Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(40)

MR. BURTON LINGERED for almost a year, and during that time I did my best to support both him and Mrs. Burton. As well, I worked diligently to keep the silver business afloat. Nicholas and I struggled to fill the orders, but at the beginning of January 1816, when Mr. Burton’s health began to decline more rapidly, he spoke to me privately. “James, you must know that I’ll never return to the shop.”

I dropped my head. I didn’t want to have this conversation, but I knew it was necessary. Mr. Burton’s color had become an unhealthy gray, and the night before, when I had assisted him into bed, he had felt remarkably light.

“You must get some help for Nicholas,” he said. “I would like to have you around here a little more.”

I did as he requested, and in the next weeks Nicholas and the new man kept the shop running while I did my best to attend to the needs of both Mr. and Mrs. Burton. I had never cared for another man as I did for Mr. Burton and felt helpless as I watched him grow weaker every day.

Always, Robert was there to lend his support.


I WAS ALONE with Mr. Burton the night he passed away. He had been in a weakened state for days, yet this night was no different from the others. After Mrs. Burton went to her rooms for the evening, Mr. Burton reached out for me. “Sit next to me where I can reach you,” he said, his breathing sounding moist. I moved my chair close to the bed and took his hand in mine.

“Son. Take care of your mother,” he said, and later that hour he gave a final sigh. I was so stunned that it took me a while to understand he had left, but when I did, I dropped his lifeless hand and raced out to find Robert. On our return, the room felt cold and empty. My father was gone. I fell to my knees at his bedside, and though I was nineteen years of age, I sobbed like a child.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


1817–1824


James


IN THE MONTHS following Mr. Burton’s death, I was pulled under by a deep lethargy. Though I fought to free myself, I was left with such an exhaustion that I did not notice spring unfold. Every day I had to push myself to go in to the shop at the required hour. Once there, I might resume work on a silver piece but would soon lose interest. Offering the excuse of having to tend to Mrs. Burton, I would leave, turning the responsibility of the business over to Nicholas and the recently hired Mr. Taylor.

On my return home, the house was always quiet. Robert would immediately make himself available to me, but I would brush him off, and though I occasionally caught a glimpse of Delia, even my hatred of her was diminished in my grief.

In those long months, Mrs. Burton stayed to her room, but by the beginning of summer I began to find her in the back parlor, visiting with a neighbor, another widow, Mrs. Miller. One afternoon I came home to find the two of them playing cards. This soon became their habit, and though the two always invited me to join them in their games, after a brief appearance I would excuse myself. Then I would manage a short visit with Malcolm before I dragged myself to my room to lie down on the bed and sleep, only to wake as tired as before.

Because of my obligation to Mrs. Burton, I roused myself at suppertime, but where food was her comfort, it now repelled me. As my clothes began to fall loose around my thinning frame, Mrs. Burton became alarmed. “Something is not right with you, Jamie,” she said. “Are you ill? Shall I call in Dr. Holland?”

“No!” I said. “It is just that my appetite is off.”

“But you seem to require so much sleep,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

I took her hand in mine. “Truly, I don’t feel sick. I’m just tired. It will pass.”

“But I worry about you. You are still so young,” she said, “and you’ve had to take on so much responsibility. It might sound silly, but Mrs. Miller has been teaching me to play whist, and it has been such a boon to my spirits. Perhaps you need an outside interest. I have been thinking. You were always so happy when you were painting, but you haven’t done it since . . . well . . . Why don’t you consider taking an art class? We always spoke of it, but you’ve never had the opportunity.”

“An art class?” I knew she meant to help, but the idea of drawing and painting—something that had always given me joy—now held no appeal.

“Yes, an art class! Mrs. Miller was telling me yesterday of her association with the Peale family. I am going to ask her if they would recommend an instructor,” she said.

Too tired to argue, I abandoned the discussion, for I was certain that the Peale family, well known for their illustrious art careers, would have little concern for someone such as myself. But I had not taken into consideration the determination of these two women. By the next Sunday, a warm day in August, they had arranged for Mr. Leeds, an accomplished art instructor, to join Mrs. Burton and me for tea.

He arrived late, a tall lanky man, shaggy in appearance, and older than we expected. “Hello there!” he greeted us awkwardly when Robert brought him to the front parlor. He bowed formally to Mrs. Burton, then scooped his long gray hair back behind his ears before he yanked high each trouser leg and took a seat.

Small talk was not for him; the awkward silences were broken only by the slurping noises that he made while sipping his hot tea. To Mrs. Burton’s credit, she tried every avenue of conversation, only to be met with one or two words of reply. I was hoping he would soon leave, for I saw no purpose in this and was following through only to satisfy Mrs. Burton.