Glory Over Everything (18 page)

“Surely you couldn't have entertained . . .” I said, moving to the edge of my seat.

“James! Of course not! I could never believe such a thing! Please! Do not take offense. I don't believe any of it! You? A Negro? It isn't possible!”

Anger suddenly took over. Was her love for me so limited that my tainted blood would destroy it? Dreading the answer, I could not contain the question. “And if I were? If it were true? What would it mean to you if I said I was a Negro?”

An unmistakable look of revulsion crossed her face as she shook her head. “But it isn't possible!” she said.

“So you would no longer care for me?” I asked, rising from my chair. My worst fear was true.

“James! Jamie, dear,” she said. “Please sit!”

But she had given herself away, and I could not stop. “What upsets me is that you will not answer me! To think that you would not care for me if . . .” I couldn't breathe! That her love was conditioned on my race struck me so profoundly that I could not take in air.

She called out to me as I fled the room and left for the outdoors. My thoughts circled, and I noted nothing as I walked for hours that warm mid-May afternoon. What should I do? Should I tell her the truth? But what was the truth? Would I call myself a Negro? Surely there was not enough Negro blood in me that I should be cast as one of them. Nor was I one of them! How many times had Grandmother pointed out what a lesser race they were—so eager to be taken care of, so willing to be subservient. How many times had I heard of their nonexistent morals; they thought nothing of bedding each other and producing offspring they abandoned. And they were a thieving people—as evidenced by Delia taking my letter. How could I be one of them? Nothing in me fit the description. I carried none of their traits! I was not one of them!

Yet I could not forget that look of disgust on Mrs. Burton's face. Twice I ran to an alley to empty my stomach when it heaved at the remembrance. Why could she not love me as I was, Negro or no? I had loved her as I loved my own dear grandmother.

How wrenching it was to think of leaving this safe and beloved home, but by nightfall I had come to the sickening conclusion that I had no other choice.

I was exhausted when I returned to the house and there went straight to my rooms. I had just pulled out my leather bag, but before I had a chance to begin packing, Robert came with a note that bore Mrs. Burton's seal. After Robert left, I opened the note.

Delia has been asked to leave this house. I beg your forgiveness for questioning you about her slanderous accusations. The subject is forgotten. You have my word that I will never doubt you again.

I sat with the note long into the night, unable to make a decision.

In the early morning Robert came to tell me that Delia had been put out of the house and Mrs. Burton was waiting to see me. I went then, terrified of the task at hand.

I found her seated in a chair beside her bed, still dressed in her nightclothes. She looked so frail and shaken, so frightened and alone, yet I knew what I had to do. At the very least, she deserved to hear the truth.

I went to her chair and knelt by her side. I tore free my eye patch, wanting her to see all of me. Her hand trembled when she smoothed the ridge on my face that my eye patch had made. My head pounded and tears burned my eyes.

“I must tell you—” I began.

Her hand slipped down to cover my mouth. “No,” she said. “We shall never speak of this again. Let us leave it at that.”

In relief, I dropped my head in her lap and wept, while she soothed me as a mother might her son.

B
UT THE DAMAGE
had been done, and because the truth was never addressed, it festered like a thorn. Where before Mrs. Burton and I were easy and relaxed around each other, now our relationship was strained, and while she became more solicitous, I, in my guilt and need, grew more distant.

T
HOUGH
I
WAS
years into my art study with Mr. Leeds, I continued on as my passion for the work grew. Malcolm's room overflowed with watercolors—miniatures, mainly—that covered every surface and were pinned to every wall. Birds were my main focus, but now I painted flora and fauna as well. I had become so adept at miniatures that Mr. Leeds suggested I consider creating a small handbook, such as Bartram's, for amateur botanists. However, to undertake this task, travel such as Mr. Bartram had done would be required of me, and with the silver business and the responsibility of Mrs. Burton, I did not see it as a possibility.

