Malcolm, seeking attention, gave a human chortle so true that he startled us both. We looked at each other and giggled, then burst out laughing when Malcolm repeated himself. “Oh dear!” Mrs. Burton said, drying her eyes, and then smiling at me. “You have no idea how good it is to laugh again.”
But I did. I did! I had not laughed since Grandmother’s death; nor had I felt this comfortable with another since fleeing my home. I liked and admired Mr. Burton for the man he was, but Mrs. Burton represented all I had lost with Grandmother, and I only wanted more.
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY I was invited to join the Burtons for their Sunday dinner and there was no want of conversation. As soon as Robert served the soup, my host and hostess began to entertain me with stories of their earlier life.
Before their son was born, they had traveled to the West.
“She was fearless,” Mr. Burton said of his wife. “You should have seen her. She rode—”
“I rode astride the horse,” she interrupted. “If my parents had seen me! No sidesaddles were to be found. What freedom!” When she giggled like a young girl, I noticed Mr. Burton and Robert exchanging a smile. “Do you remember what I wore, Mr. Burton?” she asked.
“How could I forget? You wore my trousers!” he exclaimed, then addressed me. “I will never forget the sight of my young wife flying through the tall grass on that spotted Indian pony.”
“It was brown and white and went like the wind!”
Mr. Burton beamed as his wife came to life, while I moved to the edge of my chair. “Was it a true Indian pony?” I asked.
Mr. Burton nodded. “It was given to her by the Indians.”
“You actually met Indians?” They assured me they had, and my eager questions tumbled out, making our meal such a success that I was invited back.
The Burtons had lived a full life and became enlivened when they relived their stories. I was enthralled, not having imagined such lives of adventure, and I was filled with questions. Soon our Sunday dinners became routine. Increasingly, Mrs. Burton began to note aloud how similar some of my habits were to her son.
“Look, dear, how Jamie folds his hands when he speaks. That’s exactly what Gerard always did, don’t you remember?”
In the beginning Mr. Burton only nodded in reply, but gradually, he, too, made like references. With each mention I felt more included and, hungry for family, utilized every behavior to foster more of the same.
In time Mrs. Burton voiced concern that my room downstairs was too small, and though I assured her that it was fine, it was a happy surprise when, in spring of the following year, Mr. and Mrs. Burton announced that I was to move to their son’s quarters on the fourth floor.
DELIA WAS OUTRAGED when she saw Robert assisting me with the move, and she didn’t hold back. “This not right! What they doin’ puttin’ you in their boy’s room?” she said.
“Delia!” Robert stopped her. “You should be pleased that Mrs. Burton has finally cleared out Gerard’s room. Why shouldn’t James take it over?”
From the kitchen, we carried my few belongings up three flights of stairs to reach the fourth floor. I had never been to this top story of the house, and as Robert led me down the long corridor, I glanced into some of the rooms that once served as the nursery and servants’ quarters. Most of them were small and stood empty, though Gerard’s room, at the end of the hallway, was spacious. The ceiling was low, but four dormers provided plenty of light. While the white-painted room retained the furnishings of a well-appointed bedroom, Gerard’s personal belongings had been removed, and the space felt oddly empty and abandoned.
I began to have second thoughts about the move. “Robert, I don’t know if I should do this.”
“You must think of the Burtons,” he said, straightening the blue coverlet on the bed. “You have brought happiness to this household again. They are doing this to please you, and opportunities such as this don’t come often to people such as oursel—” He stopped himself. “I am always here to help you,” he added before he quickly left.
I stared after him. Did he mean to say “ourselves”? What could he have meant?
I shook off the question and perched on the edge of the bed to look about. It was the quiet that struck me; this far away from everyone, the silence felt lonely. I looked across the room at the fine dressing table and the oak desk, and then I spied the large chest-on-chest. Although others might have appreciated the beauty of the burled walnut or the nine spacious drawers, for me it offered something much more precious. The bottom drawer held a lock and a key! Finally, I had a place to keep safe my belongings from Delia’s prying eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1810–1812
James
FOLLOWING MY MOVE upstairs to Gerard’s quarters, I came to dread the night. I had difficulty falling asleep, and when I did, nightmares were so vivid that I often woke myself calling out. Afraid to go back to sleep, I sat up late into the night, but in that state of fatigue, memories that I fought off during the day more easily broke through.
I was eight years old when, for the first time, I realized how Marshall hated me. It was a pleasant June day, and our small household was outdoors, enjoying a picnic under the large oak that stood back from the big house. It was unusual for Mother—that is, Grandmother—to be outdoors, but her daughter-in-law, Marshall’s wife, Lavinia, had convinced her to enjoy the pleasant weather.
At this early age, I was infatuated with Miss Lavinia. That day she leaned down to place a large book in my lap, and when I couldn’t resist touching a strand of her red silky hair that brushed against my face, she smiled, took my hand, and kissed it. It was her gentleness that made the abuse she later suffered under Marshall so upsetting to me.
“Jamie dear,” she said, “this is for you. I ordered it months ago for your birthday, but it has only just arrived.”
I read the title aloud. “The Illustration of Birds.”
“How lovely, dear,” Grandmother said to her as I opened the book to stare at the pages.
Miss Lavinia patted my head. “I’ve never known anyone to be so taken with birds as our dear Jamie.”
“It’s the perfect gift. I wish I had thought of it,” said Grandmother.
“But Mother, I loved the watercolors you gave me,” I said, quick to reassure her so as not to have her upset. She reached down to where I was seated next to her chair and pushed back a lock of my hair that had fallen on my forehead. “I would give you the world if I could,” she said, looking deep into my eyes.
I smiled up at her and waited until she sat back. Only then did I dare turn my attention back to the book—the one that in time became my most treasured possession.
But the memory darkens with Marshall’s sudden appearance. We seldom saw him, for he was away much of the time. A tall, imposing man, he wore a permanent frown, and if he had a pleasant word to say, I never heard it. Until my final year at Tall Oaks, the year I killed him, I mistakenly believed he was my brother, while to him I must have been a miserable reminder of his unnatural coupling with a Negro servant.
Lavinia stiffened on her husband’s approach. Marshall’s disapproving glance went straight to Sukey, Miss Lavinia’s much loved servant, who sat on our blanket alongside her mistress.
“Get her up,” he began. “Teach her to stand when I—”
“Please stand, Sukey,” Miss Lavinia quickly instructed. The young Negro girl leaped to her feet.
Marshall turned toward his mother. “Wine so soon in the day, Mother?” he asked.
“It helps my nerves, dear,” Grandmother said, but her voice quavered and I hated him for how he frightened her.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m sure it does.” When his look finally settled on me, it was with such loathing that I turned toward Grandmother. What had I done? Why did he hate me so?
“And what in God’s name is he doing here?” he asked. When he took a step toward me, Grandmother reached for my arm, and though her fingers dug in, I was so frightened that I didn’t object.