“But I am not qualified! I know so little—”
He laughed aloud. “I believe that some would say otherwise,” he said, referring to the two sales I had made recently. They were small pinfeather renderings and had sold for quite a sum. “I think teaching would benefit you as well,” he added.
“Is it a watercolor class? Would the students be using sable brushes?”
“Of course! What? You thought I meant that you should teach them to work with a pinfeather? Good luck to find students with that kind of talent!”
“Why don’t you consider it, James?” Mrs. Burton asked enthusiastically. “You could hold the classes where you do your work now—up in Malcolm’s room. It is large enough, and it would be nice to bring new life into this house.”
And so, because it offered Mrs. Burton and me a further distraction on a Sunday afternoon, I accepted.
I WAS RIGHT to do so, for the art classes proved a boon to our strained relationship. My adopted mother knew many of the students’ families, and their family histories were often a topic of conversation for us. In time we grew more comfortable again with each other, though we never did recover the intimacy we once had, for neither of us could cross the divide: she, who needed to deny the truth, and I, who longed to have her accept it and love me for it.
There is one deep regret I carry from that time. On a number of occasions Mrs. Burton asked me to clear out Mr. Burton’s rooms and to take them as my own, but I always declined. Was I punishing her, or did I not want to feel more the imposter than I already did? I still do not have the answer. However, when Robert came to me on September 4, 1824, to tell me that Mrs. Burton had unexpectedly passed away during the night, I was grief-stricken.
I had loved her as a mother, and though she had put forth her best effort to love me as a son, a difference existed after she learned the truth from Delia. Yet I did not hold her responsible; how could I blame her for an inability to love the part of me that I, too, loathed?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
1824–1828
James
THOUGH I HAD inherited everything and the house was mine, months passed before Robert could persuade me to move down to Mr. Burton’s quarters. I knew the sense of it, but I felt an intruder and relented only after Robert convinced me how much easier it would be for the household staff to serve me.
When we went down to look over Mr. Burton’s rooms, I wondered aloud if the house was perhaps too large and too elegant for me.
Robert frowned. “And why would you not be suited for this home? The Burtons chose you as their son, and as their heir, you must claim it.”
Because he believed it, I tried to convince myself to do the same.
THE WINTER WAS long and lonely, and I spent so much time at work that I grew weary of it all. Then, in the spring of 1825, a woman swept through the door of my silver shop and demanded to see the proprietor.
Nicholas summoned me from my back office, where I had been looking over the accounts. After Christmas, work had fallen off, and though I knew I should find a way to encourage more business, with both Mr. and Mrs. Burton gone, building the business no longer interested me.
When I came out, I immediately recognized the visitor. “Mrs. Cardon!” I exclaimed in surprise and walked around to greet her. I had met this socially prominent woman through Mr. Leeds, a longtime friend of the Cardons. It was she who had purchased the two paintings of mine.
“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.