Glory Over Everything (20 page)

“You painted it with a pinfeather? Of a bird?”

“Yes. It is a very old craft.”

“And where do you find these pinfeathers?”

“Hunters shoot woodcock as game and bring them to the market. Through the winter months, I purchase all I need.”

“How remarkable! In England I heard of a woman who used a bird's pinfeather to paint on ivory.”

“You did? I must tell Mr. Leeds, my art instructor. He believes it a lost art.”

“Mr. Leeds is your instructor? Perhaps he will teach me as well.”

“I'm afraid he has grown old and no longer teaches.” She was so breathtakingly beautiful, and I was so drawn to her, that her nearness felt dangerous to me.

“Oh,” she said, “how unfortunate for me.” She tilted her head while her fingers played with a small curl that hung to the back of her neck. “Might you consider giving me a few classes?” She smiled with her full pink lips, and though I knew the danger, I was lost.

“When would you like to begin?” I answered so quickly that Caroline laughed, as did I.

“Perhaps in a few months? I should have my house in order by then,” Caroline said, just as her mother, panting and short of breath, rejoined us.

“Your husband is holding forth, and he is quite inebriated,” Mrs. Cardon scolded.

“Yes, I am sure he is, Mother,” said Caroline. Mrs. Cardon pursed her lips and stared back in the direction of Mr. Preston. “Mother,” Caroline went on brightly, “Mr. Burton has agreed to give me some painting instructions.”

Mrs. Cardon turned her attention toward us and assumed a smile. “Oh, darling,” she said, “when will you find the time? You have your home to set up.”

“Mr. Burton has agreed to wait until the fall. By then everyone will be tired of seeing me, and I shall have something to look forward to when the snow comes.”

Mrs. Cardon patted her daughter's arm. “Well, if it is an art class that will make you happy, then we must find you an art instructor. Mr. Burton is a busy man. Surely you won't impose on his time.”

“He already has agreed, haven't you, Mr. Burton?” Caroline smiled up at me. Caught in the cross fire, I had no choice but to agree with Caroline.

“I see.” Mrs. Cardon looped her arm through her daughter's and flashed me a smile that lacked warmth. “You will excuse us, Mr. Burton. Others have yet to greet Caroline.”

“Naturally,” I said, and after they walked away, I soon left for home, where I tried to make sense of this uncomfortable fascination I felt for Mrs. Preston.

F
OR WEEKS
I vacillated over sending a note to Mr. Burton reminding him of the art classes, until one day we met by chance.

Early in October I agreed to accompany Mother and her gardener, Phelps, to visit the greenhouses at Bartram's gardens, but on the morning of our intended visit, Mother was struck with headache and had to forgo the trip. It was a lovely day, and as I knew the place, I decided, rather than spending the afternoon alone, I would accompany Phelps. I packed my sketchpad with the idea that I would visit the gardens while our gardener went about his business and made his selections.

Phelps and I were easy company on the carriage ride over. I had known him all my life, and he had always been my most reliable source for botanical questions. He laughed still in remembrance of the time when, as a child, I asked if the wings of his dark mustache were meant to attract butterflies.

On our arrival, as planned, Phelps went to the numerous greenhouses and hothouses while I took to the gardens. It was a Tuesday, and there were few about as I ambled through the red and yellow gardens of dahlias and chrysanthemums. When I saw the river, I felt something akin to joy and hurried toward the blue water. The air was still summer-warm, and as I approached the shade of the maple and dogwood trees and saw no one about, I removed my hat. My new maid, try as she might, had no talent for dressing my hair. The pins were too tight, and I sighed with relief as I pulled them out and swung my hair loose. When I felt a tickle on my neck, I rubbed at it only to hear the buzz of an angry bee. My reaction was involuntary when, afraid of a sting, I swatted it and then fingered it from the tangle of my hair. “Oh no!” I said aloud when I found that I had killed it, for I had a particular affinity to bees. I wrapped the bee in my white handkerchief, meaning to take it home, but as I was doing so, a stern voice startled me: “And what might you be doing?”