Over the years, Mr. Leeds had become a friend to both Mrs. Burton and me, and he proved a pleasant distraction. On Sunday afternoon it became habit that, following my art instruction, he joined us for tea. Lemon-glazed pound cake was a favorite of his, so it was always served, and we were then assured of his entertaining company until the last of the cake was gone.

Thus, Mrs. Burton and I were dismayed to learn later that summer that Mr. Leeds was facing health issues and must abruptly end his teaching.

“I would like you to take over a small class that I teach in my home,” he said to me. “The students could benefit from what I have taught you.”

“But I am not qualified! I know so little—”

He laughed aloud. “I believe that some would say otherwise,” he said, referring to the two sales I had made recently. They were small pinfeather renderings and had sold for quite a sum. “I think teaching would benefit you as well,” he added.

“Is it a watercolor class? Would the students be using sable brushes?”

“Of course! What? You thought I meant that you should teach them to work with a pinfeather? Good luck to find students with that kind of talent!”

“Why don't you consider it, James?” Mrs. Burton asked enthusiastically. “You could hold the classes where you do your work now—up in Malcolm's room. It is large enough, and it would be nice to bring new life into this house.”

And so, because it offered Mrs. Burton and me a further distraction on a Sunday afternoon, I accepted.

I
WAS RIGHT
to do so, for the art classes proved a boon to our strained relationship. My adopted mother knew many of the students' families, and their family histories were often a topic of conversation for us. In time we grew more comfortable again with each other, though we never did recover the intimacy we once had, for neither of us could cross the divide: she, who needed to deny the truth, and I, who longed to have her accept it and love me for it.

There is one deep regret I carry from that time. On a number of occasions Mrs. Burton asked me to clear out Mr. Burton's rooms and to take them as my own, but I always declined. Was I punishing her, or did I not want to feel more the imposter than I already did? I still do not have the answer. However, when Robert came to me on September 4, 1824, to tell me that Mrs. Burton had unexpectedly passed away during the night, I was grief-stricken.

I had loved her as a mother, and though she had put forth her best effort to love me as a son, a difference existed after she learned the truth from Delia. Yet I did not hold her responsible; how could I blame her for an inability to love the part of me that I, too, loathed?

T
HOUGH
I
HAD
inherited everything and the house was mine, months passed before Robert could persuade me to move down to Mr. Burton's quarters. I knew the sense of it, but I felt an intruder and relented only after Robert convinced me how much easier it would be for the household staff to serve me.

When we went down to look over Mr. Burton's rooms, I wondered aloud if the house was perhaps too large and too elegant for me.

Robert frowned. “And why would you not be suited for this home? The Burtons chose you as their son, and as their heir, you must claim it.”

Because he believed it, I tried to convince myself to do the same.

T
HE WINTER WAS
long and lonely, and I spent so much time at work that I grew weary of it all. Then, in the spring of 1825, a woman swept through the door of my silver shop and demanded to see the proprietor.

Nicholas summoned me from my back office, where I had been looking over the accounts. After Christmas, work had fallen off, and though I knew I should find a way to encourage more business, with both Mr. and Mrs. Burton gone, building the business no longer interested me.

When I came out, I immediately recognized the visitor. “Mrs. Cardon!” I exclaimed in surprise and walked around to greet her. I had met this socially prominent woman through Mr. Leeds, a longtime friend of the Cardons. It was she who had purchased the two paintings of mine.

“You remember me!” she said with a smile.

“How could I not?” I said, pleased to see her. In the past two years we had met twice at Bartram's expansive gardens. I remembered well her casual demeanor and lighthearted ways, which put me at ease. Because she was twenty years or so my senior, her teasing was less threatening than had she been of my age, and she laughed gaily when I uncharacteristically quipped in response to her repartee.

