” she asked. “What then?”

There was no turning back. “You will be given a stipend, and I will find you a room away from here.”

“A room! You gon' find me a room! You think you gon' send me off, that you gon' send me away from here?” She glared at me and I glared back.

“Yes! You will leave!” I shouted, fighting to control my fury. “And before you go, you will give me back my letter!”

She flinched, but only for a second. “If I has a letter and you send me away, I tell you now that letter gon' find its way back. Matter of fact, you brings in another cook and I still here, maybe that letter show up!” She stared at me defiantly. We both knew that with those words, she had taken back the power. “And don' come looking for nothin', 'cause if there be a letter, Delia don' have it in her room,” she said, her voice quiet but lethal.

I moved toward her, my teeth clenched. “If I leave here, you will leave with me!” I hissed before she turned and hurried away.

Any further dilemma I might have had with hiring another cook was resolved when, a day later, Ed passed away and Delia once again took her place in the kitchen.

Though I was ever alert to the threat of Delia, in the next months I was so taken up with my responsibilities to the Burtons that, of necessity, I set her aside as a leading concern.

M
R.
B
URTON LINGERED
for almost a year, and during that time I did my best to support both him and Mrs. Burton. As well, I worked diligently to keep the silver business afloat. Nicholas and I struggled to fill the orders, but at the beginning of January 1816, when Mr. Burton's health began to decline more rapidly, he spoke to me privately. “James, you must know that I'll never return to the shop.”

I dropped my head. I didn't want to have this conversation, but I knew it was necessary. Mr. Burton's color had become an unhealthy gray, and the night before, when I had assisted him into bed, he had felt remarkably light.

“You must get some help for Nicholas,” he said. “I would like to have you around here a little more.”

I did as he requested, and in the next weeks Nicholas and the new man kept the shop running while I did my best to attend to the needs of both Mr. and Mrs. Burton. I had never cared for another man as I did for Mr. Burton and felt helpless as I watched him grow weaker every day.

Always, Robert was there to lend his support.

I
WAS ALONE
with Mr. Burton the night he passed away. He had been in a weakened state for days, yet this night was no different from the others. After Mrs. Burton went to her rooms for the evening, Mr. Burton reached out for me. “Sit next to me where I can reach you,” he said, his breathing sounding moist. I moved my chair close to the bed and took his hand in mine.

“Son. Take care of your mother,” he said, and later that hour he gave a final sigh. I was so stunned that it took me a while to understand he had left, but when I did, I dropped his lifeless hand and raced out to find Robert. On our return, the room felt cold and empty. My father was gone. I fell to my knees at his bedside, and though I was nineteen years of age, I sobbed like a child.

I
N THE MONTHS
following Mr. Burton's death, I was pulled under by a deep lethargy. Though I fought to free myself, I was left with such an exhaustion that I did not notice spring unfold. Every day I had to push myself to go in to the shop at the required hour. Once there, I might resume work on a silver piece but would soon lose interest. Offering the excuse of having to tend to Mrs. Burton, I would leave, turning the responsibility of the business over to Nicholas and the recently hired Mr. Taylor.

On my return home, the house was always quiet. Robert would immediately make himself available to me, but I would brush him off, and though I occasionally caught a glimpse of Delia, even my hatred of her was diminished in my grief.

In those long months, Mrs. Burton stayed to her room, but by the beginning of summer I began to find her in the back parlor, visiting with a neighbor, another widow, Mrs. Miller. One afternoon I came home to find the two of them playing cards. This soon became their habit, and though the two always invited me to join them in their games, after a brief appearance I would excuse myself. Then I would manage a short visit with Malcolm before I dragged myself to my room to lie down on the bed and sleep, only to wake as tired as before.

Because of my obligation to Mrs. Burton, I roused myself at suppertime, but where food was her comfort, it now repelled me. As my clothes began to fall loose around my thinning frame, Mrs. Burton became alarmed. “Something is not right with you, Jamie,” she said. “Are you ill? Shall I call in Dr. Holland?”

“No!” I said. “It is just that my appetite is off.”

“But you seem to require so much sleep,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I couldn't bear it if something happened to you.”

I took her hand in mine. “Truly, I don't feel sick. I'm just tired. It will pass.”

“But I worry about you. You are still so young,” she said, “and you've had to take on so much responsibility. It might sound silly, but Mrs. Miller has been teaching me to play whist, and it has been such a boon to my spirits. Perhaps you need an outside interest. I have been thinking. You were always so happy when you were painting, but you haven't done it since . . . well . . . Why don't you consider taking an art class? We always spoke of it, but you've never had the opportunity.”

“An art class?” I knew she meant to help, but the idea of drawing and painting—something that had always given me joy—now held no appeal.

“Yes, an art class! Mrs. Miller was telling me yesterday of her association with the Peale family. I am going to ask her if they would recommend an instructor,” she said.

