Glory Over Everything (17 page)

As for my lethargy, after the first few weeks under the instructor's tutelage, Mrs. Burton noted happily how my energy had reappeared. And she was right.

I
SOON FOUND
that Mr. Leeds's insistence on paying attention to detail began to influence my work at the silver shop. Before, I had been satisfied to produce a solid and functional silver piece, but now I sought to enhance my work with detail.

A challenge presented itself the day Mrs. Burton called me into the back parlor, where she was playing cards with Mrs. Miller.

“Look,” she said, “isn't this lovely? Have you ever seen such a fine vinaigrette?” She handed over a tiny silver box that measured no more than an inch long and three quarters of an inch wide. “Mrs. Miller had it sent from England,” she said.

My thumb felt overlarge when I flipped open the monogrammed lid to examine the delicately punched grille. I sniffed it. “Whew! That holds a strong punch!” I held back the tiny box, which sent up a strong orange-vinegar scent. The two women laughed at my exaggeration, but indeed, the saturated piece of sponge tucked inside held a pungent enough smell to mask strong odors or bring a woman around if she felt faint.

“I carry it when I travel on the streets,” said Mrs. Miller. “Especially in the summer. You know how foul the odors can be.”

“I do,” I said, pleased that I had not missed Mrs. Burton's delight in the piece. Her birthday was coming, and I decided that she must have a fine vinaigrette of her own.

Had I not been working in miniature with Mr. Leeds, I doubt that I would have attempted the task, but I drew a design and showed it to Mr. Taylor, the most skilled of us at crafting silver.

“You must be precise, but you can do it,” he said, giving me the confidence I lacked.

Crafting the tiny box was not a challenge, but punching a dogwood design around the engraved image on the small cover was delicate work, and a steady hand was needed to solder the tiny hinges onto the grille. But it was worth the effort, for when I presented it to Mrs. Burton, she cried out in delight.

Naturally, she showed the treasure to her new circle of card-playing friends, and they were as taken with the trinket as she was. Days later, orders began to come. Because of the skill and time required to create each one, we priced the tiny boxes accordingly, but that did not deter these women. It only made the Burton-stamped vinaigrette more sought after and our silver business grew.

A
FTER A YEAR
of mourning, Mrs. Burton began to encourage me to accept some of the invitations that came our way. “I cannot go because of my health,” she said, “but you must accept. How else will you meet others your own age?” Initially, I refused, but as a result of her insistence, I reluctantly attended a late supper held at the home of a family friend.

It was a long evening, for I was unfamiliar and therefore uncomfortable with others of my age. The men I found to be immature and pompous, while the women were much too gay and teasing, and their open attentions embarrassed me.

The next day word came back through Mrs. Miller, who was something of a gossip, that though I was thought of as conceited, the women considered me intriguing and attractive. “I also heard that after you left, someone said you had lost your eye in a duel, and you can only imagine how romantic the women found that!” she said.

“But that is not what happened,” I said.

She laughed. “Oh, dear boy, it matters not. A rumor has begun, and it will stand.” She picked up her red shawl, and before I could offer my help, she flung it around her wide shoulders. “And now I must go,” she said.

“But surely . . .” Mrs. Burton called after her, ready as ever to defend me, but I shook my head and took the chair next to her.

“Now you see why I prefer to spend my evenings here with you,” I said.

She reached her hand out for mine. “But Jamie, you are young. You should be around others your age.”

I kissed her hand. “I like our routine. I look forward to our early supper and then to your company while I paint. I don't need others. I have you, I have Malcolm, I have the business, and I have my art. It is a good life.”

Her look of affection filled me. “How fortunate I am to have you,” she said.

“And I, you,” I said, and the next few years passed quietly. Though Delia remained in the household, we seldom saw each other, and while she kept a wide berth of me, so, too, did I of her.

I
N THE EARLY
spring of 1822, Mrs. Burton, against my objections, began to plan a celebration of my birthday.

