Second Sight

by Amanda Quick

  There was the tiniest of pauses.

  “Inconveniences?” Rosalind murmured on a faint, questioning note.

  Amelia, standing directly behind Rosalind with a parasol covered in a bright white fabric, made a quick, frantic little warning gesture with her hand.

  Venetia got the message. Referring to the return of a spouse one had presumed gone for good as an inconvenience was probably somewhat inappropriate. She made a mental note to be more cautious in future.

  If it wasn’t one thing, it was another when one was dealing with clients. It was always difficult to concentrate on making casual conversation with a sitter when one was trying to organize the photograph. Nevertheless, it was a necessary part of the process. If one did not chat with the sitters, they tended to become restive and tense.

  It was not as though she did not have more than enough problems as it was, working outside of her greenhouse studio today.

  Rosalind had made it plain that she was not particularly interested in having her photograph taken. She had explained that it was Lord Ackland’s idea and that she was only acquiescing as a favor to him.

  Nevertheless, like every other sitter over the age of five that Venetia had ever encountered, Rosalind was vain enough to want a flattering portrait. To that end, she had insisted upon being photographed in her own home, surrounded by some of her most costly possessions.

  The dark blue evening gown she had chosen for the occasion was in the latest style: very French and very low at the neckline. She wore a fortune in jewelry. Diamonds glittered around her throat, dangled from her ears and glowed in her elaborately coiffed hair.

  Rosalind had even selected the chair on which she would pose. It was heavily gilded and bore an unsettling resemblance to a throne.

  The high-ceilinged room was as rich and elegant-looking as Rosalind herself. Antique urns and statues stood on marble pedestals. Claret-colored velvet curtains tied back with golden sashes pooled on the thick carpet.

  Two hours ago Gabriel and Edward had helped load the necessary equipment, including the camera, plates, tripod, parasols, and reflective shields, into a hired carriage. When the vehicle had rolled out into the street, Venetia had chanced to look back. She saw Gabriel standing on the steps, looking quietly satisfied.

  She had known then that he was distinctly pleased to have her occupied with her photography that morning. He had no doubt told himself that this way he could pursue his inquiries without having to wonder what she was doing. She knew that he was still annoyed about her visit to Burton’s gallery yesterday.

  Taking photographs in clients’ homes was always a cumbersome business. Fortunately Rosalind’s library was well lit with natural light. Nevertheless, it had required ages to get the illumination correct, and it was clear that Rosalind was losing patience. The conversation had turned increasingly personal.

  Venetia was starting to wonder if Rosalind was deliberately taunting her, perhaps as a means of relieving her boredom.

  “No need to mince words with me, Mrs. Jones.” Rosalind gave a throaty chuckle. “I was married myself at one time. I do not mind telling you that I am enjoying my widowhood vastly more than I did my marriage.”

  Venetia could not think of a suitable response to that comment so she stuck with a safer topic. “Would you please shift your right hand a degree or two left? Yes, that will do nicely. Amelia, move that parasol a little closer to Mrs.Fleming. I need more light on the left side of her face. I want to emphasize the elegance of her profile.”

  It never hurt to flatter the sitter, Venetia thought.

  “Will this do?” Amelia asked, angling the parasol.

  “Much better, thank you,” Venetia said.

  She looked through the viewfinder again. This time she concentrated briefly, the way she always did just before she took a photograph.

  Light and shadow reversed. Rosalind Fleming’s aura flashed, pulsing with intense emotion.

  Rosalind was not simmering with impatience, Venetia realized. She was simmering with rage.

  Best to get this done as quickly as possible.

  “Please hold still, Mrs. Fleming,” Venetia said.

  She took the picture. Every instinct was urging her to get out of Rosalind’s house as quickly as possible but professional common sense held her back.

  “It would be best to take a second picture, if you don’t mind holding the pose, Mrs. Fleming.”

  “Very well, if you insist.”

  Venetia removed the exposed plate from the camera, inserted a fresh one and took another picture.

