Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(45)

I went to her chair and knelt by her side. I tore free my eye patch, wanting her to see all of me. Her hand trembled when she smoothed the ridge on my face that my eye patch had made. My head pounded and tears burned my eyes.

“I must tell you—” I began.

Her hand slipped down to cover my mouth. “No,” she said. “We shall never speak of this again. Let us leave it at that.”

In relief, I dropped my head in her lap and wept, while she soothed me as a mother might her son.


BUT THE DAMAGE had been done, and because the truth was never addressed, it festered like a thorn. Where before Mrs. Burton and I were easy and relaxed around each other, now our relationship was strained, and while she became more solicitous, I, in my guilt and need, grew more distant.


THOUGH I WAS years into my art study with Mr. Leeds, I continued on as my passion for the work grew. Malcolm’s room overflowed with watercolors—miniatures, mainly—that covered every surface and were pinned to every wall. Birds were my main focus, but now I painted flora and fauna as well. I had become so adept at miniatures that Mr. Leeds suggested I consider creating a small handbook, such as Bartram’s, for amateur botanists. However, to undertake this task, travel such as Mr. Bartram had done would be required of me, and with the silver business and the responsibility of Mrs. Burton, I did not see it as a possibility.

Over the years, Mr. Leeds had become a friend to both Mrs. Burton and me, and he proved a pleasant distraction. On Sunday afternoon it became habit that, following my art instruction, he joined us for tea. Lemon-glazed pound cake was a favorite of his, so it was always served, and we were then assured of his entertaining company until the last of the cake was gone.

Thus, Mrs. Burton and I were dismayed to learn later that summer that Mr. Leeds was facing health issues and must abruptly end his teaching.

“I would like you to take over a small class that I teach in my home,” he said to me. “The students could benefit from what I have taught you.”

“But I am not qualified! I know so little—”

He laughed aloud. “I believe that some would say otherwise,” he said, referring to the two sales I had made recently. They were small pinfeather renderings and had sold for quite a sum. “I think teaching would benefit you as well,” he added.

“Is it a watercolor class? Would the students be using sable brushes?”

“Of course! What? You thought I meant that you should teach them to work with a pinfeather? Good luck to find students with that kind of talent!”

“Why don’t you consider it, James?” Mrs. Burton asked enthusiastically. “You could hold the classes where you do your work now—up in Malcolm’s room. It is large enough, and it would be nice to bring new life into this house.”

And so, because it offered Mrs. Burton and me a further distraction on a Sunday afternoon, I accepted.


I WAS RIGHT to do so, for the art classes proved a boon to our strained relationship. My adopted mother knew many of the students’ families, and their family histories were often a topic of conversation for us. In time we grew more comfortable again with each other, though we never did recover the intimacy we once had, for neither of us could cross the divide: she, who needed to deny the truth, and I, who longed to have her accept it and love me for it.

There is one deep regret I carry from that time. On a number of occasions Mrs. Burton asked me to clear out Mr. Burton’s rooms and to take them as my own, but I always declined. Was I punishing her, or did I not want to feel more the imposter than I already did? I still do not have the answer. However, when Robert came to me on September 4, 1824, to tell me that Mrs. Burton had unexpectedly passed away during the night, I was grief-stricken.

I had loved her as a mother, and though she had put forth her best effort to love me as a son, a difference existed after she learned the truth from Delia. Yet I did not hold her responsible; how could I blame her for an inability to love the part of me that I, too, loathed?





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


1824–1828


James


THOUGH I HAD inherited everything and the house was mine, months passed before Robert could persuade me to move down to Mr. Burton’s quarters. I knew the sense of it, but I felt an intruder and relented only after Robert convinced me how much easier it would be for the household staff to serve me.

When we went down to look over Mr. Burton’s rooms, I wondered aloud if the house was perhaps too large and too elegant for me.

Robert frowned. “And why would you not be suited for this home? The Burtons chose you as their son, and as their heir, you must claim it.”

Because he believed it, I tried to convince myself to do the same.


THE WINTER WAS long and lonely, and I spent so much time at work that I grew weary of it all. Then, in the spring of 1825, a woman swept through the door of my silver shop and demanded to see the proprietor.

Nicholas summoned me from my back office, where I had been looking over the accounts. After Christmas, work had fallen off, and though I knew I should find a way to encourage more business, with both Mr. and Mrs. Burton gone, building the business no longer interested me.

When I came out, I immediately recognized the visitor. “Mrs. Cardon!” I exclaimed in surprise and walked around to greet her. I had met this socially prominent woman through Mr. Leeds, a longtime friend of the Cardons. It was she who had purchased the two paintings of mine.