Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(50)

On our arrival, as planned, Phelps went to the numerous greenhouses and hothouses while I took to the gardens. It was a Tuesday, and there were few about as I ambled through the red and yellow gardens of dahlias and chrysanthemums. When I saw the river, I felt something akin to joy and hurried toward the blue water. The air was still summer-warm, and as I approached the shade of the maple and dogwood trees and saw no one about, I removed my hat. My new maid, try as she might, had no talent for dressing my hair. The pins were too tight, and I sighed with relief as I pulled them out and swung my hair loose. When I felt a tickle on my neck, I rubbed at it only to hear the buzz of an angry bee. My reaction was involuntary when, afraid of a sting, I swatted it and then fingered it from the tangle of my hair. “Oh no!” I said aloud when I found that I had killed it, for I had a particular affinity to bees. I wrapped the bee in my white handkerchief, meaning to take it home, but as I was doing so, a stern voice startled me: “And what might you be doing?”

I swung around only to be met with Mr. Burton’s teasing smile.

“Oh, it’s you!” I said in surprise.

“So, Mrs. Preston. What have I found you illegally pocketing?” he asked.

His playfulness unnerved me, and when I fanned my face with my hat, my handkerchief dropped. He stooped to pick it up.

“Be careful,” I said. “It will fall out.”

“And might I ask what treasure it holds?”

“It holds a bee. I killed it accidentally.”

“You killed it! And why would you do that? I happen to fancy bees.”

“It was in my hair,” I explained.

“Oh dear. Did it sting you?”

I fingered my neck. “No,” I said. “But I was afraid that it might. I should not have removed my hat.”

“And why did you?” he asked, his manner playful.

“Because my pins were pinching,” I said.

“Mrs. Preston, Seen in Bartram’s Gardens with Her Hat Off. I can see the newspaper headline now. The scandal of it!”

I laughed, and so did he.

“I was sitting over there, under that pine,” he said, pointing to a bench. “Would you care to join me?”

I had no reason not to do so, and after he lifted a sketchpad to make room for me, we sat together in silence, looking out over the water.

“Mrs. Preston?”

“Yes?”

“Why exactly are you keeping the bee?”

“I am taking it home to sketch it.”

“I see.”

“I would not intentionally kill a bee, but now that I have, I don’t want to waste the opportunity to use it.”

“And what is your process?”

“Well, I’ll study it first, the color, you know, and then I’ll paint it. But first I’ll draw it over and over—until I get the details right.”

“Ahh,” he said. “Like this?” He picked up his sketchpad and flipped it open to a page filled with quick sketches of a common sparrow.

“May I page through?” I asked.

He handed the pad over, and as I leafed through, I was curious to see it filled with sketches, not only of birds, as I had expected, but of pinecones and acorns and a multitude of various leaves and branches. I asked him the purpose of this.

“I hope one day to produce a small book of bird illustrations. If I am to authentically represent birds, then I must realistically display them in their natural habitat.”

“And your book would include our local birds?” I asked.

“No, my idea is to provide a handbook as a reference for those traveling down along the eastern coastline.”

“How wonderful! Is there one bird that particularly interests you?”

“I must say that I am drawn to the Carolina parakeet.”

“Oh, I love parakeets!” I said.

“I know,” he said, and his smile was so genuine that I looked away. “Your vinaigrette,” he reminded me.

“Of course!” I said, and embarrassed at my forgetfulness, I steered the conversation away. “Will your books be for sale?”

“I’m afraid I am far from that,” he answered. “Getting it into print is a very expensive proposition.”

“I would be the first to purchase one,” I said, and he laughed at my enthusiasm.

Again we looked out at the water. It took me a while to work up the courage before I addressed him. “Mr. Burton?”

“Yes?”

“I must ask, are you still willing to teach me how to paint with a pinfeather?”

He picked away a golden leaf that had fallen on his jacket sleeve. “I wondered if you were still interested,” he said.

“Oh yes, but I didn’t want to impose on your time.”

“I already teach a class on Saturday morning. It is in watercolor. Your medium?” he asked, and I nodded. “Good,” he said, “but the students use traditional brushes. If you would like, you might join that class. We can see how you do and then proceed from there.”

“That would be wonderful!” I said, but held tight to my excitement.

“I have one hesitation,” he said.

I leaned over to better see his face. “And what is that?”

“I’m afraid that it has to do with your mother. I sensed she had an objection?”