“Dearest! You are going to be twenty-five years old! At this rate I will never see a grandchild. It is time you met a young lady, and it appears that it is up to me to provide the opportunity,” she said. Although her comment was said in a lighthearted way, it was not the first time she had expressed a desire for me to carry on the Burton name.

I felt some guilt whenever this subject came up; naturally, I had not told her that marriage, for me, was not a consideration. Given my ancestry, I would never chance having a child. I remembered well when, during one of my last years at Tall Oaks, the wife of a nearby plantation owner gave birth to a baby with Negroid features. When it was learned that a light-skinned house servant was the father, it was rumored that the child was murdered, and in despair, the mother took her own life.

That scandal happened when my grandmother's sister, Mrs. Madden, was visiting from Williamsburg, and her adamant declaration had stayed with me: “It only proves that no matter how light-skinned they might be, Negro blood will always show through!” How credible her comment was I did not know, but I had no intention of testing it.

However, I agreed to the birthday celebration. I had noted during the long winter that Mrs. Burton's spirits appeared to be flagging, and I hoped that a small gathering would give her something to look forward to. But the planning had no sooner begun than Robert was taken very ill with fever, and everything came to an abrupt halt.

Because of the yellow fever epidemic that had taken her son, Mrs. Burton feared the worst and begged me to keep my distance from Robert's sickbed. I did so for two days but finally went to visit, hoping to find him improved. Instead I found food and water set outside Robert's door, where he was too ill to access it. Inflamed, I strode to the kitchen, where I found Delia.

“Are you ill?” I demanded.

“No,” she said.

“Then why are you not seeing to Robert?”

“I don' take care a those with no fever. I see how that boy of Mr. and Mrs. Burton die. No, sir, I don' have nothin' to do with no fever!”

“But you must! He needs care!”

“No! I don' go in there!” she said, staring me down.

I left to arrange for a nurse, but the rage I had suppressed toward Delia these past years was back in full blossom.

D
AILY
I
CHECKED
to ensure that Robert was cared for until he began to recover. The morning I found him sitting up in a chair, he asked the nurse to leave so he and I might be alone together.

“What is it?” I moved my chair closer to him.

“Where is Delia? Why is she not caring for me?” Robert asked.

“She refused. She said she wouldn't care for anyone with a fever.”

His eyebrows shot up. “She refused? And you were required to hire someone in?”

“I had no choice.”

He shook his head. “She goes too far!”

I saw my opportunity. “I don't trust her. I never have. I know you depend on her, but I would like her to be dismissed.”

“It is Mrs. Burton who depends on her. I would be happy to see her leave,” he said.

Now my eyes opened in surprise. “If you agree, I would be happy to speak to Mrs. Burton about discharging her,” I said.

Robert looked toward the closed door before he leaned forward to speak quietly. “On my arrival, Delia was already employed with the Burtons. She resented my taking over the household and went to Mrs. Burton with a rumor that regrettably followed me from Europe.” He leaned his forehead on the tips of his long fingers and closed his eyes. After a long minute, he straightened to look at me. “The rumor was true, but fortunately, the Burtons were open-minded. On the promise that I would give no further cause for gossip, they kept me on.”

Robert, too, had secrets! And such a damaging one that the Burtons might have dismissed this wonderful man! What a relief to know that I wasn't alone in this. His candor gave me the courage to speak more openly about Delia. “I don't trust her. Years ago she stole something from my room.”

His dark brown eyes looked at me carefully. “Why didn't you tell Mr. and Mrs. Burton?”

My face grew hot. “It involves my past,” I said. “They . . . it . . . would have been upsetting to them.”

“I see,” he said, avoiding my eyes as he smoothed the blanket that covered his lap. “I should have told you this before. Years ago I overheard a conversation wherein Delia told Ed that she had information—damaging information—about you. Ed was upset and made her promise to stay quiet.”

“Weren't you concerned?” I asked. “Didn't you wonder what it was about?”

Robert met my eyes. “I knew that you did not mean to harm the Burtons. In fact, you brought this household back to life, and Mr. Burton died in peace because of you.”

