She heard the curtain rustle a moment later.
She refocused on the plate, where Anne’s face materialized below the solution’s surface like a ghost turning flesh.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Look, just look!”
A strong arm wrapped around her middle from behind, and Lucian glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s good,” he said after a pause.
“Good? It’s marvelous!”
“It is very good,” he agreed. “But bows and parasols?”
“You are still grumpy about the parasol,” she said mildly.
“Och no,” he said. “But how will you rouse people’s pity if the bairns don’t look like miners’ children?”
She carefully placed the plate onto the table and pulled off her protective gloves. “I don’t want people’s pity,” she said. “Women like Rosie Fraser don’t want it, either.”
“I like that,” Lucian murmured. “It just isn’t what I had expected.”
She turned in his arms and looked up at him. “Do you think people who visit exhibitions in London don’t know that young children toiling in mines still exist?”
“We all know,” he replied.
“We all know,” she agreed. “Just as we all know that there are people forever bonded to the workhouse and children and elderly people starving on our street corners. But we have learned to ignore it most days—worse, to accept it—and you know what I think makes it rather too easy to do so?”
“Struggling from day to day in one’s own life,” Lucian suggested, “or not giving a damn.”
She shook her head. “Possibly, but another reason is that sometimes we look at fellow humans who suffer and see nothing like ourselves. It is too tempting to believe that hardship is something that only happens to others. The children at the corner are others. A lady who sees a miner’s girl, looking exactly like she envisions her, might feel pity. She will also feel quite safe in the knowledge this would never happen to her own little girl and she’ll remain quite unmoved beyond the pang of pity.”
“Whereas if the girl looks like her little girl …”
“Precisely.”
Lucian was quiet for a moment. “You truly believe that people can be moved to care, and trouble themselves with change, with such a soft touch?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I believe most people wish to do right by others.”
“Wish that I had your enthusiasm,” he murmured.
“You must have some of it,” she said. “Else you wouldn’t try to change the way of things.”
He laughed softly at that.
She laid her fingers against his chest, feeling for the beat of his heart.
He covered her hand with his. “Have you ever wondered why there’s been two Reform Acts by now, enfranchising more workingmen?” he asked. “While there’s been no concession for women who want the vote?”
“I have thought about it,” she said, wondering what it had to do with her photographs. “I think it is because people are used to men voting.”
“It’s because men are violent,” Lucian said, “and aren’t afraid to be violent. Parliament isn’t concerned with fairness, they just don’t want open bloodshed and bursting prisons. It’s why every time the mood turns proper ugly, a small concession is made to keep everyone sweet.”
“Don’t tell Lucie,” she said. “She will bring the canons.”
“Perhaps she should.”
She tugged at his lapel. “Are you discrediting my idea?”
“No,” he said after a pause. “I think it’s a very good idea. As long as one believes people are fundamentally good.”
“I do believe that,” she said. “I must.”
He raised a hand to her cheek and stroked softly with his knuckles. “One way or another, you’ll make quite a few people uncomfortable with your art, mo luaidh.”
She leaned into his touch. “I hope so.”
He looked like a thing of darkness with his brooding air and the red glow of the lamp spilling over his shadowed features.
“I should like to photograph you,” she said.
His mouth pulled into an ironic smile. “A study of a white knight, aye?”
“No,” she said, absently. “A portrait of a Scotsman.”
He chuckled to himself as he returned to his desk beyond the curtain.
She spent the evening working with a lack of focus, as Lucian’s quip about the white knight buzzed at the back of her mind like a pesky fly. She had hoped for a white knight not long ago, and for good reason: a Sir Galahad was pure and steadfast and could be counted on for noble conduct in all circumstances. Lucian … well, he was capable of goodness, but he would doubtlessly do something outrageous if he thought it necessary. Still she wanted him; a glimpse of his bare shoulders, an errant curl, or a flash of gray fire in his eyes, and she became weak in the knees. This was doubly dreadful for as long as she felt alone in this vulnerable position. Lucian desired her, but did he … care for her? Love and adore her? A white knight would have left no doubts; in the legends, they took on grueling tests to prove their love to their lady. Hattie wasn’t unreasonable; she would have settled for the more realistic version: a man who went down on one knee and asked with a tremble in his voice whether she would be his wife. His ring would have sealed his devotion. She had a ring. A golden reminder that the man who held sway over her heart had tricked her.