  “Excellent,” she said, relieved to be finished. “I think you will be quite pleased with the results.”

  “When will the prints be ready?” Rosalind asked, displaying little enthusiasm.

  “I’m rather busy at the moment. But I can have them ready for you the first of the week.”

  “I will send one of the servants for them,” Rosalind said.

  Venetia nodded at Amelia, who, evidently sensing the mounting tension in the atmosphere, had already begun to pack up the parasols, mirrors and reflective shields.

  “I’ll have the footman help you with your equipment,” Rosalind said. She glided across the carpet to a dainty writing desk and tugged on the velvet bell pull.

  “Thank you,” Venetia muttered, removing her camera from the tripod.

  “The thing about husbands is that they demand so much time and attention,” Rosalind said, returning to the earlier conversation. “No matter how wealthy they are, they have an unpleasant tendency to complain about the money that one spends on such vital necessities as gowns and shoes. Mind you, they do not blink twice at the notion of purchasing expensive jewelry for their mistresses, but let a wife acquire even the smallest of baubles and there is no end of carping.

  Venetia paused in the act of collapsing the tripod. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I think it would be best if we changed the subject. I’m sure you did not realize it, but my sister, Amelia, is only sixteen. One does not discuss these sorts of things in front of young ladies of that age.”

  Amelia made an odd, half-choked sound and pretended to be very busy with the reflective shields. Venetia knew that she was struggling to stifle a laugh.

  “Forgive me,” Rosalind said. She smiled her icy smile and studied Amelia as though she had not noticed her until now. “I had no notion she was so young. I must say, she seems quite mature for her age and very skilled at her work.” She turned back to Venetia. “You have obviously taught her well. Tell me, Mrs. Jones, where did you learn your trade?

  Rosalind had just thrown down the gauntlet.

  Venetia controlled her temper with an effort.

  “Photography is both an art and a profession, as you know, Mrs.Fleming,” she said smoothly. “My father gave me my first camera and instructed me in the basic techniques shortly before he died. I am fortunate in that my aunt is an excellent artist. I learned a great deal about composition and the use of light and shadow from her.”

  “I imagine Mr. Jones must have been nothing short of astonished to discover that his wife had set herself up in the photography business while he was wandering around the Wild West with a case of amnesia.”

  “Mr. Jones,” Venetia said evenly, “is a very modern-thinking sort of husband, quite advanced in his notions.”

  “Indeed? I did not know that there was any such creature as a modern-thinking husband.”

  The door to the library opened. A liveried footman appeared.

  “Yes, madam?”

  Rosalind motioned toward the stack of photographic paraphernalia. “You may convey that equipment back outside, Henry. Then summon a carriage for Mrs. Jones and her assistant.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Henry bent to collect the tripod. Venetia put a protective hand on her precious camera.

  “I’ll carry the camera,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Loaded down with the gear, the footman started toward the door.

 
“One more thing, Henry,” Rosalind said.

  Henry paused. “Yes, madam?”

  “I am aware that Mrs. Jones and her sister were shown into this house through the front door, but you will see them out through the back entrance, the one used by the tradesmen. Is that quite clear?”

  Henry turned a dark shade of red. “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

  Amelia’s mouth fell open in stunned shock. She looked at Venetia for guidance.

  Venetia had had enough. “Come along, Amelia.”

  She picked up the camera and went toward the door of the library. Amelia grabbed the parasols and hurried after her. Henry brought up the rear.

  Venetia paused just short of the door and allowed Henry and Amelia to move past her out into the hall. When they were gone, she looked back at Rosalind.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Fleming,” she said. “It will be extremely interesting to see how your photograph turns out. My critics say that I have a gift for capturing the essence of a sitter’s true character, you know.”

  Rosalind regarded her the way a viper regards a mouse it intends to devour whole.

  “I expect nothing less than perfection from you, Mrs. Jones,” she said.

