Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(34)

But to whom should I write?

I thought back to the night of my flight—when Belle, the slave woman, handed me my jacket wherein she had sewn Grandmother’s jewelry. Before I left, she had attempted an embrace and I’d quickly turned away, repulsed by the recent knowledge that she was my mother. These two years later, I still cringed at the thought.

No. I would write to Miss Lavinia. She was the one who had cared for me through the years, and it was she who tried to protect me from Marshall. And so I wrote:

Dear Miss Lavinia,

I am writing to let you know that I am well. I live in Philadelphia and I am an apprentice at a silver shop. The owner tells me I have a talent for the work and he has given me a place to stay in his home. I hope that you are well and send my kind regards.

After some indecision, I decided to sign off using my new name, James Smith.

In the morning I took the letter with me, and later in the day, while making a delivery for the silver shop, I went to the post office. There I spent some of my remaining money to arrange for a post office box before I mailed off the letter.


MRS. BURTON SUFFERED from respiratory problems, but her chief affliction was arthritis that badly affected her hips. On her difficult days, when she was bedridden, I would send her a flower or a small sketch I had done, trying to cheer her in the same way I had my grandmother. Her response was always joyful surprise, and I was encouraged to continue when Mr. Burton repeatedly told me what a happy difference those small gifts made to his wife.

After Mrs. Burton learned that I did not find her invalid status off-putting, she requested if I was available that I bring Malcolm to visit her in her bedchamber when she was confined to her bed.

I don’t recall the first time we went to see her in her rooms, but it was on a winter’s day, for I was concerned about the cold draft in the hallway and how it might affect Malcolm, who was prancing excitedly on my shoulder. When we reached her bedroom, I was relieved to find a blazing fire warming the tall-ceilinged room, and although her carved four-poster bed was oversize, the violet and green draperies added a pleasant cozy feel.

After Malcolm entertained Mrs. Burton, I found him a perch on a folding screen, and she invited me to sit in a chair beside the bed. On her bedside stand lay a book. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“Do you read well?” she asked guardedly.

“Yes, I do,” I said with assurance, for I had read aloud to Grandmother from the age of seven.

She smiled. “I’m quite particular about the way someone reads, so you must not be offended if I stop you.”

It was light women’s fiction, I don’t recall the name, but I read, enunciating carefully, as Grandmother had taught. When I stopped for a rest, Mrs. Burton sighed. “Jamie, I must tell you, you have a delightful way of reading.”

“I read to Grandmother all the time,” I said, and then, forgetting myself, I went on. “And sometimes in the evenings the servants would come and I would read to them, too.”

“That must have been wonderful,” she said.

“It was,” I agreed.

“Did you have a large library?”

“Yes,” I said, “but it all went with the fire.” I had learned that when I mentioned the fire, her questions about my past would stop, for she knew the subject was upsetting to me. In the same way, I did not mention her son unless she began to reminisce, and then I only listened.

“Well, I hope that you are making use of our library,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I would not go uninvited.”

“Young man, consider yourself invited.”

“Thank you!” I said.

“Jamie,” she said, reaching for my hand, “I want you to consider this your home.”

The look in her eyes was one of true caring, and I resolved that soon I would tell her the truth about myself.


AS TIME MOVED forward, I began to feel more and more at home. Then one night at supper, the Burtons had a disagreement; as the subject matter came to light, I grew uneasy. Their argument regarded a visit from a lawyer who had come to inform Mrs. Burton of her brother’s death. Apparently, the man never married and had left a sizable Carolina plantation to Mrs. Burton. Although it might have been a boon, after some inspection, the place was discovered to be heavily mortgaged. It would have to be sold to pay off debt.

The Burtons agreed that the estate, which included a good number of slaves, should be sold through auction. Anticipating this, the brother had made a request in his will that Mrs. Burton take special care in placing two of the house servants, a mother and daughter, who had been with him for many years. The dispute between the Burtons arose when Mr. Burton questioned if they were not obligated to make room for these two in the household. Mrs. Burton disagreed and wanted to sell them with the others.

Until this time, the subject of slavery had not been discussed. Because Delia and her brother had been given their freedom, I had assumed that the Burtons held anti-slavery views. Now, to my shock, I learned otherwise.

Mrs. Burton turned to me. “James, you said that you were raised with servants. What became of them when your grandmother died?”

I looked at her, quite stunned. “They were all sold,” I said. It was the first thought that came to mind, and though the lie came easily, I shifted uncomfortably. In fact, I had no idea what had happened to those at Tall Oaks after I left.