No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  “Okay,” said Barbara, her resistance dissipating on an exhalation. “If we’re going through with the sitting, I want a carte de visite made so I can send it to Grace in Benicia. I don’t want her to forget me while she’s away at college.”

  “You are her dearest friend, Barbara,” said Celia gently. “Grace is not going to forget you.”

  Barbara nodded and reached for the door, pushing it open with a tinkling of the shop bell. It was a happy sound. Insufficiently merry, however, to lift the disquiet that had descended. Celia glanced around, uncertain of what or who she searched for.

  “Cousin, what is it?” called Barbara from just inside the doorway. “What’s the matter?”

  Celia collected herself. “Nothing, Barbara. Nothing at all,” she replied and swept inside, letting the door close behind her.

  Chapter 2

  “Sit very quietly, if you will, Miss Walford.” Rebecca Shaw cradled Barbara’s jaws in her hands, adjusting the tilt of her head.

  “I am trying as best I can, Miss Shaw,” she answered, her voice taut with misery. “But the support is jabbing into my neck.”

  “Forgive my cousin, Miss Shaw,” said Celia, standing at Barbara’s side. She altered her stance to relieve the twinge that had developed in her lower back while waiting for Barbara to settle down. “This is our first experience of sitting for a portrait and we are both a trifle impatient. I offer my apologies.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Davies. And you’re definitely not the most impatient subjects I’ve attempted to photograph.” She reached behind Barbara and raised the half circle of iron meant to hold the subject’s head still while the photograph was being taken. “Is that better, Miss Walford?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She gazed up at the woman standing over her. “Who’s been more impatient, Miss Shaw? Anybody famous?”

  “Barbara, we cannot ask Miss Shaw to gossip about her clients.”

  Miss Shaw smiled. Celia judged the woman to be near to her own age—twenty-eight or twenty-nine, perhaps younger. She had an earnest appearance that might disquiet some people, but not Celia, and eyes that were the most riveting shade of blue-green. They were presently fixed on Barbara with even-tempered good humor.

  “Your cousin is right, Miss Walford. It really isn’t wise of me to talk about my clients’ foibles.” She stepped back and examined the tableau she’d created. Celia would prefer to pose with her medical bag and stethoscope rather than an artificial Roman column and massive potted palm. Too formal an image when Celia’s life was anything but formal. “I have my business to consider.”

  “Maybe it was Mr. Hearst,” Barbara persisted. “Isn’t that a portrait of him and his family on that easel over there?”

  “Yes, that is Mr. Hearst and his family. He and my father are acquaintances.” Miss Shaw glanced over at the photograph, a large albumen print nearly two feet high. “I’d hoped to do a portrait of Mr. Twain before he departed the city last December, but I never had the opportunity.”

  “A portrait of Mr. Twain would have been quite a coup,” observed Celia. “As it is, you must be proud to have had Mr. Hearst as a customer.”

  Miss Shaw’s face hardened for a moment before resuming its formerly calm expression.

  What an intriguing reaction.

  “The portrait was a favor to my father. They know each other because of their mutual involvement in politics.” Miss Shaw’s words revealed less about her opinion of that acquaintance than the momentary change in her expression had done.

  “I believe I have read about your father in the newspaper, Miss Shaw,” said Celia. A man whose opposition to universal suffrage Celia did not agree with.

  “I’m sure you have, Mrs. Davies.” Tersely stated. Miss Shaw leaned forward to straighten a fold in the shawl she’d draped over Celia’s shoulders. It had come from the woman’s stash of props—bottles of black hair dye and various hats, chairs and tables and drapery, painted scenery to hang if a blank wall proved too boring—the shawl’s violet color apparently lending “energy” to the portrait even if the hue would simply become another shade of gray. The material itched against Celia’s neck and smelled of photographic chemicals. “I am grateful to him for recommending my photographic services to his colleagues, even though he . . .” She did not complete her sentence.

  Barbara finished it for her. “Even though he thinks his daughter shouldn’t be operating a photographic gallery and doesn’t approve?”

  “Barbara, please be polite,” chided Celia. Her cousin was being particularly bold that afternoon.

