He arrived late, a tall lanky man, shaggy in appearance, and older than we expected. “Hello there!” he greeted us awkwardly when Robert brought him to the front parlor. He bowed formally to Mrs. Burton, then scooped his long gray hair back behind his ears before he yanked high each trouser leg and took a seat.
Small talk was not for him; the awkward silences were broken only by the slurping noises that he made while sipping his hot tea. To Mrs. Burton’s credit, she tried every avenue of conversation, only to be met with one or two words of reply. I was hoping he would soon leave, for I saw no purpose in this and was following through only to satisfy Mrs. Burton.
Finally, alone in her struggle for conversation, Mrs. Burton grew anxious enough to resort to personal questions. “It is too bad that Mrs. Leeds could not join us today,” she said.
“I am not married,” he said. “Never have been.”
“I see,” she said, and shot me a look of such desperation that I rallied.
“Mrs. Miller tells us that your work is on display at the Peale Museum?” I asked.
He nodded once. “A few watercolors of leaves,” he said, then added, “and some pinned bugs.”
“Bugs?” Mrs. Burton asked, clearly hoping to keep the conversation going.
“Bugs,” he repeated. “They were dead,” he said, as though to assure her. He looked at me. “Have you been there? Have you seen them?”
“No,” I said. Of course I knew about the famous Peale Museum, but I had never been. It was a place that Mr. Burton and I had planned to visit, but our work at the silver shop had always taken priority.
With the mention of his work, Mr. Leeds came to life. After draining his teacup, he set it down with a clink, pushed up the sleeves of his ill-fitting brown jacket, then reached down for the portfolio that rested alongside his chair. Balancing the tattered leather thing on his lap, he untied a ratty cord, then rifled through some pages before he selected and handed over a small watercolor. “Here, take a look,” he said.
I glanced at it, unprepared, and gasped aloud. It was black beetle depicted on a decaying log, painted with such detail, such vibrancy, that it might have been alive. It was such a true likeness that I wanted to touch it, to feel the movement. I looked up at him. “How did you do this? How did you achieve such detail?” I asked.
His gray eyes lit up. “I used a pinfeather. When I work in miniature, a pinfeather is best suited for that purpose,” he began, and my interest stirred.
“A pinfeather?” I asked.
“Yes. Of a woodcock. I use the feather itself.”
“But isn’t that awfully small?”
He smiled a crooked smile. “That’s the challenge.”
At Mrs. Burton’s insistence, I brought forth my now primitive-looking sketches of Malcolm and handed them over for examination. “I am fond of painting birds,” I said.
Mr. Leeds took his time, sorting through my work. “You have ability,” he finally announced, “but if you are to study with me, you must start at the beginning.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You need to study form,” he said.
“Form?” I asked. “But it is the colors that I need help with. And I would like to learn to work in miniature, as you do.”
“That will come in time. But first you must study form.”
“But it is color that I—”
“Then do as you wish,” he said. He slipped his work into the portfolio and stood.
Mrs. Burton looked at me helplessly. As frustrated as I was, I did not want this opportunity to pass. I rose and stood as tall as he. “Mr. Leeds, I will do what you ask me to do.”
He looked me over as though trying to decide if I was worth the effort. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.
I looked to Mrs. Burton, and she nodded quickly. “Yes,” I said.
“Then meet me at Bartram’s gardens. You’ve been there?”
“No,” I said, “I’ve never been to his gardens, but I have his book of travels at my bedside.” I didn’t tell him that this prized leather-bound book was worn from use. Before Mr. Burton’s death, I had picked up the book nightly to read the accounts of the botanist’s travels. Not only had William Bartram, a now famous botanist, written a fascinating account of his botanical explorations, but as well had included beautiful drawings of the plants and birds he had seen. In fact he had inspired a fantasy of mine wherein I imagined doing something of the same.
Mr. Leeds’s white eyebrows lifted. “You’ve never been to Bartram’s gardens?”
“No,” I said, made uneasy by his incredulous look.
“He has had too many responsibilities to take leisure time for himself,” Mrs. Burton said defensively, and I gave her a grateful glance.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said to me, before offering a stiff bow of departure to Mrs. Burton. As he walked away, we both noted his white ankle poking through a hole in his bright blue stocking.
VISITING BARTRAM’S ESTATE was only one of many outings that I enjoyed with Mr. Leeds. In time, this eccentric but talented man taught me how to paint with a sable brush and then how to work in miniature with a woodcock’s pinfeather. It was a relatively uncommon art form but one I had a talent for, and I became most dedicated to it.
As for my lethargy, after the first few weeks under the instructor’s tutelage, Mrs. Burton noted happily how my energy had reappeared. And she was right.
I SOON FOUND that Mr. Leeds’s insistence on paying attention to detail began to influence my work at the silver shop. Before, I had been satisfied to produce a solid and functional silver piece, but now I sought to enhance my work with detail.
A challenge presented itself the day Mrs. Burton called me into the back parlor, where she was playing cards with Mrs. Miller.
“Look,” she said, “isn’t this lovely? Have you ever seen such a fine vinaigrette?” She handed over a tiny silver box that measured no more than an inch long and three quarters of an inch wide. “Mrs. Miller had it sent from England,” she said.
My thumb felt overlarge when I flipped open the monogrammed lid to examine the delicately punched grille. I sniffed it. “Whew! That holds a strong punch!” I held back the tiny box, which sent up a strong orange-vinegar scent. The two women laughed at my exaggeration, but indeed, the saturated piece of sponge tucked inside held a pungent enough smell to mask strong odors or bring a woman around if she felt faint.
“I carry it when I travel on the streets,” said Mrs. Miller. “Especially in the summer. You know how foul the odors can be.”
“I do,” I said, pleased that I had not missed Mrs. Burton’s delight in the piece. Her birthday was coming, and I decided that she must have a fine vinaigrette of her own.
Had I not been working in miniature with Mr. Leeds, I doubt that I would have attempted the task, but I drew a design and showed it to Mr. Taylor, the most skilled of us at crafting silver.
“You must be precise, but you can do it,” he said, giving me the confidence I lacked.
Crafting the tiny box was not a challenge, but punching a dogwood design around the engraved image on the small cover was delicate work, and a steady hand was needed to solder the tiny hinges onto the grille. But it was worth the effort, for when I presented it to Mrs. Burton, she cried out in delight.
Naturally, she showed the treasure to her new circle of card-playing friends, and they were as taken with the trinket as she was. Days later, orders began to come. Because of the skill and time required to create each one, we priced the tiny boxes accordingly, but that did not deter these women. It only made the Burton-stamped vinaigrette more sought after and our silver business grew.
AFTER A YEAR of mourning, Mrs. Burton began to encourage me to accept some of the invitations that came our way. “I cannot go because of my health,” she said, “but you must accept. How else will you meet others your own age?” Initially, I refused, but as a result of her insistence, I reluctantly attended a late supper held at the home of a family friend.