The manor house his family had occupied for only two generations was as Robert had recalled: an imposing presence built of red Georgian brick and white granite. The fields surrounding were the same too: separated by hedgerows, stone walls, and hegemony. There was a lovely garden hidden behind the house, one planted by his mother soon after his father had acquired the estate. Robert assumed this hadn’t changed either though both of his parents were gone. The air was so sweet, so pure. So different from the fetid fogs of London. Robert opened his mouth and sucked in air. It felt soft as honey against his tongue, as sweet as summer grass. This he’d forgotten.
A bevy of large black crows darted out of the hedgerows at Robert’s approach, raucous and rude. Once he reached the portico, he set the traveling case and tripod down and smoothed his best black overcoat. He surveyed the brass knocker for a good long minute. His face looked pale and strained in its curved reflection.
A moment after he’d pulled the knocker, the oak door was opened by a plump woman whose face was creased with wrinkles. Mary, the housekeeper. She’d aged since he’d last seen her; her flesh had crumpled around brown eyes once considered fine in the village. He’d never been especially fond of her, but he’d appreciated her loyalty. She’d taken over the household upon his mother’s death when he was nine, and hadn’t wavered since.
“Master Robert?”
The door halted midway, Mary’s face caught in what appeared an attempt to smile. Her expression gave Robert the sense he’d become a ghost visiting the living, rather than the flesh and blood tied to this house.
“You didn’t expect me.” Robert also attempted to smile, but failed. “Am I so greatly altered?”
She shook her head. “You look the same. Perhaps leaner. Greyer. I just never thought to see you again after . . . after your marriage.” Her tone grew odd. “Master John said you weren’t coming. I’d heard they found you in London, that your brother hired a detective. I didn’t believe it, after over three years.”
“Has it been so long?” He knew exactly how long it had been.
“April 1846. Everyone still speaks of it. Three months after your brother returned from India. After your father’s death.”
“Indeed. May I come in?” With his equipment beside his feet, he felt like a tinker begging for a meal. “I’m here to daguerreotype my cousin.”
At last Mary relented to open the door. She even bobbed a curtsey after casting a wary eye at his trunk. “Shall I have Durkin bring it to your room? I assume you’ll be staying the night.”
“Best I take it—it’s fragile. I’m only here for the day.”
Robert stepped over the threshold of his family home for the first time since his marriage. The long dark hallway was as he remembered. Narrow. Cold. Crowned by tall ceilings paneled in dark wood and gold-flecked wallpaper, all markers of plenty. How removed he’d grown from his birthright. Even if he wasn’t the eldest son, he’d still been raised like a prince in a fief. He’d been expected to live a gentrified existence, to devote his life to scholarship and ease. To marry an heiress, not a penniless seamstress.
“This way,” Mary said. “To your brother’s study.”
He followed the housekeeper, cradling his case and tripod. Mary continued to sneak gapes over her shoulder.
“ ’ Tis a wonder to see you, sir.”
“And you.” Robert’s nerves thrummed. “Perhaps you should announce me first.”
“Master John is out with his dogs. I don’t know when he’ll return.”
“Then it’s best you take me directly to my cousin.”
To daguerreotype him. Robert’s stomach tightened, surprising him.
“He’s laid out in Master John’s study.”
“Thank you, Mary.” Perhaps there were mourners already congregated there, partaking of funeral cakes and ham, though Robert doubted it; the house felt too still. No crape over the mirrors either; some believed this prevented the departing soul from being trapped in the glass.
Mary stopped before the door of John’s study. “I’ll leave you to it, sir.”
Robert bent his head inside. The study looked considerably different than the last time he’d been there three years earlier. Though the study had then held a coffin too, the room had been adorned with the trappings of authority and exoticism: a long mahogany desk scented with sandalwood, marble busts copied from ancient ones, silk tapestries from faraway lands. Now the only items of furniture inhabiting the study were the desk and a chaise draped in purple moiré. The chaise had been in his mother’s bedroom; Robert had a distant memory of lying on it when his head ached, her French perfume enveloping him like a song. It was before this chaise that his cousin’s open coffin rested across a pair of saw horses.