I swung around only to be met with Mr. Burton's teasing smile.

“Oh, it's you!” I said in surprise.

“So, Mrs. Preston. What have I found you illegally pocketing?” he asked.

His playfulness unnerved me, and when I fanned my face with my hat, my handkerchief dropped. He stooped to pick it up.

“Be careful,” I said. “It will fall out.”

“And might I ask what treasure it holds?”

“It holds a bee. I killed it accidentally.”

“You killed it! And why would you do that? I happen to fancy bees.”

“It was in my hair,” I explained.

“Oh dear. Did it sting you?”

I fingered my neck. “No,” I said. “But I was afraid that it might. I should not have removed my hat.”

“And why did you?” he asked, his manner playful.

“Because my pins were pinching,” I said.

“
Mrs. Preston, Seen in Bartram's Gardens with Her Hat Off
. I can see the newspaper headline now. The scandal of it!”

I laughed, and so did he.

“I was sitting over there, under that pine,” he said, pointing to a bench. “Would you care to join me?”

I had no reason not to do so, and after he lifted a sketchpad to make room for me, we sat together in silence, looking out over the water.

“Mrs. Preston?”

“Yes?”

“Why exactly are you keeping the bee?”

“I am taking it home to sketch it.”

“I see.”

“I would not intentionally kill a bee, but now that I have, I don't want to waste the opportunity to use it.”

“And what is your process?”

“Well, I'll study it first, the color, you know, and then I'll paint it. But first I'll draw it over and over—until I get the details right.”

“Ahh,” he said. “Like this?” He picked up his sketchpad and flipped it open to a page filled with quick sketches of a common sparrow.

“May I page through?” I asked.

He handed the pad over, and as I leafed through, I was curious to see it filled with sketches, not only of birds, as I had expected, but of pinecones and acorns and a multitude of various leaves and branches. I asked him the purpose of this.

“I hope one day to produce a small book of bird illustrations. If I am to authentically represent birds, then I must realistically display them in their natural habitat.”

“And your book would include our local birds?” I asked.

“No, my idea is to provide a handbook as a reference for those traveling down along the eastern coastline.”

“How wonderful! Is there one bird that particularly interests you?”

“I must say that I am drawn to the Carolina parakeet.”

“Oh, I love parakeets!” I said.

“I know,” he said, and his smile was so genuine that I looked away. “Your vinaigrette,” he reminded me.

“Of course!” I said, and embarrassed at my forgetfulness, I steered the conversation away. “Will your books be for sale?”

“I'm afraid I am far from that,” he answered. “Getting it into print is a very expensive proposition.”

“I would be the first to purchase one,” I said, and he laughed at my enthusiasm.

Again we looked out at the water. It took me a while to work up the courage before I addressed him. “Mr. Burton?”

“Yes?”

“I must ask, are you still willing to teach me how to paint with a pinfeather?”

He picked away a golden leaf that had fallen on his jacket sleeve. “I wondered if you were still interested,” he said.

“Oh yes, but I didn't want to impose on your time.”

“I already teach a class on Saturday morning. It is in watercolor. Your medium?” he asked, and I nodded. “Good,” he said, “but the students use traditional brushes. If you would like, you might join that class. We can see how you do and then proceed from there.”

“That would be wonderful!” I said, but held tight to my excitement.

“I have one hesitation,” he said.

I leaned over to better see his face. “And what is that?”

“I'm afraid that it has to do with your mother. I sensed she had an objection?”

I sat back. “I am not a child, and I do not need her permission.”

When he laughed, his face wrinkled in a most pleasant way. “No, you are not a child. Quite the opposite,” he said. “But I'm afraid that I was only thinking of protecting myself. Your mother can be quite formidable.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Leave her to me, Mr. Burton,” I said. “I will see to it that you come through this unscathed.”

