Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(32)

“My husband has a friend, one who, in his youth, lost an eye. He wears a black patch to cover it, and I must say that all of the ladies considered it quite dashing. I was wondering if you would care to have something similar fashioned for you.”

“Well, yes. I would give it a try.”

“That is settled, then.” She looked down at my painting in her lap. “Jamie,” she said, “this is one of the best representations of a salmon-crested cockatoo that I have ever seen.”

“I did the best I could from memory.”

“It is so fine that I will have it framed. Have you ever considered attending some art classes?”

“Grandmother often spoke of it,” I said. “But now . . .”

She smiled. “Well, dear, your grandmother was right. You have a God-given talent. We must have it developed.”

Malcolm, seeking attention, gave a human chortle so true that he startled us both. We looked at each other and giggled, then burst out laughing when Malcolm repeated himself. “Oh dear!” Mrs. Burton said, drying her eyes, and then smiling at me. “You have no idea how good it is to laugh again.”

But I did. I did! I had not laughed since Grandmother’s death; nor had I felt this comfortable with another since fleeing my home. I liked and admired Mr. Burton for the man he was, but Mrs. Burton represented all I had lost with Grandmother, and I only wanted more.


THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY I was invited to join the Burtons for their Sunday dinner and there was no want of conversation. As soon as Robert served the soup, my host and hostess began to entertain me with stories of their earlier life.

Before their son was born, they had traveled to the West.

“She was fearless,” Mr. Burton said of his wife. “You should have seen her. She rode—”

“I rode astride the horse,” she interrupted. “If my parents had seen me! No sidesaddles were to be found. What freedom!” When she giggled like a young girl, I noticed Mr. Burton and Robert exchanging a smile. “Do you remember what I wore, Mr. Burton?” she asked.

“How could I forget? You wore my trousers!” he exclaimed, then addressed me. “I will never forget the sight of my young wife flying through the tall grass on that spotted Indian pony.”

“It was brown and white and went like the wind!”

Mr. Burton beamed as his wife came to life, while I moved to the edge of my chair. “Was it a true Indian pony?” I asked.

Mr. Burton nodded. “It was given to her by the Indians.”

“You actually met Indians?” They assured me they had, and my eager questions tumbled out, making our meal such a success that I was invited back.

The Burtons had lived a full life and became enlivened when they relived their stories. I was enthralled, not having imagined such lives of adventure, and I was filled with questions. Soon our Sunday dinners became routine. Increasingly, Mrs. Burton began to note aloud how similar some of my habits were to her son.

“Look, dear, how Jamie folds his hands when he speaks. That’s exactly what Gerard always did, don’t you remember?”

In the beginning Mr. Burton only nodded in reply, but gradually, he, too, made like references. With each mention I felt more included and, hungry for family, utilized every behavior to foster more of the same.

In time Mrs. Burton voiced concern that my room downstairs was too small, and though I assured her that it was fine, it was a happy surprise when, in spring of the following year, Mr. and Mrs. Burton announced that I was to move to their son’s quarters on the fourth floor.


DELIA WAS OUTRAGED when she saw Robert assisting me with the move, and she didn’t hold back. “This not right! What they doin’ puttin’ you in their boy’s room?” she said.

“Delia!” Robert stopped her. “You should be pleased that Mrs. Burton has finally cleared out Gerard’s room. Why shouldn’t James take it over?”

From the kitchen, we carried my few belongings up three flights of stairs to reach the fourth floor. I had never been to this top story of the house, and as Robert led me down the long corridor, I glanced into some of the rooms that once served as the nursery and servants’ quarters. Most of them were small and stood empty, though Gerard’s room, at the end of the hallway, was spacious. The ceiling was low, but four dormers provided plenty of light. While the white-painted room retained the furnishings of a well-appointed bedroom, Gerard’s personal belongings had been removed, and the space felt oddly empty and abandoned.

I began to have second thoughts about the move. “Robert, I don’t know if I should do this.”

“You must think of the Burtons,” he said, straightening the blue coverlet on the bed. “You have brought happiness to this household again. They are doing this to please you, and opportunities such as this don’t come often to people such as oursel—” He stopped himself. “I am always here to help you,” he added before he quickly left.

I stared after him. Did he mean to say “ourselves”? What could he have meant?

I shook off the question and perched on the edge of the bed to look about. It was the quiet that struck me; this far away from everyone, the silence felt lonely. I looked across the room at the fine dressing table and the oak desk, and then I spied the large chest-on-chest. Although others might have appreciated the beauty of the burled walnut or the nine spacious drawers, for me it offered something much more precious. The bottom drawer held a lock and a key! Finally, I had a place to keep safe my belongings from Delia’s prying eyes.