Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(46)

“You remember me!” she said with a smile.

“How could I not?” I said, pleased to see her. In the past two years we had met twice at Bartram’s expansive gardens. I remembered well her casual demeanor and lighthearted ways, which put me at ease. Because she was twenty years or so my senior, her teasing was less threatening than had she been of my age, and she laughed gaily when I uncharacteristically quipped in response to her repartee.

Now, as she gave a quick look about the shop, she let slip from her shoulders a patterned paisley shawl to expose a green day dress that snugly fit her comely figure. When she abruptly turned back, one of the many feathers from her large-brimmed hat dislodged, and we both watched it slowly float to the floor. I picked up the wayward adornment, blew it free of any dust, and presented it to her with a flourish. “Madam, your feather,” I said.

“Oh, you may keep it,” she said, laughing, “as a memento of my first visit here.”

I followed her lead and placed the feather in my waistcoat pocket, then patted it. “I shall treasure this always,” I said, smiling as I gave a small bow.

She laughed again and tapped my arm with her fan, then tilted her head as she studied me. “So! James Burton!” she said. “I’ve been hearing rumors about you.”

“You have?” I asked, and when my heart gave a sudden thud, I brushed at an imaginary spot of dust on the display case. “Are they at least interesting?”

“Well, certainly. One involves a duel!” she teased.

Surprised at her reference, I involuntarily touched my eye patch, then saw I had embarrassed her. I planted my feet firmly and deepened my voice: “Mrs. Cardon, the rumor is false! I did not lose my eye in a duel! In actuality, it was such a spectacular event that I am afraid I have forgotten the details.”

She laughed and tapped my arm again with her fan, but before she could continue, I spoke. “No, I’m afraid that you will find all of the rumors are false. Naturally, you will not be surprised to learn that I have heard rumors about you as well.”

“Oh, I am sure that you have,” she said, “but mine are all true!”

We laughed together.

“You are fun,” she said. “You must come to some of our evenings. Rumor has it,” she said, offering a sly smile, “that you are quite reclusive.”

“Yes, I will concede that is true. Mrs. Burton was an invalid, and I didn’t want to leave her,” I explained.

“I was sorry to hear of her passing,” she said.

“Thank you. I miss her a great deal.”

“Well, then, I must introduce you to my friends.”

“I would be pleased to have you do so,” I replied, knowing full well the significance. At the least, here was an answer to my business dilemma. Many were competing in the silver trade, and a client such as Mrs. Cardon would mean not only survival to my silver shop but added prestige as well.

Many times I had heard the Burtons speak of Mrs. Cardon and the power she wielded. In this large city of Philadelphia, the topmost echelon of aristocracy included only families who could trace their lineage back to the earliest Quaker settlers. They considered themselves an exclusive group and denied entry into their tight circle to those of new wealth. As a consequence, socially aspiring merchants and businessmen—those who had more recently acquired their fortunes—developed their own elite society, and it was headed by none other than Mrs. Randolph Cardon. Now she stood before me in my shop.

There was a pause as she again looked about.

“Might I show you something?” I asked.

“Actually, I came with a specific request. I have seen some of your vinaigrettes, and I would like you to craft one for my daughter. But it must be exclusive. It is a gift for her eighteenth birthday.”

“Do you have a particular design in mind?” I asked. “What are her interests?”

“Well, she likes to paint—Oh, and she is interested in anything that has to do with birds. She has a parakeet that she dotes on.”

“She likes birds?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

I thought for a moment. “I have an idea,” I said, “but it will take time, and the cost of the finished piece might be—”

Her hand brushed the air, dismissing my concern. “The cost is incidental, but you must complete it within four weeks so she will have it for her birthday.”

“I will have it done for you,” I said.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she warned.


EACH WEEK MRS. Cardon dropped in to ask about my progress. Because of our light flirtation, it was always a pleasure to see her, but the day she arrived for the completed piece, she bore a more subdued air.

I invited her into my office, a small room made smaller by the oak rolltop desk that took up a quarter of the space. The cleaning woman had left the room in good order and smelling of fresh lemon, so I seated Mrs. Cardon there before I hurried off to retrieve the package.

On my return, she was holding a miniature painting of Malcolm that had been propped on my desk. “You painted this?” she asked.

“I did,” I said.

“It is exquisite. Would you allow me to purchase it? You know how I love the others that I’ve purchased!”

But I was impatient. “Before we discuss that, I would like to show you this. Come,” I said, waving her over to the window, where I opened the small blue box in the sunlight. As I knew it would, the tiny silver parakeet gleamed against the dark blue velvet, and the small ruby in the eye of the bird sparkled. Mrs. Cardon gasped as she lifted it from the box, then opened the bird’s miniature wing to expose the ornamental grille. “Oh! Mr. Burton! It is beautiful! Caroline will love this.”