Glory Over Everything (5 page)

“And he's showin' me how to read!”

“That's good, son. You watch close and don' talk so much.”

“Mr. Burton say that askin' questions is a good thing. That's how you learn, he say.”

“Well, that man don' get where he is today without bein' a smart man.”

I nod. “He sure do know everything 'bout birds. And he tell Robert that I don't need to wear shoes all the time until my feet stop hurtin' so bad.”

“How'd he know your feet was hurtin'?” Daddy asked.

“I tells him.”

“You troublin' Mr. Burton that your feet hurtin' you?”

“No, just when I can't step right and he asks me why, I say 'cause Robert says I got to wear shoes all the time and my feet ain't takin' to 'em the way they should.”

Daddy shake his head. “Jus' don' go botherin' the man with too much talkin' 'bout yourself.”

“Only time I talk 'bout myself is if he asks me somethin'.”

“He ask you about me?”

“No, jus' why I can't stay with you, and I tells him that a tavern no place for a chil' and that you don't want me 'round the barns on my own. I tells him you take Mama's leavin' us real hard an' that I tell you not to worry 'cause I know she's watchin' out for us.”

Daddy shoots me a look, then picks up the basket from Molly and stands to go. That's him tellin' me enough talk. We walk back with me quiet, but I take his hand and know he's not mad with me because he squeeze my hand real tight.

I
ARRIVED AN
hour later than the invitation called for. To say Mr. and Mrs. Cardon's home was magnificent would not be an exaggeration, yet the size of this Georgian home, their city dwelling, was said to be dwarfed by the size of their country estate.

“Mr. Burton, good to see you again, sir.”

I thanked Felix, greeting by name their gray-haired Negro servant as I handed over my greatcoat, hat, and gloves.

“You know your way,” he said, nodding toward the stairway.

“I do,” I said, but hesitated while I tried to gather my reserves. How I disliked the feel of dampness around the stiff cotton of my collar. Over the years I had learned to hide uncertainty under the cover of sophistication, but tonight I was too unsettled, too shaken. I looked down the long hallway, and though I was not a drinking man, I wondered if I might go first into the back library to pour myself a quick brandy. However, with the arrival of another carriage and more guests about to fill the foyer, I decided to forgo the temptation and went instead to climb the broad and winding red-carpeted stairway that led to the ballroom.

The usual gaming tables were set up in the outer room, and many people were already at play. It was excruciating to hold back, so close to seeing Caroline, but I forced myself to walk slowly as I made my way around the room, greeting and accepting congratulations from those I knew. Finally, I allowed myself to go toward the ballroom. The vast room gleamed white tonight; masses of white roses and potted green cedars filled every corner and flat surface. I glanced about through the blur of a waltz, soft laughter, subdued talk, the swirl of colored silk, the slide of slippered feet across the white floor—and there she was!

Color rose to her pale face when she saw me, but she stayed in place, giving her attention to another who had already claimed it. Her blond hair, curled to either side and piled high in the back, emphasized her long white neck, made more so by the white low-cut gown draped stylishly off her shoulders. A pale pink rose, pushed deep into her swollen décolleté, matched perfectly her flushed face. She fanned herself prettily and could not keep herself from glancing in my direction.

I turned away just as her parents, the host and hostess for the evening, approached me. I gathered myself quickly, upset that I had been observed giving their daughter so much notice. “Mr. Cardon, Mrs. Cardon.” I greeted them with a formal bow before lifting Mrs. Cardon's outreached hand. I could not escape what they both had seen, so I moved the conversation toward it. First, though, I paused for a deliberate review of Mrs. Cardon's person while she feigned disinterest yet awaited my approval. “I was just now admiring your beautiful daughter, but when I observe you, Mrs. Cardon, I see that she but replicates your beauty.”

Mr. Cardon grunted. “Those are fine words, Burton, but I would remind you of my daughter's recent marriage.”