  “You don’t need to scold your cousin, Mrs. Davies. She’s correct about my father’s attitude toward my business venture.” Miss Shaw turned her attention to the silk ribbon tied around Celia’s hair. “However, as I said, he occasionally recommends my studio to his acquaintances, and I’m grateful. My family tolerates me, which is better than what other women with my sort of occupation experience. So long as my progressive ways do not interfere with my father’s political ambitions or the smooth running of his bank, our relationship is sufficiently amicable.”

  If Celia’s family were here, rather than in distant England, would they approve of the women’s clinic she operated? Doubtful.

  “I’m glad he accepts your work, Miss Shaw,” said Barbara. “Because your photographs are so fascinating and so . . . genuine.”

  Rebecca Shaw scanned the interior of her gallery. “I feel as though I am capturing my subjects for all eternity, Miss Walford. Preserving the essence of who they are. A life beyond death.” She smiled an apology. “I’m sorry. That’s rather morbid.”

  “But truthful, Miss Shaw,” said Celia. “Is your father’s portrait among those hanging here?”

  Finished with fussing over Celia’s attire, Miss Shaw stood back. “He’d been meaning to sit for me, but he’s been unwell lately and was forced to postpone.”

  “Is there anything I might do to help?” asked Celia. “I am a nurse, and I would be happy to lend my assistance.”

  Miss Shaw flashed a wry smile, as though the idea of Celia providing medical aid to Mr. Shaw was a comical idea. “My father has been experiencing some troubles with his heart lately, which gives him chest pains. He hasn’t been able to sleep well as a result, so he’s partaking of the water cure at the Hygienic Institute.”

  “Ah. Of course,” Celia replied.

  Miss Shaw retreated to her camera, built of mahogany and mounted on a sturdy tripod, a few paces away. “What is your husband’s line of work, Mrs. Davies?” she asked, glancing at the wedding band Celia had taken to wearing again. Ever since she’d learned Patrick was alive.

  “He pursues gold, Miss Shaw. Elsewhere,” she replied. “Due to his absence, I am free to engage in my occupation without interference. I operate a free clinic for females who cannot afford a doctor’s care.”

  Barbara shifted slightly, the shoulder beneath Celia’s resting hand tensing. “My cousin does more than simply operate a women’s clinic, Miss Shaw.”

  Oh, no.

  “Really?” Miss Shaw asked, her voice muffled by the length of black velvet, firmly attached to the rear of the camera, that she’d draped over her head.

  “My cousin means the charity work I do,” said Celia.

  “No, I don’t. I’m talking about your involvement in murder investigations with that police detective, Mr. Greaves.”

  Miss Shaw lifted the rectangle of velvet cloth and peered around its edge. “Murder investigations?”

  “My cousin exaggerates my involvement, Miss Shaw. There is no need to be alarmed.” For she did appear unsettled by Barbara’s comment. To be frank, who’d not?

  “I’m not exaggerating,” insisted Barbara.

  Celia tightened her fingers around her cousin’s shoulder, silencing her comments. “Contrary to my cousin’s claims, I am not in the business of investigating murders, Miss Shaw.” Not intentionally, at least.

  “It would be rather daring if you were, Mrs. Davies,” said
Miss Shaw. “Far more daring than my job as a female photographer.”

  Far more dangerous. “I am simply a nurse, Miss Shaw, and I regret that my cousin brought up this topic at all,” said Celia, relaxing her grip on Barbara’s shoulder.

  “It’s only natural she would,” she said, smiling. “It’s very intriguing.”

  Miss Shaw ducked back behind her camera and set about focusing the image, moving the body of the instrument backward and forward. “Ah, I believe that should work.” She tightened a screw set in the body of the camera and came out from behind the cloth. “Let me fetch the photographic glass plate and then we can proceed. I’ll only be a moment. Don’t move.”

  She strode past and into a room behind them.

  Barbara fidgeted.

  “Do not move, Barbara. We do not want to have to start all over again.”

  “I’m sorry about mentioning your investigations, Cousin,” whispered Barbara, surprising Celia with the apology.

