A small pause ensued. “What happened to her?” Harriet asked quietly.
“She drowned,” he said. “In an accident. With my sister, Sorcha.”
Harriet touched her throat. “I’m sorry.”
Just like that, his body felt icy on the inside. He hadn’t said Sorcha’s name out loud since the day they had buried her, and now it had scraped out, unplanned. Across from him, his wife’s brown eyes were soft and shiny, as though she were about to cry. He glanced out the window again, because her tears unnerved him, and because he had nothing to add. There were some emotions that couldn’t be spoken, and that fateful day was shrouded in mist in any case.
“I’ll think about the women’s wages, how to make them stretch as much as the men’s,” he said, cutting off whatever she was making to say. She returned to her book for the remainder of the journey.
St. Andrews awaited them beneath turbulent skies, the gray above mirroring the low gray cottages and cobblestone streets below. Seagull cries filled the air and a salty wind relentlessly beat away at the university towers and crumbling abbey ruins. The only dots of color were the billowing scarlet gowns of the students who were promenading along the quay down by the beach. Harriet seemed excited by the rustic surroundings and wanted to dawdle and look at oddly unremarkable things—a weathered gargoyle here, a breeze-ruffled gull there—but Mr. Wright had rejoined them at the railway station from his coach and was making straight for the camera shop.
“It’s right near to the studio of Thomas Rodger, the first professional photographer in St. Andrews,” the engineer explained. “You shall see some very fine Rodger portraits on the wall behind the counter.”
The shop was located between a bustling post office and a bookstore. It displayed three cameras on tripods in its window, and the sight of them made Harriet balk. “Good grief,” she said. “They look awfully big.”
She changed her mind quickly inside the shop when the elderly owner tried to give short shrift to her with a very small-looking model.
“Has it any flexibility to bring a motif closer?” she asked.
The man had been showing the camera to Lucian, but at her question, his attention briefly shifted to her. “You are referring to the option of different focal lengths, ma’am?”
“Probably?”
“Yes, but because of its size, the range is limited.”
“Hm. And what about the lighting?”
The man’s gaze flickered back to Lucian. “She means the aperture?”
“If it determines the brightness of the image, yes,” said his wife, unperturbed.
“It does, as does the shutter speed. I’m afraid there is little variability. But this model is light and conveniently portable for a female hand.”
“Well, I need it all,” Harriet said, “all the trappings.”
“I assume ma’am is referring to all the movements,” the man said, and, to Lucian, “You’ll be looking at the large whole-plate cameras, then, sir.” He gestured at the models in the window display.
“They look as though they should fold up neatly,” Harriet said cheerfully. “Like an accordion.”
“Quite—would ma’am prefer wet collodion plates, or gelatin dry plates?”
“I’m uncertain about the difference.”
The shop owner looked between her and Lucian with a frown furrowing his brow. “The latest, more convenient alternative to wet plates. Madam knows how to calotype?” And, at her silence, “The chemical process of making the images on the plates visible?”
“Chemistry …” She shook her head. “But I’m proficient at mixing colors. I’m certain I’ll learn this in no time.”
“Hmm. Certainly.”
“Mr. Wright here will teach me,” she said.
“Erm,” said the engineer, who had been hovering in the back, and he shuffled his feet in embarrassment, for Lucian stood right near him, which made it difficult to refuse.
“If you are content with finding your perfect model with Mr. Wright’s competent assistance,” Lucian said, suppressing unexpected amusement, “I have a few telegrams to send. The post office is right next door.”
He’d have to telegraph Aoife to inquire about any findings about the burglary, and Matthews, because he had to extend his stay here in Fife if Harriet wished to photograph three hundred miners and was completely clueless as to how to go about it. Vastly inconvenient on the one hand, but on the other, it might be his one chance to consummate this marriage after all. He had an advantage here in the wilderness of Scotland where there was only one bed, while stuffy, snobby London only emphasized the gulf between them and would remind her of all the reasons why she hated him. Besides. She looked … happy here. Her eyes glowed and her skin shimmered at the prospect of learning something new, of doing something for the people of Drummuir, and her excitement made him feel all sorts of ways.