This was his cousin. His cousin who was dead.
Though it made little sense, Robert stepped toward the coffin as though not to disturb.
The last time he’d been in John’s study, the coffin had been made of plain pine; Robert had insisted on it, yearning for simplicity. The coffin was also smaller, built to house the corpse of a young woman. This time, the coffin was constructed of dark lacquered wood swathed in deep purple velvet. The color of royalty. It was deep enough that his cousin’s corpse remained hidden. This was a relief to Robert—he wasn’t ready to view him yet. What had been his cousin’s name? Hugh? Wasn’t it a French name? For some reason, he resisted remembering. He’d never even heard of him until yesterday. Regardless, he had work to do.
Robert wiped his brow and set down the tripod and the heavy wood case containing his daguerreotype outfit. He unbolted the leather straps; the buckles and slides reminded him of the livery on a horse’s head. He lifted the boxes containing the silvered copper plates, the bottles of chemicals and pigments. Finally, he removed the camera itself. It was a large box bound in honey-colored wood and glass. Boxes within boxes Locked and contained. However, once he set his camera on the tripod, he forgot where he was, the task he was to do, shifting from family member to daguerreotypist. It was easier than he’d imagined, like putting on a hat before going outside.
Robert examined the corpse. Hugh looked as he’d expected: like the corpse of a man well past the middle of his life. He was thin and tall, his auburn hair dulled by white, his hands ropey with veins and bone. No one could argue he wasn’t dressed elegantly, his ensemble unlike anything Robert had ever seen his wife sew. Hugh wore a well-tailored dark-hued frock coat. Beneath it, a black velvet collar was attached to his linen, which was fastened by an elaborately bowed necktie; his trousers were cut of the same fine wool as the coat, as though to match. Hugh reclined in the coffin, one long arm curved across his chest, as though overcome by surprise when his heart stilled.
“What did you die of?” Robert whispered. “Where did you die?”
Hugh revealed no sign of disease beyond approaching threescore years. Nor did he bear the stench of decomposition; the subtle scent of almond indicated he’d been embalmed in arsenic mixed with spirits of wine. The high color on his cheeks suggested carmine had been added to the mixture. Embalmed or no, Hugh’s closed eyes had already sunken into his face. He must have passed about two weeks earlier and in another land; a small brass plaque set inside the coffin latch was engraved with a Geneva address. Hugh had traveled far to come home.
Inspired by the grandeur of Hugh’s coffin and clothes, Robert would use his finest supplies. A gilding of gold chloride after fixing the plate with mercury. This would grant the daguerreotype the appearance of warmth—something his cousin’s body now decidedly lacked in death.
Once the camera was positioned, Robert surveyed his cousin upside down on the viewing glass. Even after opening the drapes, the light was low. In such a case, Robert would move the corpse into a more advantageous pose. He’d even use a teaspoon to adjust the focus of their eyes, but the thought of this repulsed him—even if he’d never met him before, this was his cousin, not some stranger. In all of Robert’s dealings as a daguerreotypist, he’d grown to think o
f death akin to a train pulling away—his job was to help the survivors wave goodbye. Now, after viewing his cousin’s corpse, he was reminded death was a door slamming shut. Especially as he recalled that small pine box three years earlier.
A deep shudder rose from within him.
What to do?
The answer came unbidden: We do what we must. He’d take a portrait of his cousin’s face in repose, cropped closely. A longer exposure would compensate for the low light. Once he developed the daguerreotype, he’d leave before his brother discovered his presence. He’d be done with his past—or as much as was possible.
Robert tucked his head beneath the black cloth covering the back of the camera. Reached for the silver-coated plate for the daguerreotype. Stared into the glass finder one last time.
His wife’s face stared back at him.
III.
