Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(42)

My thumb felt overlarge when I flipped open the monogrammed lid to examine the delicately punched grille. I sniffed it. “Whew! That holds a strong punch!” I held back the tiny box, which sent up a strong orange-vinegar scent. The two women laughed at my exaggeration, but indeed, the saturated piece of sponge tucked inside held a pungent enough smell to mask strong odors or bring a woman around if she felt faint.

“I carry it when I travel on the streets,” said Mrs. Miller. “Especially in the summer. You know how foul the odors can be.”

“I do,” I said, pleased that I had not missed Mrs. Burton’s delight in the piece. Her birthday was coming, and I decided that she must have a fine vinaigrette of her own.

Had I not been working in miniature with Mr. Leeds, I doubt that I would have attempted the task, but I drew a design and showed it to Mr. Taylor, the most skilled of us at crafting silver.

“You must be precise, but you can do it,” he said, giving me the confidence I lacked.

Crafting the tiny box was not a challenge, but punching a dogwood design around the engraved image on the small cover was delicate work, and a steady hand was needed to solder the tiny hinges onto the grille. But it was worth the effort, for when I presented it to Mrs. Burton, she cried out in delight.

Naturally, she showed the treasure to her new circle of card-playing friends, and they were as taken with the trinket as she was. Days later, orders began to come. Because of the skill and time required to create each one, we priced the tiny boxes accordingly, but that did not deter these women. It only made the Burton-stamped vinaigrette more sought after and our silver business grew.


AFTER A YEAR of mourning, Mrs. Burton began to encourage me to accept some of the invitations that came our way. “I cannot go because of my health,” she said, “but you must accept. How else will you meet others your own age?” Initially, I refused, but as a result of her insistence, I reluctantly attended a late supper held at the home of a family friend.

It was a long evening, for I was unfamiliar and therefore uncomfortable with others of my age. The men I found to be immature and pompous, while the women were much too gay and teasing, and their open attentions embarrassed me.

The next day word came back through Mrs. Miller, who was something of a gossip, that though I was thought of as conceited, the women considered me intriguing and attractive. “I also heard that after you left, someone said you had lost your eye in a duel, and you can only imagine how romantic the women found that!” she said.

“But that is not what happened,” I said.

She laughed. “Oh, dear boy, it matters not. A rumor has begun, and it will stand.” She picked up her red shawl, and before I could offer my help, she flung it around her wide shoulders. “And now I must go,” she said.

“But surely . . .” Mrs. Burton called after her, ready as ever to defend me, but I shook my head and took the chair next to her.

“Now you see why I prefer to spend my evenings here with you,” I said.

She reached her hand out for mine. “But Jamie, you are young. You should be around others your age.”

I kissed her hand. “I like our routine. I look forward to our early supper and then to your company while I paint. I don’t need others. I have you, I have Malcolm, I have the business, and I have my art. It is a good life.”

Her look of affection filled me. “How fortunate I am to have you,” she said.

“And I, you,” I said, and the next few years passed quietly. Though Delia remained in the household, we seldom saw each other, and while she kept a wide berth of me, so, too, did I of her.


IN THE EARLY spring of 1822, Mrs. Burton, against my objections, began to plan a celebration of my birthday.

“Dearest! You are going to be twenty-five years old! At this rate I will never see a grandchild. It is time you met a young lady, and it appears that it is up to me to provide the opportunity,” she said. Although her comment was said in a lighthearted way, it was not the first time she had expressed a desire for me to carry on the Burton name.

I felt some guilt whenever this subject came up; naturally, I had not told her that marriage, for me, was not a consideration. Given my ancestry, I would never chance having a child. I remembered well when, during one of my last years at Tall Oaks, the wife of a nearby plantation owner gave birth to a baby with Negroid features. When it was learned that a light-skinned house servant was the father, it was rumored that the child was murdered, and in despair, the mother took her own life.

That scandal happened when my grandmother’s sister, Mrs. Madden, was visiting from Williamsburg, and her adamant declaration had stayed with me: “It only proves that no matter how light-skinned they might be, Negro blood will always show through!” How credible her comment was I did not know, but I had no intention of testing it.

However, I agreed to the birthday celebration. I had noted during the long winter that Mrs. Burton’s spirits appeared to be flagging, and I hoped that a small gathering would give her something to look forward to. But the planning had no sooner begun than Robert was taken very ill with fever, and everything came to an abrupt halt.

Because of the yellow fever epidemic that had taken her son, Mrs. Burton feared the worst and begged me to keep my distance from Robert’s sickbed. I did so for two days but finally went to visit, hoping to find him improved. Instead I found food and water set outside Robert’s door, where he was too ill to access it. Inflamed, I strode to the kitchen, where I found Delia.