  “I know how concerned you are about my safety.” She feared the risks Celia took, the dangers she’d brought to them. “But I believe you alarmed Miss Shaw.”

  The woman returned with a processed plate of glass held in a frame, a whiff of the chemicals spread upon its surface trailing in her wake, sharp and eye-watering. She hastily slid it into the body of the camera. “Good. Think on what you’re most passionate about but do not move an inch. This only requires a few seconds.”

  She removed the cap from the front of the camera, counted slowly to five, replaced the cap, and drew out the glass plate. “Now to develop the photograph. It’ll take a few minutes, but I want to be certain I’m satisfied with the result before I let you leave.”

  Celia nodded, and Miss Shaw hurried into a tiny dark room nearby. She firmly shut the door behind her, rattling the heavy yellow glass of its small window.

  “Furthermore, Barbara, I no longer have any reason to interact with Mr. Greaves,” said Celia. Not since early July, the last time she’d had cause to work alongside him. And when they’d been forced to bid each other goodbye. “I expect my days of investigating are past.”

  • • •

  “Sir! You’re back from Sacramento!” announced Nick’s assistant, J. E. Taylor. Loud enough that everyone else in the basement police station could hear, too.

  “Hurray. Detective Greaves is back,” smirked the booking officer from behind his corner standing desk, situated near the barred door leading to the holding cells beyond.

  Taylor scowled at the fellow and got to his feet. “How was your trip, Mr. Greaves?”

  Nick strode through the station, his assistant falling into step behind him. “The stern-wheeler didn’t sink. So there’s that.”

  “I was worried, ’cause I thought the boat was supposed to get back a couple of hours ago.”

  Worried. Taylor worried about him. “I made the mistake of stopping by Bauman’s first.”

  “Oh,” said Taylor, a plain short word that expressed a great deal more than simply acknowledging Nick had gone to the tavern. “How was, you know, the—”

  “What’s been going on here while I’ve been away?” Nick interrupted. He didn’t want to talk about his father’s funeral. Didn’t want to talk about his family or Sacramento at all.

  “Detective Briggs is back.”

  “Briggs.” Nick glanced over at the other desk in the detectives’ office. Empty, for now, of the other man he shared the space with. “Back from his leave.”

  Just when Nick had come to the conclusion Briggs had actually been fired and not sent off to recover from some mysterious illness, which had been the official story. He’d never seemed sickly, though. Irritating, yes. Sickly, not so much. Unless all those fried doughnuts he liked to eat had finally caught up to him.

  Nick tossed his hat onto his desk and slid open the street-level window behind it. The musky scent of the cab horses waiting for customers near the square drifted in, along with the sharp smell of coal fires and something rotting in the sewer beneath Kearny Street. The breeze was damp and cool. Not at all like his family’s property outside Sacramento, where the air could be dry and hot and fresh.

  “Sir?” Taylor sounded concerned.

  “The trip from Sacramento was long and boring,” said Nick, dropping onto his chair. “Guess I’m tired.”

  “’Course you are, sir.” Taylor retrieved a cigar and a friction match from his inner coat pocket. “As I was saying, Mr. Briggs is back, but he hasn’t been in the office much. Maybe he’s still sick.”

  Nick, only partly paying attention, listlessly sorted through the paperwork on his desk. “Maybe.”

  “You missed the hubbub we had in here a couple of days ago. A local Copperhead politician came in to tell us that he’s being followed. Called it ‘threatening behavior.’ I didn’t talk to the fellow myself, but he caused quite a ruckus.” Taylor struck his match across a rough section of the wood floor and lit his cigar, the tip flaring red as he puffed. “He’s had run-ins with one of his political opponents recently, I heard. Maybe the same person is trying to scare him. But that’s all I know.”

  Emotions had run high all summer and spilled over into the fall, resulting in the anti-Reconstruction Copperheads winning the state elections. So much anger and fear that former slaves—and by extension, the Chinese—might become equals. The burning-hot hatred left over from the war had cast a long shadow, helped along by those willing to continue to stoke the fire. The old healed wound in Nick’s arm took to throbbing, and he reached up to massage it. Why couldn’t people leave well enough alone?

