Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(30)

“How pretty,” I said as I brought it to her.

“Yes, isn’t it?” she answered, smiling up at me, and I smiled back. I felt at ease with her. The way she looked at me reminded me of my grandmother.

The tea caddy was beautiful. “What kind of wood is it?” I asked, rubbing my finger over the polished dark grain.

“I believe it is rosewood,” she said.

“Rosewood?” I asked.

Mr. Burton, who had taken a seat at the table, joined in. “It is a wood found in the tropics,” he said. Addressing his wife, he went on. “This young man is quite gifted with drawing and also has a talent for carving.”

“You do?” she asked, taking the pear-shaped box from me. “Perhaps I could see some of your work.”

I flushed with the unexpected attention and stood silently by as Mrs. Burton fingered the chatelaine at her waist until she found the right key to unlock the tea caddy. Then, after carefully measuring out what was needed of the aromatic black leaves, she locked the box again and had me return the caddy to its place on the sideboard.

Mrs. Burton tapped at the chair next to her, and I sat. “Mr. Burton tells me that you are a quick study.”

I glanced over at my employer. “I like the work very much,” I said.

Malcolm squawked and Mrs. Burton turned to her husband. “Could I ask you to return Malcolm to his room? He has had something to eat, and I don’t want to have to ask Robert to clean up after his enemy.”

“Oh my!” Mr. Burton rose quickly. He held out his arm and spoke with authority. “Come on, you naughty boy. You’ve created enough of a stir for one day.”

“Naughty boy. Naughty boy,” Malcolm said to the room on his departure, causing another round of laughter.

As soon as her husband was out of the room, Mrs. Burton turned to me. “So, tell me now, do you genuinely enjoy your work?”

I answered her honestly. “Oh yes!” I said, but then became concerned. “Does Mr. Burton have a complaint?”

“Not at all,” she said, giving me a smile.

I sighed in relief and again returned her smile. “I am relieved to know that.”

“Malcolm certainly took to you,” she said. “You like birds, I take it?”

“I do,” I said. “I have been interested in them all of my life.”

“When did this interest begin?” she asked.

“It began when I was a child and was given a book that had beautiful illustrations of birds. After I taught myself to copy their likenesses from the book, I spent hours and hours at the window, drawing birds that nested outside in our trees.”

“Why did you not go outdoors?” she asked. “Were you ill?”

“No, I was in good health, but my grandmother needed me at her side,” I said. “When she was very ill, I would draw and I could forget everything around me.”

While Mrs. Burton checked the readiness of the tea, I looked around, and for the first time since my arrival in Philadelphia, I felt a stirring of content. This room reminded me of home—of Tall Oaks—with the high ceilings, the vibrant green walls, the tall windows draped in gold velvet, and the long polished dining table and sideboard. An attractive portrait of a young Mrs. Burton hung over the mantel, and on the opposite wall was a portrait of Mr. Burton, painted when he had a full head of hair.

“Were we not a handsome couple?” she asked, seeing my interest.

“You were very beautiful, but it is odd to see Mr. Burton with all of that hair,” I said.

She laughed aloud.

“That was unkind,” I said, feeling my face grow hot.

“It would have been insensitive if he were here to have heard it,” she said, “but I see no need for either of us to repeat it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Mr. Burton has been very kind to me.”

“And how is it that you came to Philadelphia?” she asked. “Where is your family?”

My heart began to pound. When I was a child and Grandmother’s hysteria frightened me, I learned to calm myself by quietly counting each finger before interlocking my hands. Now I did the same until, hands folded, I answered Mrs. Burton. “I am alone,” I said. “My mother—that is, my grandmother—died.”

“And your parents?”

I looked away. “They are both dead,” I lied. “My grandmother raised me.”

“I see,” she said. “And was your grandmother’s death recent?”

“Yes. There was a fire.”

“In her home?”

“Yes. In our home. We had a farm.”

“How unspeakably sad for you!” she said softly. My eyes stung from her unexpected words of empathy. How tempted I was to tell her the truth.

“And you were left destitute?”

“I have Grandmother’s jewelry,” I said. “But I don’t want to sell it.” I hung my head and mumbled, “It is all that I have left of her.”

“I understand, dear boy. I lost my only son seventeen years ago, but his room stands as he left it. Even now, the loss is difficult for me to talk about.”

Until this moment, no one had acknowledged my grief, and her words touched me deeply. Not only did she understand, but she had suffered the same. My attachment to Mrs. Burton began that day.