Too tired to argue, I abandoned the discussion, for I was certain that the Peale family, well known for their illustrious art careers, would have little concern for someone such as myself. But I had not taken into consideration the determination of these two women. By the next Sunday, a warm day in August, they had arranged for Mr. Leeds, an accomplished art instructor, to join Mrs. Burton and me for tea.

He arrived late, a tall lanky man, shaggy in appearance, and older than we expected. “Hello there!” he greeted us awkwardly when Robert brought him to the front parlor. He bowed formally to Mrs. Burton, then scooped his long gray hair back behind his ears before he yanked high each trouser leg and took a seat.

Small talk was not for him; the awkward silences were broken only by the slurping noises that he made while sipping his hot tea. To Mrs. Burton's credit, she tried every avenue of conversation, only to be met with one or two words of reply. I was hoping he would soon leave, for I saw no purpose in this and was following through only to satisfy Mrs. Burton.

Finally, alone in her struggle for conversation, Mrs. Burton grew anxious enough to resort to personal questions. “It is too bad that Mrs. Leeds could not join us today,” she said.

“I am not married,” he said. “Never have been.”

“I see,” she said, and shot me a look of such desperation that I rallied.

“Mrs. Miller tells us that your work is on display at the Peale Museum?” I asked.

He nodded once. “A few watercolors of leaves,” he said, then added, “and some pinned bugs.”

“Bugs?” Mrs. Burton asked, clearly hoping to keep the conversation going.

“Bugs,” he repeated. “They were dead,” he said, as though to assure her. He looked at me. “Have you been there? Have you seen them?”

“No,” I said. Of course I knew about the famous Peale Museum, but I had never been. It was a place that Mr. Burton and I had planned to visit, but our work at the silver shop had always taken priority.

With the mention of his work, Mr. Leeds came to life. After draining his teacup, he set it down with a clink, pushed up the sleeves of his ill-fitting brown jacket, then reached down for the portfolio that rested alongside his chair. Balancing the tattered leather thing on his lap, he untied a ratty cord, then rifled through some pages before he selected and handed over a small watercolor. “Here, take a look,” he said.

I glanced at it, unprepared, and gasped aloud. It was black beetle depicted on a decaying log, painted with such detail, such vibrancy, that it might have been alive. It was such a true likeness that I wanted to touch it, to feel the movement. I looked up at him. “How did you do this? How did you achieve such detail?” I asked.

His gray eyes lit up. “I used a pinfeather. When I work in miniature, a pinfeather is best suited for that purpose,” he began, and my interest stirred.

“A pinfeather?” I asked.

“Yes. Of a woodcock. I use the feather itself.”

“But isn't that awfully small?”

He smiled a crooked smile. “That's the challenge.”

At Mrs. Burton's insistence, I brought forth my now primitive-looking sketches of Malcolm and handed them over for examination. “I am fond of painting birds,” I said.

Mr. Leeds took his time, sorting through my work. “You have ability,” he finally announced, “but if you are to study with me, you must start at the beginning.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You need to study form,” he said.

“Form?” I asked. “But it is the colors that I need help with. And I would like to learn to work in miniature, as you do.”

“That will come in time. But first you must study form.”

“But it is color that I—”

“Then do as you wish,” he said. He slipped his work into the portfolio and stood.

Mrs. Burton looked at me helplessly. As frustrated as I was, I did not want this opportunity to pass. I rose and stood as tall as he. “Mr. Leeds, I will do what you ask me to do.”

He looked me over as though trying to decide if I was worth the effort. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.

I looked to Mrs. Burton, and she nodded quickly. “Yes,” I said.

“Then meet me at Bartram's gardens. You've been there?”

“No,” I said, “I've never been to his gardens, but I have his book of travels at my bedside.” I didn't tell him that this prized leather-bound book was worn from use. Before Mr. Burton's death, I had picked up the book nightly to read the accounts of the botanist's travels. Not only had William Bartram, a now famous botanist, written a fascinating account of his botanical explorations, but as well had included beautiful drawings of the plants and birds he had seen. In fact he had inspired a fantasy of mine wherein I imagined doing something of the same.

Mr. Leeds's white eyebrows lifted. “You've never been to Bartram's gardens?”

“No,” I said, made uneasy by his incredulous look.

“He has had too many responsibilities to take leisure time for himself,” Mrs. Burton said defensively, and I gave her a grateful glance.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said to me, before offering a stiff bow of departure to Mrs. Burton. As he walked away, we both noted his white ankle poking through a hole in his bright blue stocking.

V
ISITING
B
ARTRAM'S ESTATE
was only one of many outings that I enjoyed with Mr. Leeds. In time, this eccentric but talented man taught me how to paint with a sable brush and then how to work in miniature with a woodcock's pinfeather. It was a relatively uncommon art form but one I had a talent for, and I became most dedicated to it.