Robert dropped the silvered plate. As soon as it clattered to the floor, Sida disappeared; Hugh’s corpse returned. Not that it mattered—Robert knew no one could see her but him. He’d had three years since Sida’s death to become accustomed to her ways: the silent arrivals in the dark of night, the glimpses of her blue gown in tangled crowds. This time, though, he knew he’d imagined her. The proof was in the circumstance: the last time he’d been here, it was to bury her. Her ghost rarely showed outside their home. In the few occasions Robert had ventured beyond London, she’d never followed. He was still desperately short of sleep. His memories were affecting him.
Robert stepped away from his camera shaking his head, his hands. Anything to pull himself from the past. Yet the memory of that humble pine box remained, as tangible a presence as the corpse of Hugh de Bonne. Sida’s stilled body within the coffin. Her dark eyes staring out. The carmine dabbed upon her cheeks to disguise the bruises . . .
He glanced over his shoulder, yearning for his wife’s presence. Wishing she still lived. “Robert,” he imagined her murmuring, “you must trust I’ll never leave you.”
Dead cousin or no, Robert had to go. Now.
He thrust the plate box, the camera into the traveling case. He didn’t bother to take any care, precious camera be damned. Glass cracked, a vial of varnish slopped over his trousers and stuck to his skin. He ignored the mess. All he wanted to do was to find his way back to London. To Sida. He’d been a fool to leave her. His stomach twisted recalling how she’d clung to him after they’d read John’s letter, color leeching from her face before she’d faded into the shadows. “We’ll never be parted,” he’d sworn. And then he’d gone and abandoned her for a cousin he’d never even heard of before. What sort of husband was he?
Once the case was buckled, Robert dragged it toward the door. Before he passed into the corridor, a plethora of hounds rushed into the room. The dogs nipped at Robert’s heels, sniffing his shoes, circling and barking. Robert swiped at them with his free arm. The hounds were followed by a tall man dressed in voluminous silk robes. The scent of musk, smoke, and horse sweat overtook almonds.
“What the deuce is going on?” the man bellowed in a deep voice. “Robert? Is that you? You came!”
Before Robert could respond, he was enveloped in an unavoidable embrace. His only brother, John, had returned.
“I must go,” Robert said once he’d extracted himself. “I’ve urgent business.”
But John wouldn’t be put off. He pulled Robert toward him, dragging him into the corridor, beyond the gaping servants who’d gathered to eavesdrop. His brother’s grasp was surprisingly strong—Robert supposed that’s what came of all those mornings riding to the hounds.
“Don’t leave, Robert. Not yet,” he begged, his heavy silk dressing gown encasing Robert like a fly. “God, you look rough. We haven’t seen each other in three years. Not since Cressida . . .” John’s expression was embarrassed at best. “Well, you can’t leave without visiting Mother’s garden. Can you?”
* * *
“You want me to daguerreotype a chapel?” Robert said to John. “I thought this was about our cousin.”
A half hour later, the reunited brothers strolled the winter-ravaged garden, surveying the herb beds, the briars—it was still too cold for snowdrops and crocuses—while John’s hounds coiled about their ankles yelping at the frozen world beyond. Gravel crunched beneath their feet. Every so often, one of the hounds would dart off to piss on a hedge that looked exactly the same as it had during Robert’s last visit. Robert did his best to ignore them; he found dogs to be overeager at best, unpredictable at worst. They even tried to lick the broken skin on his hands. The walled garden revealed the influence of their mother, who’d turned what had been a wilderness of abandoned rose beds into a refuge famed throughout the county after their father purchased the estate. All of a sudden Robert missed her with an acute longing. She would have appreciated Sida’s love of beauty.
John replied, “Trust me, it’s not any day you’ll view a chapel such as this. It’s rumored to be one of the most exquisite places in the world, like the Taj Mahal on a far more intimate scale.” As boys, Robert and John had marveled at engravings of the Taj Mahal; it had spurred John’s fascination with India. “The chapel is constructed almost entirely of glass. Set in a wood on the moors of Shropshire. Hugh de Bonne commissioned the chapel for his wife. Been locked since her burial inside it over a decade ago. He wants his corpse to be daguerreotyped beside her there. A final request.”
A day earlier Robert had never even heard of Hugh de Bonne. Nor had he ever heard of someone building such a memorial. “I had no idea.”