Now, as she gave a quick look about the shop, she let slip from her shoulders a patterned paisley shawl to expose a green day dress that snugly fit her comely figure. When she abruptly turned back, one of the many feathers from her large-brimmed hat dislodged, and we both watched it slowly float to the floor. I picked up the wayward adornment, blew it free of any dust, and presented it to her with a flourish. “Madam, your feather,” I said.

“Oh, you may keep it,” she said, laughing, “as a memento of my first visit here.”

I followed her lead and placed the feather in my waistcoat pocket, then patted it. “I shall treasure this always,” I said, smiling as I gave a small bow.

She laughed again and tapped my arm with her fan, then tilted her head as she studied me. “So! James Burton!” she said. “I've been hearing rumors about you.”

“You have?” I asked, and when my heart gave a sudden thud, I brushed at an imaginary spot of dust on the display case. “Are they at least interesting?”

“Well, certainly. One involves a duel!” she teased.

Surprised at her reference, I involuntarily touched my eye patch, then saw I had embarrassed her. I planted my feet firmly and deepened my voice: “Mrs. Cardon, the rumor is false! I did not lose my eye in a duel! In actuality, it was such a spectacular event that I am afraid I have forgotten the details.”

She laughed and tapped my arm again with her fan, but before she could continue, I spoke. “No, I'm afraid that you will find all of the rumors are false. Naturally, you will not be surprised to learn that I have heard rumors about you as well.”

“Oh, I am sure that you have,” she said, “but mine are all true!”

We laughed together.

“You are fun,” she said. “You must come to some of our evenings. Rumor has it,” she said, offering a sly smile, “that you are quite reclusive.”

“Yes, I will concede that is true. Mrs. Burton was an invalid, and I didn't want to leave her,” I explained.

“I was sorry to hear of her passing,” she said.

“Thank you. I miss her a great deal.”

“Well, then, I must introduce you to my friends.”

“I would be pleased to have you do so,” I replied, knowing full well the significance. At the least, here was an answer to my business dilemma. Many were competing in the silver trade, and a client such as Mrs. Cardon would mean not only survival to my silver shop but added prestige as well.

Many times I had heard the Burtons speak of Mrs. Cardon and the power she wielded. In this large city of Philadelphia, the topmost echelon of aristocracy included only families who could trace their lineage back to the earliest Quaker settlers. They considered themselves an exclusive group and denied entry into their tight circle to those of new wealth. As a consequence, socially aspiring merchants and businessmen—those who had more recently acquired their fortunes—developed their own elite society, and it was headed by none other than Mrs. Randolph Cardon. Now she stood before me in my shop.

There was a pause as she again looked about.

“Might I show you something?” I asked.

“Actually, I came with a specific request. I have seen some of your vinaigrettes, and I would like you to craft one for my daughter. But it must be exclusive. It is a gift for her eighteenth birthday.”

“Do you have a particular design in mind?” I asked. “What are her interests?”

“Well, she likes to paint—Oh, and she is interested in anything that has to do with birds. She has a parakeet that she dotes on.”

“She likes birds?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

I thought for a moment. “I have an idea,” I said, “but it will take time, and the cost of the finished piece might be—”

Her hand brushed the air, dismissing my concern. “The cost is incidental, but you must complete it within four weeks so she will have it for her birthday.”

“I will have it done for you,” I said.

“Don't disappoint me,” she warned.

E
ACH WEEK
M
RS.
Cardon dropped in to ask about my progress. Because of our light flirtation, it was always a pleasure to see her, but the day she arrived for the completed piece, she bore a more subdued air.

I invited her into my office, a small room made smaller by the oak rolltop desk that took up a quarter of the space. The cleaning woman had left the room in good order and smelling of fresh lemon, so I seated Mrs. Cardon there before I hurried off to retrieve the package.

On my return, she was holding a miniature painting of Malcolm that had been propped on my desk. “You painted this?” she asked.

“I did,” I said.

“It is exquisite. Would you allow me to purchase it? You know how I love the others that I've purchased!”