O
N A
S
ATURDAY
morning, at the early hour of ten o'clock, I entered the foyer of Mr. Burton's home. There, to my dismay, I discovered that I was the only woman attending his class and that the three other young male students were from the university. I felt so intimidated that I would have left had not Robert, the butler, already begun to lead our small group up the stairwell. As we made our way through the rather dark house, my tension increased. What had I done! What had I been thinking!

I was getting ready to bolt when Robert ushered us into a room so charming that at once I relaxed. The walls were painted my favorite shade of yellow, and when Robert drew back the blue and white draperies, light filled the room. It streamed onto an old pine table loaded down with pints of water, glass jars filled with upended brushes, ceramic palettes, and boxes and boxes of paint cubes. Heaven!

The other students, after selecting supplies, made their way to the easels. As I moved in and gaped about, I tripped on the heavy canvas cloth that covered the dark oak floor, but I saved myself when I grabbed hold of the fireplace mantel. In an effort to cover my clumsiness, I leaned in to smell the sweet fragrance of the yellow roses that poked out from the fingers of a quintal. At that moment Mr. Burton entered with a large white cockatoo perched on his shoulder.

Previously, I had been as curious as any about his black eye patch, but this day it only lent to his handsomeness. He was a tall man, well proportioned, and his close-fitting waistcoat, patterned in blue and black, was set off by his white shirt and his black cravat. I wished I had worn something more attractive than my dark navy day dress.

He paused when he saw me, then turned toward the students when they hailed him. What he might have said or done next, I know not, for the entire room was distracted when his bird lifted off and flew to my shoulder. There, testing me, the bird gave a small nip to my ear.

I tapped his beak, as I had learned to do with my own spoiled pet. “No!” I said in a firm tone. “I don't like that.”

The bird cocked his head to look at me. Miffed that I had corrected him, he flew to a perch by the window and from there squawked out for all to hear, “Naughty boy!”

“You
are
a naughty boy,” I said quickly, and all the young men laughed.

Mr. Burton was not amused and came forward. “Did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” I said, cupping my ear with my hand, for I guessed it was red.

Mr. Burton looked uncertain.

“I'm fine,” I reassured him. “I am familiar with birds. I have Rodger, my own parakeet. He, too, can be quite naughty,” I said, smiling.

Just then a young colored boy entered the room carrying a large blue bowl of red and green apples. “Pan!” the students all greeted him enthusiastically, and his large brown eyes sparkled in response.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Burton encouraged him, and the boy carefully made his way to the front, where he placed the full bowl on a table set up to be used as a prop for a still life. Next to me, Mr. Burton spoke quietly: “Mrs. Preston, if you would please take what you need from the table and go to an easel, our class will begin.”

I
FEARED
I would not be skilled enough to keep up with my classmates, but in the weeks to follow, I was happy to see that I could hold my own. Meanwhile, though he knew of my earlier studies, Mr. Burton expressed surprise at my talent, and I privately reveled in his praise.

However, I was disappointed to find that he was not the same man he had been that day in Bartram's gardens. In the classroom he held himself back, not only from me but also from his students. Perhaps because of that, we all worked hard to earn his praise.

T
HE ART CLASS
soon became the focus of my week. Here I lost myself in the joy of painting, and the time flew by. Yet it was not only art that drew me to Mr. Burton's home.

At my home, Mr. Preston's comments about my art were so disparaging that I increasingly kept it from him. My marriage had failed so desperately that my husband and I scarcely managed civility with each other. Mr. Preston cared no more for me than I for him, and we had not been intimate since early on in the marriage, when I had found him in a compromised position with another man. However, bound together as we were, we continued to make the required social rounds, where his inevitable inebriation and resulting behavior left us both humiliated.

At these affairs, Mr. Burton and I were cordial, though I was ever careful to hold myself at a distance. Yet there were moments during these events, inescapable moments when our eyes met, and what passed between us was so powerful that I was often left profoundly shaken.

This tension, this draw, followed us into the classroom, but as it grew for me, he became more aloof. I held myself in check, but when I was away from him, I spent hours imagining that he longed for me as I did him. In those hours I traced his mouth with my fingers and imagined his smile as he clasped my hand and then kissed me.