Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(51)
I sat back. “I am not a child, and I do not need her permission.”
When he laughed, his face wrinkled in a most pleasant way. “No, you are not a child. Quite the opposite,” he said. “But I’m afraid that I was only thinking of protecting myself. Your mother can be quite formidable.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Leave her to me, Mr. Burton,” I said. “I will see to it that you come through this unscathed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1828–1829
Caroline
ON A SATURDAY morning, at the early hour of ten o’clock, I entered the foyer of Mr. Burton’s home. There, to my dismay, I discovered that I was the only woman attending his class and that the three other young male students were from the university. I felt so intimidated that I would have left had not Robert, the butler, already begun to lead our small group up the stairwell. As we made our way through the rather dark house, my tension increased. What had I done! What had I been thinking!
I was getting ready to bolt when Robert ushered us into a room so charming that at once I relaxed. The walls were painted my favorite shade of yellow, and when Robert drew back the blue and white draperies, light filled the room. It streamed onto an old pine table loaded down with pints of water, glass jars filled with upended brushes, ceramic palettes, and boxes and boxes of paint cubes. Heaven!
The other students, after selecting supplies, made their way to the easels. As I moved in and gaped about, I tripped on the heavy canvas cloth that covered the dark oak floor, but I saved myself when I grabbed hold of the fireplace mantel. In an effort to cover my clumsiness, I leaned in to smell the sweet fragrance of the yellow roses that poked out from the fingers of a quintal. At that moment Mr. Burton entered with a large white cockatoo perched on his shoulder.
Previously, I had been as curious as any about his black eye patch, but this day it only lent to his handsomeness. He was a tall man, well proportioned, and his close-fitting waistcoat, patterned in blue and black, was set off by his white shirt and his black cravat. I wished I had worn something more attractive than my dark navy day dress.
He paused when he saw me, then turned toward the students when they hailed him. What he might have said or done next, I know not, for the entire room was distracted when his bird lifted off and flew to my shoulder. There, testing me, the bird gave a small nip to my ear.
I tapped his beak, as I had learned to do with my own spoiled pet. “No!” I said in a firm tone. “I don’t like that.”
The bird cocked his head to look at me. Miffed that I had corrected him, he flew to a perch by the window and from there squawked out for all to hear, “Naughty boy!”
“You are a naughty boy,” I said quickly, and all the young men laughed.
Mr. Burton was not amused and came forward. “Did he hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” I said, cupping my ear with my hand, for I guessed it was red.
Mr. Burton looked uncertain.
“I’m fine,” I reassured him. “I am familiar with birds. I have Rodger, my own parakeet. He, too, can be quite naughty,” I said, smiling.
Just then a young colored boy entered the room carrying a large blue bowl of red and green apples. “Pan!” the students all greeted him enthusiastically, and his large brown eyes sparkled in response.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Burton encouraged him, and the boy carefully made his way to the front, where he placed the full bowl on a table set up to be used as a prop for a still life. Next to me, Mr. Burton spoke quietly: “Mrs. Preston, if you would please take what you need from the table and go to an easel, our class will begin.”
I FEARED I would not be skilled enough to keep up with my classmates, but in the weeks to follow, I was happy to see that I could hold my own. Meanwhile, though he knew of my earlier studies, Mr. Burton expressed surprise at my talent, and I privately reveled in his praise.
However, I was disappointed to find that he was not the same man he had been that day in Bartram’s gardens. In the classroom he held himself back, not only from me but also from his students. Perhaps because of that, we all worked hard to earn his praise.
THE ART CLASS soon became the focus of my week. Here I lost myself in the joy of painting, and the time flew by. Yet it was not only art that drew me to Mr. Burton’s home.
At my home, Mr. Preston’s comments about my art were so disparaging that I increasingly kept it from him. My marriage had failed so desperately that my husband and I scarcely managed civility with each other. Mr. Preston cared no more for me than I for him, and we had not been intimate since early on in the marriage, when I had found him in a compromised position with another man. However, bound together as we were, we continued to make the required social rounds, where his inevitable inebriation and resulting behavior left us both humiliated.
At these affairs, Mr. Burton and I were cordial, though I was ever careful to hold myself at a distance. Yet there were moments during these events, inescapable moments when our eyes met, and what passed between us was so powerful that I was often left profoundly shaken.
This tension, this draw, followed us into the classroom, but as it grew for me, he became more aloof. I held myself in check, but when I was away from him, I spent hours imagining that he longed for me as I did him. In those hours I traced his mouth with my fingers and imagined his smile as he clasped my hand and then kissed me.