  Venetia smiled serenely. “Of course. I am an artist, after all.”

  She turned on her heel and went out into the dimly lit hall. Henry and Amelia stood waiting, uncertain and tense.

  Venetia promptly turned to the right and started toward the front door. “This way, Amelia. Come along, Henry.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Henry whispered uneasily. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the tradesmen’s entrance is at the other end of the house.”

  “Thank you, Henry, but we are in a hurry to leave and it will be much quicker to use the front door,” Venetia said. “We already know the way, you see.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Henry trailed helplessly after her, lugging the equipment.

  At the end of the long hall, Venetia paused and turned to look back along the shadowy length of the corridor. Rosalind, apparently realizing that her orders had been disobeyed, had emerged from the library. She stood in the gloom of the unlit passage.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she said, tight-lipped with fury.

  “Taking our leave through the front door, of course,” Venetia replied. “We are professionals, after all.”

  On impulse, she concentrated hard for a moment, letting her vision slide into the other spectrum again. Rosalind’s aura snapped into focus, hot and erratic with the force of her rage.

  She isn’t just angry, Venetia thought, shaken. She hates me.

  “There is one thing you should know, Mrs. Fleming,” Venetia said, reverting to her normal vision. “We at the Jones Gallery pride ourselves on our retouching skills. Why, the most homely of persons can be made to appear stunningly attractive in a photograph.” She paused for emphasis. “The process can, of course, be easily reversed.”

  It was a bold threat and a risky one. But she had never met a sitter who wanted to be made to appear unattractive in a photograph. Given Rosalind’s lush beauty and obvious vanity, it seemed reasonably safe to assume that she would detest the idea of having a bad picture made of herself, regardless of her sentiments toward the photographer.

  Rosalind stiffened. “Use the front door if you must, Mrs. Jones. It does not alter the facts. You are nothing but a clever, scheming shopkeeper who has managed to capture the fancy of your betters with your photographic tricks and illusions. But the Polite World will soon grow bored with you and turn elsewhere for amusement. Who knows? Perhaps one day you, too, will be driven to drink a glass of brandy laced with cyanide.”

  She whirled and stormed back into the library, slamming the door behind her.

  Venetia caught her breath, aware that she was shaking. She could feel icy perspiration beneath the bodice of her gown. It took everything she had to compose her expression and walk the rest of the way into the front hall.

  Amelia and Henry waited there. A maid was stationed at the door. She appeared nervous and bewildered. Venetia gave her a bright smile as she bore down on her.

  “The door, if you please,” she said briskly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She leaped forward and yanked open the door.

  Clutching her camera very tightly, Venetia sailed through the opening and out onto the front steps. Amelia was right behind her.

  Henry lumbered after them, struggling with the photography equipment.

  A cab stood at the end of the street, horse and driver dozing. Henry whistled loudly. The driver straightened in response and slapped the reins.

  The vehicle rumbled to a halt in front of the town house. Henry loaded the equipment, handed Venetia and Amelia up inside the cab and shut the door.

  The trapdoor opened in the roof of the cab. The driver looked down inquiringly.

  “The Jones Gallery in Bracebridge Street, please,” Venetia said.

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  The trap closed.

  There was a short, brittle stillness in the vehicle.

  Then Amelia burst into a torrent of giggles. She laughed so hard she finally had to clap one gloved hand across her mouth.

  “I cannot believe what you did back there,” she finally managed to get out.

  “I had no choice,” Venetia said. “If we had allowed ourselves to be dismissed through the tradesmen’s entrance, the damage to our business would have been irreparable. It would have been only a matter of time before word got out that we were not considered exclusive enough to use the front door.”

  “I know. I must say, the way you threatened to have Aunt Beatrice retouch Mrs. Fleming’s photograph to make her appear unattractive was a brilliant stroke.”

  “We can only hope the threat works.”

  “How can it fail?” Amelia widened her hands. “Even if she were to refuse to accept the picture, she would know that we possessed the negative. We could do anything we liked with it, including creating an unflattering portrait to display in the gallery for all the world to see. What a sensation that would cause.”