“For heaven's sakes, Mr. Cardon!” Mrs. Cardon took her hand from mine and, with her fan, gave a light tap to her husband's arm. “Caroline has been married for three years. I wouldn't call that recent.”

“What I was saying—”

“Yes, yes, my dear. She has a husband. We know. But surely you have a better understanding of women than that? We always want to know that we have admirers, especially after years of marriage.”

“Where is he?” Mr. Cardon scanned the room for his son-in-law, his wife having adeptly shifted his attention.

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Cardon murmured, noting the appearance of their son-in-law's parents. The oncoming couple moved so quickly toward us that they unfortunately hit their mark before I could make my escape.

The husband, a wealthy man I thoroughly disliked, was also a celebrated minister, well known for his dire sermons of fire and brimstone. In the past, when cornering me at a social occasion, he'd had the audacity to inform me that because of my “reputation with the fairer sex,” he regarded me as a candidate for his words of advice. Astounded by his nerve, I had not replied directly but wondered aloud if his thoughts of my salvation might not be better directed toward his own son, who was often publicly battling the demons of drink.

Now, studying the couple, I noted how the wife, a bland pudding next to the great beef of her husband, was dwarfed. Here was an example of where a girdle, so popular with men today, might have suited a true purpose, had the man thought to use one, and I wondered where gluttony sat on his list of sins.

The alliance between these two families, resulting from the marriage between their children, gave catalyst to a merging of their fortunes, and as a result these two men now stood united as a mighty force in Philadelphia's world of logging and shipping.

From our first meeting, I thought Mr. Cardon something of a conundrum. A polished man, he was well versed in the ways of society and known to be generous, not just to the church but to many other institutions. In his earlier years, Mr. Cardon was involved in the fur trade, and accounts circulated of his ruthless behavior while living out among the Indians of the West. I myself heard him describe how to best kill and scalp a savage, a skill he claimed to have practiced more than once. When he spoke of the deed, from the flash of his eye and the grit of his teeth, I didn't doubt his story. Yet now he supported the museum's effort to collect Indian artifacts and often paid spectacular sums to help the members obtain what they deemed important. In fact, I suspected it was his money, and possibly his wife's influence, that had secured my upcoming ornithological excursion.

However, in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Cardon, I always remained aware of the treacherous waters in which I swam, for there was a dangerous duality in their views of slavery. The public knew Mr. and Mrs. Cardon as abolitionists. Indeed, they presented a good image, frequently citing their approval of the fact that in this city all of the Negroes were free. But in time I learned that Mr. Cardon had a holding in one of the largest cotton plantations in Louisiana, while Mrs. Cardon received a substantial yearly stipend from a wealthy father who owned a sizable farm in South Carolina worked by his enslaved Africans.

“S
O
, M
R.
B
URTON?
I hear that you are soon to leave us?” the minister addressed me. I nodded, not caring to encourage a conversation. This offended him, which suited me. He drew back his coat and put his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. Thrusting his significant stomach forward, he slowly surveyed the room. “I would suppose that some husbands and fathers will breathe easier while you are away,” he said to no one in particular. His wife had the decency to give a faint gasp.

I was about to respond when Mrs. Cardon, always the expert hostess, addressed the minister and his wife. “Well, I'm afraid that Mr. Burton and I must leave the two of you to Mr. Cardon. Mr. Burton is, after all, our man of the hour, and we must give others their chance to wish him good fortune.” She leaned in to me as she skillfully led me away. “You must ignore him,” she said, “as I have learned to do.”

I glanced down at her, but she was not smiling. She was what? Fifty years, give or take five on either side? Her bad teeth were a distraction, but her fair complexion remained, and though she carried extra weight, her corsets and beautifully cut blue silk gown enhanced her full figure. Considered one of the most powerful women in Philadelphia society, she used her quick wit and charm to rule from the throne of her husband's vast wealth.

As we moved away from earshot of her husband, she spoke over the music, and her voice held an edge. “Mr. Burton, you must know that it was because of my support that you were given this opportunity?”

“You know how grateful I have always been for your support,” I said.