My gratitude to him brought tears to my eyes. “Thank you, Robert,” I said.

“I am not an innocent,” Robert said. “We all carry burdens from our past, but it is not for others to exploit them.”

I breathed in deeply. It felt as though a large weight had been lifted off my shoulders. For the first time since Delia's theft, I felt some measure of relief; now I knew I had Robert's support. “As soon as you are well, I will see to it that Delia is removed,” I said. “It is my responsibility.”

“I will leave it to you, then,” he said. “But tread carefully. She can be ruthless.”

I
WAITED UNTIL
Robert was back in good health before I sought Delia out. On an early morning before I left for work, I startled her just as she was sitting down to enjoy a cup of coffee.

“I would like you to give my letter back!” I said, approaching her.

“I don' know what you's talkin' 'bout,” she said, setting down her cup with careful precision on the weathered table.

I glared at her. “The letter that you stole from me years ago. It is mine, and I want you to give it back to me.”

She stood up hurriedly and began to gather the morning dishes. “I never say nothin' to nobody. I don' know why you comin' at me like this now.”

“I want that letter back! It is mine!” My hands clenched in fury.

“Delia don' got no letter.”

“Then where is it?” I asked.

“She never do have no letter,” she said, continuing to stack the dishes.

“You are lying!” I grabbed her wrist and sent a blue and white saucer spinning to the floor. “I said I want it back now!”

She jerked her arm free and backed away. “That letter make sure I stay in this house. You best forget about it.”

“You will regret this!” I said, and inflamed, I turned to go while I still had control of myself.

That day I was useless at work. I spent the bulk of the morning pacing. How should I proceed? Did she still have the letter, or had she gotten rid of it? When I dismissed her, what might she do? Would she go to Mrs. Burton?

I left for home in the early afternoon, deciding to go directly to Mrs. Burton and tell her that Delia must leave. However, on my arrival, I didn't find Mrs. Burton resting in her room, where I had expected her to be. Instead I found her sitting with Malcolm in Mr. Burton's room.

“Oh, Jamie!” she greeted me with reddened eyes. “You are home! I didn't know if I should send for you! I don't know what to do!”

“Greetings! Greetings!” Malcolm shouted in Robert's clipped accent, then flew across to sit on my shoulder. He clung there as I pulled up a chair next to Mrs. Burton.

“I am home now. All is well.” I took her hand as she began to weep. “Tell me,” I said, “what is the trouble?”

“I promised Delia . . .”

“Promised her what? There is nothing you can't tell me.”

“It involves you. You wouldn't believe . . .”

“You know Delia has resented me ever since I came here as a young boy.”

“But she said that you mean to harm her?”

Malcolm nipped my ear, and for the first time I smacked at his beak. He squawked in surprise and flew off to perch at the window. I loosened my damp collar and leaned back in the chair. “Harm her? And why would I do that?”

“She said that she had read a letter of yours. Of course I asked her immediately if you had given her permission to do so, but she did not reply and went on to say that she fears you will make her leave.”

“And this supposed letter,” I said, “did she mention the contents?”

“Oh, the accusation she made was so vicious that I am reluctant to repeat it. She accused you of—Oh, it is too ugly. Really, Jamie, I'd prefer not to say.”

“Please tell me,” I said.

“But I promised.”

“I must know the slander so I might address it,” I said, gripping the arms of the chair while fighting to stay calm.

“Oh, dear boy, let us forget it!” she said, seeing my growing fury. “It is really too ridiculous to repeat something so outrageous!”

“Please let us get this over with,” I demanded.

“She said that you are a Negro,” she blurted out.

I leaned over to brush some supposed dirt from my pant leg, needing the time to steady my breath. After I straightened again, I gave a short laugh. “She is off her head,” I said. I held out my hands, then turned them over to expose my palms. “Which part of me, exactly, does she suggest is Negro?”

“I know how foolish this must sound to you, but she held to it so strongly that it was most upsetting.”