  “Unfortunately we can do no such thing. My threat was nothing but a bluff.”

  “What do you mean? Mrs. Fleming deserves such a fate after the way she spoke to you.”

  “Revenge may be sweet for a moment,” Venetia said, “but it always comes back to haunt one. And in this case, it would be particularly dangerous. If we showed an unattractive picture of the obviously very beautiful Mrs. Fleming, other clients would think twice before employing me to do their portraits.”

  “For fear that they might end up appearing downright ugly.” Amelia made a face. “Yes, I take your point. So much for revenge. Pity, though. Mrs. Fleming certainly deserves to be treated as rudely as she treated you.”

  Venetia looked out at the street. “The question is, why?”

  “Why did she treat us rudely?”

  “No. Why does she hate me? I saw her in the crowd at the exhibition the other night but we were not even introduced until today. What have I done to give her such an intense dislike of my person?”

  23

  GABRIEL SAT WITH Venetia and Beatrice in the small parlor that looked out on Sutton Lane.

  A large pot of coffee provided by Mrs. Trench graced the table next to the sofa. Beatrice, glasses perched on her nose, was placing neat stitches in a yellow rose on an oval of linen secured in an embroidery frame.

  Venetia drank her coffee in an absent manner. It was clear that the experience at Rosalind Fleming’s town house had left her shaken and uneasy. The profession of photography contained a number of hazards, Gabriel thought. Well-connected clients who could destroy one’s status with malicious gossip was obviously one of them.

  “What I fail to understand,” Venetia said, lowering her cup, “is why Mrs.Fleming agreed to be photographed by me in the first place.”

  “I would have thought that was quite obvious,” Beatrice said. She examined the rose. “I believe that I will use a dark gold thread for
the interior of the flower.”

  Gabriel raised his brows at Venetia. She shook her head, very slightly, indicating she did not know what her aunt had meant, either.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Sawyer, do you mean to imply that Mrs. Fleming agreed to have her picture taken by Venetia because it was the fashionable thing to do?”

  “No, of course not.” Beatrice rummaged around in her sewing bag, evidently searching for the dark gold thread. “There are a number of other fashionable photographers in London. It is obvious that Rosalind Fleming sat for a portrait by Venetia because she had no choice.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Gabriel prompted.

  Beatrice peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. “It was her paramour, Lord Ackland, who wanted the picture taken, if you will recall. He was the one who booked the sitting and he is the one who will pay for the finished photograph.”

  Venetia’s teacup stilled in midair. Startled comprehension flashed across her face. “Yes, of course. You are right, Aunt Beatrice. I should have thought of that straight off.”

  Gabriel looked at her and then switched his attention back to Beatrice. “Miss Sawyer, are you saying that Mrs. Fleming sat for her portrait merely to please her lover?”

  “I am saying that she had no choice but to please him, Mr. Jones.” Beatrice found her thread. “Perhaps, as a man, you do not comprehend the true nature of the relationship in which Rosalind Fleming is involved.”

  “There is nothing mysterious about the connection.” He shrugged. “She is Ackland’s mistress, according to Mr. Harrow.”

  “Indeed.” Beatrice sighed. “A woman in Mrs. Fleming’s position may pretend to the world that she has a degree of freedom that a married lady cannot dream of enjoying, but that is not the case. She is, in fact, just as constrained in many ways and certainly more vulnerable to the whims of the gentleman who is paying the bills.”

  Venetia looked at Beatrice with sudden understanding. “In other words, if Lord Ackland insisted upon commissioning a portrait for her, she had no alternative but to sit for it.”

  “To be successful as a mistress a woman must be clever, charming and fascinating at all times,” Beatrice said. “She may fool herself into believing that she is the one manipulating the relationship but deep down there lurks the knowledge that if she does not satisfy her lover in every way, she can be replaced.”