  “Sorry, sir.” His assistant shot a glance at Nick’s arm. “I didn’t mean to remind you of the war.”

  “Stop calling me ‘sir,’ Taylor. And I think of the war whether you remind me or not.” Nick lowered his hand. “Is the captain expecting us to do anything about this politician’s complaints?”

  “No, because the fellow spoke with Mr. Briggs,” said Taylor. “But I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You also missed out on that Mr. Higgins and his hand organ marching down Montgomery last week because of that bet he lost over the election results, sir. Never seen so many folks lining the street to see the spectacle, outside of the Independence Day parade. Just to watch Mr. Higgins grind his organ, a friend of his carrying a tame monkey as they walked.” Taylor paused to blow a stream of cigar smoke toward the ceiling. “Quite a sight. Heard he collected nearly six thousand dollars for the orphan asylums, though. A good cause.”

  An organ grinder and a tame monkey sounded way more enjoyable than a guilt-laden funeral in a dusty Sacramento graveyard.

  “Is that it, then? A complaining politician?” asked Nick. “No suspicious deaths to look into? No arsonists to interrogate? No robbers to track down and arrest?”

  Taylor peered at him. “You weren’t hoping there’d be more problems, were you, sir?”

  “Of course not, Taylor.” Nick shoved aside his paperwork. “Of course not.”

  • • •

  The front door closed, and Celia looked up from the book she’d been reading since they had finished dinner. Her housekeeper, humming, glided into the parlor.

  “Good evening, ma’am, Miss Barbara,” said Addie Ferguson, untying the small flower-trimmed hat perched atop her curling brown hair, her eyes gleaming.

  “Home already?” asked Celia. “You could have stayed for the entire concert. Barbara and I are perfectly fine here. Unless it was disappointing.”

  “She doesn’t look like the concert was disappointing,” said Barbara, reclined on the parlor settee beneath the painting of her father, a novel—The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins—resting atop her lap.

  “I’ve never heard such a lovely rendition of ‘The Blind Boy,’ ma’am,” said Addie. “Oh, the singing made me blubber in front of Mr. Taylor.”

  When might Mr. Greaves’s assistant ask Addie to marry him? Celia wondered, and not for the first time. When might Celia lose the w
oman who’d been her bulwark against the rough tides of life? As much a dear friend as a servant.

  “I am certain Mr. Taylor found your tears most endearing, Addie,” said Celia.

  “Aye, ma’am, perhaps he did,” she mused. She resumed humming and wandered out of the parlor and into the dining room.

  Barbara exhaled loudly.

  “At least Addie is happy,” said Celia. “Have you changed your opinion about this afternoon’s session at Miss Shaw’s gallery? I thought you’d enjoyed yourself, after all.”

  “It’s not that.” Above her head, the painted grin on Uncle Walford’s face was the precise antithesis to the frown upon his daughter’s. “Is the tutor you hired still planning on coming tomorrow?”

  “Now I understand what has been bothering you all day.” Celia set aside her book. “Barbara, we’ve discussed this matter before, and I intend for Miss Campbell to provide you lessons. Beginning tomorrow.”

  “We aren’t going to Sacramento later this week to attend the state fair?”

  “We did not ever make plans to go to the fair,” said Celia. “And you cannot convince me you are suddenly interested in displays of floral arrangements or farm produce.”

  “But I don’t want to learn French, or improve my singing or my ability to compose essays,” she replied. “What’s the point?”

  “Your father wanted you to continue your education, and I intend to abide by his wishes.”

  Barbara sighed. “It would be nice to be like Miss Shaw,” she said. “Independent and free-thinking. Running a successful business on her own, without answering to anybody. Even if I’d have to pay that completely unfair Chinese police-tax.”

  Celia seized on her cousin’s comment. “Any venture will require more education, Barbara.”

  “Who’d come to a business I’d run, though? The Chinese do not trust me and the others . . .”

  Do not either. “You are always welcome to continue to work with me in the clinic,” she said. “Perhaps you could even operate it yourself one day.”