“I know, I know—it’s a surprise to me too,” John explained, bending over to comfort a hound who had an unfortunate encounter with a thistle. “Hugh was a poet. He’s quite famous, though I wouldn’t know.” John’s interests were limited to hunting, hounds, and travel. He also possessed a business acumen that had brought him wealth in India. John continued, “Neither Father nor Mother spoke of him, though I recall Mother mentioning we had a poet in the family by marriage through a French relative of Father’s. I thought this was a euphemism for something disreputable. Hugh’s last book was The Lost History of Dreams. Considered his masterpiece. Don’t suppose you’ve read it.”
“No.” Robert recalled the deceased mother in Kensington, the book resting on her chest, the leather binding embossed in gilt letters. The Lost History of Dreams—the title was visible even after he’d developed the daguerreotype. His agitation pushed any wonder away. “I prefer the classics.”
John heaved a sigh. “I know. Ovid. The eternals. You fit in well at Oxford, brother of mine. I must admit your new vocation was unexpected. It was interesting explaining to your friends what kept you too occupied to acknowledge their attentions.”
“Who complained to you? Someone from Oxford?”
“Would you write them if I told you? Are you working on your new book at least?”
“I’ve been busy. Death doesn’t rest.” Robert found his eyes seeking the road toward London. Toward Sida. “Get on with your story, please.”
“Very well. It’s a long tale I must relate.” John tightened his heavy fur coat, which he’d swapped the silk for. “I should warn what I’m about to say may distress you. The reason we never were told about Hugh wasn’t because he was a poet—success at art will silence any critic—or because our relation wasn’t through blood. It was because of whom he married.”
Robert willed himself to respond. “He married an orphaned seamstress.”
“No. He eloped with an orphaned heiress named Ada Lowell.” John’s face darkened in a manner that belied his jovial tone. “Ada and Hugh’s marriage was unfortunate. Cursed, you might say.”
Robert shoved his hands into his pockets, cold. “As some might call mine?”
John flushed nearly as red as his silk scarf. “I had no disdain of Cressida. It was her family I feared would prove an unhappy connection. It brought me no satisfaction to be proven correct.”
Robert’s impatience twisted toward remorse. How could he explain to his brother that
Sida had never really left him?
“Tell your story then.”
“Very well. After they eloped, Ada became with child while they were living deep within the Black Forest—God knows how they ended up there. Her doctor wrote Father to help them return to England.”
“Father didn’t respond.”
An ironic half smile. “Father’s not here for me to ask, Robert. Anyway, it mattered not: in 1836 Ada died in childbirth, the baby stillborn. Afterward, Hugh disappeared, though not before he wrote The Lost History of Dreams and built the glass chapel for Ada. I knew nothing of this until last week when a letter arrived addressed to Father from Hugh’s solicitor. It accompanied this.”
By now the brothers had arrived at the stile separating their mother’s garden from the fields and cottages beyond, where the gravel path gave way to dirt. John used the opportunity to pull an envelope the size of a pamphlet from his coat pocket.
John offered the envelope to Robert.
Robert couldn’t resist. Though the envelope was thin, it was heavier than expected and constructed of brown paper. Discoloration lined the top of it, where a flare of sun must have fallen for years. Robert knew with a certainty the envelope had been stored face out in a glass cabinet, where it had remained untouched for years. It’s an envelope with a history An envelope containing secrets. He suddenly had the sense of being inside a story where an object can change a life. Or ruin it.
“What’s inside?”
John’s tone was solemn. “A last letter from Hugh concerning his estate.”
Robert stroked the envelope in as furtive a gesture as he could manage. The brown paper felt smoother than expected, like unseen hands had caressed it. An assertive flash of sepia-colored handwriting crowned the front:
To be delivered upon my death to:
Miss Isabelle Lowell
Weald House, Kynnersley on the Weald Moors, Shropshire
“Who’s Miss Isabelle Lowell?” The name was familiar, like a thread of a conversation that couldn’t be recollected.
The Lost History of Dreams Page 2