Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(41)

Finally, alone in her struggle for conversation, Mrs. Burton grew anxious enough to resort to personal questions. “It is too bad that Mrs. Leeds could not join us today,” she said.

“I am not married,” he said. “Never have been.”

“I see,” she said, and shot me a look of such desperation that I rallied.

“Mrs. Miller tells us that your work is on display at the Peale Museum?” I asked.

He nodded once. “A few watercolors of leaves,” he said, then added, “and some pinned bugs.”

“Bugs?” Mrs. Burton asked, clearly hoping to keep the conversation going.

“Bugs,” he repeated. “They were dead,” he said, as though to assure her. He looked at me. “Have you been there? Have you seen them?”

“No,” I said. Of course I knew about the famous Peale Museum, but I had never been. It was a place that Mr. Burton and I had planned to visit, but our work at the silver shop had always taken priority.

With the mention of his work, Mr. Leeds came to life. After draining his teacup, he set it down with a clink, pushed up the sleeves of his ill-fitting brown jacket, then reached down for the portfolio that rested alongside his chair. Balancing the tattered leather thing on his lap, he untied a ratty cord, then rifled through some pages before he selected and handed over a small watercolor. “Here, take a look,” he said.

I glanced at it, unprepared, and gasped aloud. It was black beetle depicted on a decaying log, painted with such detail, such vibrancy, that it might have been alive. It was such a true likeness that I wanted to touch it, to feel the movement. I looked up at him. “How did you do this? How did you achieve such detail?” I asked.

His gray eyes lit up. “I used a pinfeather. When I work in miniature, a pinfeather is best suited for that purpose,” he began, and my interest stirred.

“A pinfeather?” I asked.

“Yes. Of a woodcock. I use the feather itself.”

“But isn’t that awfully small?”

He smiled a crooked smile. “That’s the challenge.”

At Mrs. Burton’s insistence, I brought forth my now primitive-looking sketches of Malcolm and handed them over for examination. “I am fond of painting birds,” I said.

Mr. Leeds took his time, sorting through my work. “You have ability,” he finally announced, “but if you are to study with me, you must start at the beginning.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You need to study form,” he said.

“Form?” I asked. “But it is the colors that I need help with. And I would like to learn to work in miniature, as you do.”

“That will come in time. But first you must study form.”

“But it is color that I—”

“Then do as you wish,” he said. He slipped his work into the portfolio and stood.

Mrs. Burton looked at me helplessly. As frustrated as I was, I did not want this opportunity to pass. I rose and stood as tall as he. “Mr. Leeds, I will do what you ask me to do.”

He looked me over as though trying to decide if I was worth the effort. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.

I looked to Mrs. Burton, and she nodded quickly. “Yes,” I said.

“Then meet me at Bartram’s gardens. You’ve been there?”

“No,” I said, “I’ve never been to his gardens, but I have his book of travels at my bedside.” I didn’t tell him that this prized leather-bound book was worn from use. Before Mr. Burton’s death, I had picked up the book nightly to read the accounts of the botanist’s travels. Not only had William Bartram, a now famous botanist, written a fascinating account of his botanical explorations, but as well had included beautiful drawings of the plants and birds he had seen. In fact he had inspired a fantasy of mine wherein I imagined doing something of the same.

Mr. Leeds’s white eyebrows lifted. “You’ve never been to Bartram’s gardens?”

“No,” I said, made uneasy by his incredulous look.

“He has had too many responsibilities to take leisure time for himself,” Mrs. Burton said defensively, and I gave her a grateful glance.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said to me, before offering a stiff bow of departure to Mrs. Burton. As he walked away, we both noted his white ankle poking through a hole in his bright blue stocking.


VISITING BARTRAM’S ESTATE was only one of many outings that I enjoyed with Mr. Leeds. In time, this eccentric but talented man taught me how to paint with a sable brush and then how to work in miniature with a woodcock’s pinfeather. It was a relatively uncommon art form but one I had a talent for, and I became most dedicated to it.

As for my lethargy, after the first few weeks under the instructor’s tutelage, Mrs. Burton noted happily how my energy had reappeared. And she was right.


I SOON FOUND that Mr. Leeds’s insistence on paying attention to detail began to influence my work at the silver shop. Before, I had been satisfied to produce a solid and functional silver piece, but now I sought to enhance my work with detail.

A challenge presented itself the day Mrs. Burton called me into the back parlor, where she was playing cards with Mrs. Miller.

“Look,” she said, “isn’t this lovely? Have you ever seen such a fine vinaigrette?” She handed over a tiny silver box that measured no more than an inch long and three quarters of an inch wide. “Mrs. Miller had it sent from England,” she said.