“Indeed,” she said, thrusting her chin forward as she propelled us in Caroline's direction. “I promised my daughter to bring you to her. This is her last evening out, as tomorrow Caroline and I will leave for the country. I am concerned about her health.” Her hand was clenched viselike on my arm, but she responded only with charm when various guests waylaid us to offer congratulations on my good fortune.

As we grew closer to Caroline, Mrs. Cardon leaned in to me once again. “It is too early in the season for Mr. Cardon and Mr. Preston—Caroline's husband,” she added pointedly, “to be joining us at Stonehill, so they will be staying here in town. It is quiet in the country, so we shall have privacy. However, Caroline agreed to go to Stonehill only on the condition that I extend an invitation for you to visit. You will find time to do so before you leave?”

I met her penetrating gaze. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” I said. “I shall await your invitation.”

I could think of little but loosening my damp collar, but I quickly forgot that as we grew closer to Caroline and I saw how thin she had grown. Then I noticed her small waistline. Wouldn't the tight stays of her corset harm our child?

B
Y THE TIME
I'm ten years old, I'm old enough to go on my own to see my daddy on Sundays. Because I'm dressed clean and I'm learning to talk like Mr. Burton, when I ask nice, the wagons going out of town give me a ride. My daddy always waits for me at the barns behind the tavern, then takes me to his shelter in the woods that he keeps moving around.

“Why don't you stay put?” I ask. “Then I could come find you on my own.”

“I got to keep movin' 'case that ol masta come lookin' for me,” he says.

“But Daddy, don't you think he forgot about you by now?”

“That old masta is sly, and I 'spect I see him any day. I's ready to head out soon's I catch sight a him.”

“You'd just go and leave me?” I ask.

“Son, the best chance you got is stayin' with Mr. Burton. All we'd be doin' is runnin'.”

“What was it like bein' a slave?” I ask.

“It nothin' I like to talk 'bout.”

“But was it bad?”

“It bad enough that I'd sooner die as go back to livin' like that.”

“But what if they ever get you again?” I ask.

“They never gon' get me again. They got to kill me before that happen,” he says.

After he tells me that, when I go to meet him, my head is always hurtin' till I see him waitin' in the trees. Then I run to him, and when I give him a hug, I always got to stop myself from crying. I count on seeing him every Sunday, 'cause that's how it was all of my life. The rest of the time it was just me and Mama. The best times we had was when my mama's friend Sheila came by. Then I'd sit back and listen to the two of them talk. I liked to hear them laugh, even though Sheila had troubles of her own. Her two boys, both of them bigger than me, were always getting in a mess, and then her girl, just fourteen, goes out and gets her own baby.

One day after Sheila leaves, I ask Mama, “Why that girl of hers go out and bring in another baby? Sheila say she can't feed the ones she got.”

“Those folks don' know no better 'cause they was slaves, comin' here to Phil'delphia from the farm where they don't have nobody tellin' them how to live free,” Mama says. “It hard on them, tryin' to figure out how to make a livin' when they can't read or write. Mos' come from workin' in the fields and don' even know how to serve in a big house. Too, a lot a them still scared a the white folks.”

I was six or seven when Mama first got sick. I did my best to help her out, but I was always happy when Sheila came over at night, sometimes bringing us food when we got none. One day she comes when I'm fussing over Mama, who was real sick that day. Sheila takes over and settles Mama, then pulls me on her lap and says, “Anybody tell you that you a good boy?”

Don't know why, but that gets me cryin'.

“That's fine, chil', you go head and cry,” she says. “I knows this got to be tough on you.”

I cry for a long time before she gives me a squeeze. “Come on, now,” she says, “you got to be a lil man here. Your mama countin' on you.”

“But I ain't no man,” I say, “I jus a chil'.”

“That's right,” she say, “but sometimes we got to grow up fast. Why, when I was your age, I was takin' care of a whole house a white people.”

“You was?” I ask, but I don't see her face 'cause her chin was on my head.