Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(33)

CHAPTER ELEVEN


1810–1812


James


FOLLOWING MY MOVE upstairs to Gerard’s quarters, I came to dread the night. I had difficulty falling asleep, and when I did, nightmares were so vivid that I often woke myself calling out. Afraid to go back to sleep, I sat up late into the night, but in that state of fatigue, memories that I fought off during the day more easily broke through.

I was eight years old when, for the first time, I realized how Marshall hated me. It was a pleasant June day, and our small household was outdoors, enjoying a picnic under the large oak that stood back from the big house. It was unusual for Mother—that is, Grandmother—to be outdoors, but her daughter-in-law, Marshall’s wife, Lavinia, had convinced her to enjoy the pleasant weather.

At this early age, I was infatuated with Miss Lavinia. That day she leaned down to place a large book in my lap, and when I couldn’t resist touching a strand of her red silky hair that brushed against my face, she smiled, took my hand, and kissed it. It was her gentleness that made the abuse she later suffered under Marshall so upsetting to me.

“Jamie dear,” she said, “this is for you. I ordered it months ago for your birthday, but it has only just arrived.”

I read the title aloud. “The Illustration of Birds.”

“How lovely, dear,” Grandmother said to her as I opened the book to stare at the pages.

Miss Lavinia patted my head. “I’ve never known anyone to be so taken with birds as our dear Jamie.”

“It’s the perfect gift. I wish I had thought of it,” said Grandmother.

“But Mother, I loved the watercolors you gave me,” I said, quick to reassure her so as not to have her upset. She reached down to where I was seated next to her chair and pushed back a lock of my hair that had fallen on my forehead. “I would give you the world if I could,” she said, looking deep into my eyes.

I smiled up at her and waited until she sat back. Only then did I dare turn my attention back to the book—the one that in time became my most treasured possession.

But the memory darkens with Marshall’s sudden appearance. We seldom saw him, for he was away much of the time. A tall, imposing man, he wore a permanent frown, and if he had a pleasant word to say, I never heard it. Until my final year at Tall Oaks, the year I killed him, I mistakenly believed he was my brother, while to him I must have been a miserable reminder of his unnatural coupling with a Negro servant.

Lavinia stiffened on her husband’s approach. Marshall’s disapproving glance went straight to Sukey, Miss Lavinia’s much loved servant, who sat on our blanket alongside her mistress.

“Get her up,” he began. “Teach her to stand when I—”

“Please stand, Sukey,” Miss Lavinia quickly instructed. The young Negro girl leaped to her feet.

Marshall turned toward his mother. “Wine so soon in the day, Mother?” he asked.

“It helps my nerves, dear,” Grandmother said, but her voice quavered and I hated him for how he frightened her.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m sure it does.” When his look finally settled on me, it was with such loathing that I turned toward Grandmother. What had I done? Why did he hate me so?

“And what in God’s name is he doing here?” he asked. When he took a step toward me, Grandmother reached for my arm, and though her fingers dug in, I was so frightened that I didn’t object.

At once Lavinia was on her feet, shaking out her skirts and standing to obstruct Marshall’s view of me. “Marshall, won’t you join us? I’ll have the children leave. Please stay and have some of our cake?”

We had been having such fun. I hated to hear the strain in her voice. I resolved again that when I was grown, I would send this miserable brother of mine away from the place.

“I don’t eat with nigras!” Marshall spat out, and he glared at me with such vehemence that I shrank back. He left as quickly as he had come, but Grandmother’s nerves were so affected that she needed to go back to her bedroom for a strong dose of laudanum.

I was always relieved when the medicine put her to sleep, for I dreaded the times when her nerves took over. Her terror frightened me. As everyone scurried about trying to calm her, I retreated into my own world with my pencils and paints. There I sketched and colored, imagining myself in a forest, while convincing myself that Grandmother’s screams were nothing more than the cries of a foreign bird.

Now, as memories surfaced in the still of Gerard’s room, I spent nights of agony wondering if Grandmother had cried out like that when she died in the fire.

Finally, one such night I remembered my paints, and from then on, when plagued by memory, I would throw myself from the bed to sketch and paint. The distraction was so calming that when sleep did come, I almost always dreamed I was a bird in flight, with the sun warming my back and a gentle breeze cradling me in the air.


ON THE EVE of my fifteenth birthday, in February 1812, I awoke suddenly in the night to find myself drenched from a night terror. As I changed my nightshirt, I remembered that it was my birthday, and with that thought I remembered other birthdays celebrated at Tall Oaks. As pleasant memories came, my heart constricted with homesickness.

I felt a tug of guilt, for on the night of my departure, I had promised to send a note to my family to let them know of my safe arrival. Until now I hadn’t done so, for I had been too afraid. Henry had cautioned me repeatedly to cut all ties to home, insisting that patrollers would be on the lookout. To reinforce this, he told me stories of runaways who were caught and returned to their owners after many years of hiding out. Thus, I hadn’t dared send a letter, fearing that somehow it might be traced back to the Burtons. However, I had learned recently that I could obtain a post office box in my name, and given that anonymity, I felt it safe to make contact.