Glory Over Everything by Kathleen Grissom Page B

Negro house servant was another thing.
    â€œWould you have a napkin?” I asked.
    She went to a sideboard and opened a long drawer from which she pulled a folded white cloth that I suspected was used for drying dishes.
    â€œThis suit you?” she asked, setting it down beside me.
    â€œThank you,” I said, shaking it out and folding it across my lap before digging in to the aromatic stew.
    Delia spread freshly churned butter over a thick slice of bread and handed it to me. She was cutting another slice of bread when she gave me a sly look. “You know what a butler do?”
    I dipped the bread into the sweet onion gravy, then took a bite and chewed it slowly before I replied. “I’m assuming he collects supper trays?”
    â€œHe don’ collect no nothin’,” she said.
    â€œWell, then,” I said curiosity getting the better of me, “I suppose that you had best inform me.”
    She glared at me. “After Mr. Burton, Robert the boss a this house, so you bes’ mind him.”
    â€œSurely he doesn’t have charge over Mrs. Burton?” I asked.
    â€œMrs. Burton don’ do a thing without askin’ me first,” she said. “Ed and me was here before Robert.”
    As I took the second piece of bread that she handed me, I remembered the carriage driver. “Is Ed your husband?” I asked, more to make conversation than out of a need to know.
    â€œEd my baby brother,” she said.
    Her baby brother? How old was she? As though to answer my question, she said, “We both been here with Mr. and Mrs. Burton since they buy us, but we free now. We’s here a long time.”
    I asked if the Burtons had children.
    â€œOne boy. They bury him back when the yellow fever comes through, back in ’93.” She looked at me and asked, “That before you was born?” Caught unaware, I didn’t respond, so she asked another question. “Where was you born?”
    I worried that I might say the wrong thing. “I prefer not to talk about myself,” I said. Having finished the meal, I rose to take my leave, then remembered my manners. “That was an excellent supper,” I said. “Thank you, Delia.”
    â€œThat be Miss Delia,” she said, and then went silent.
    Fortunately, Ed soon came through with my pallet, and I followed him to my room. After he left, I sat down on the straw-filled mattress and looked around, dazed to find myself in this position. Until recently, I had known only luxury. Grandmother had raised me to be a gentleman, to have my own land and my own servants. Now I was sleeping in a storage room. What would Grandmother think to see me here? It had been weeks now, but still my heart clenched whenever I remembered that she was gone.
    Fully clothed, I lay back on the pallet. Unexpectedly, exhaustion won out, and I fell asleep.
    I N THE FIRST months I served as an errand boy for Mr. Burton, picking up supplies and making deliveries. Gradually, the turmoil of the streets affected me less, and as I got to know the layout of the city, I grew more confident. If I earned a penny or two from a satisfied customer, I offered the coins to Mr. Burton on my return to the shop. When he assured me that those were mine to keep, I stored them eagerly.
    When I wasn’t out on deliveries, I was given the task of cleaning the three rooms of Mr. Burton’s shop. Naturally, there was the storefront, where the glass cases and open shelves displayed some of the finest silver pieces, but Mr. Burton was as particular about his small office and the large room to the back where he and Nicholas, another silversmith, did their silver work.
    Before I was introduced to Nicholas, Mr. Burton took me aside. “You should know that Nicholas has his peculiarities,” he said.
    â€œYes, sir,” I answered, wondering if he thought I had some of my own.
    â€œHe talks without thinking—that is, he seems incapable of censoring