Caught in the Light (17 page)

"Why not?"

"Because, Mrs. Esguard, I've never met anyone quite like you."

From that day on we grew to be friends and, in a sense, colleagues. Though I never acknowledged as much to myself, it was my eagerness for his company, and his for mine, that drew us together, quite as much as his scientific curiosity. There was no danger, of course, that he would object to a mere woman carrying out such work. His openness of mind on that score was implicit from the start. Yet some, notably Jose, would object. So it was that a secretive element was part of our friendship from the start. We were, in effect, colluding in the deception of my husband, and the reputable, intellectual reasons for doing so made it easier than it otherwise would have been to entertain other reasons that were neither reputable nor intellectual.

My pleasure at seeing him riding towards me on Pompey that afternoon of early August would therefore have been considerable, whatever the circumstances. They were heightened, however, by my exultant mood, a mood stemming from a discovery I had made just two days before, which promised to elevate my researches to a wholly new level of significance. And what is a discovery worth if it cannot be disclosed to a friend so that he too may relish the joy of it?

He saw me almost as soon as I saw him and waved in greeting, then altered his route and trotted slowly across to meet me.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Esguard," he said as he drew up in front of me, courteously correct as ever. "You look, if I may say so, the very picture of good health."

"The climb to Charlton Down is an invigorating one, Mr. Byfield," I replied.

"I must undertake it more often if it is likely to prove such a tonic as your appearance suggests." He dismounted, wincing slightly as his right leg touched the ground. "But I suspect there may be more than fresh air and exercise to this... beaming contentment of yours."

"There may be, yes." I patted Pompey's muzzle. "I cannot deny it."

"Some new heliogenic miracle, perhaps?"

"Am I so very transparent?"

"Only to one who knows your secret."

"Well, well." I blushed. "It is true. I have chanced upon a quite remarkable enhancement of the heliogenic process."

"I doubt chance played a more important role than reason."

"Let us settle for trial and error."

"Let us by all means, if it will appease your modesty. Where have trial and error taken you, might I enquire?"

"To an appreciation of the unique properties of gallic acid."

He smiled. "And what are those properties?"

"Its silver salt is astonishingly potent, Mr. Byfield." My voice quivered with excitement. "It actually strengthens the image after formation, so much so that a faded picture, indeed a picture in which nothing is visible at all, may be rescued from oblivion by the gallate's deposition of silver on the original base. You recall my failed portrait of Barrington and Susannah?"

"I do."

"It is failed no longer. It is as bright and sharp as day. Will you not come and see? I have already printed a reverted copy. It is in my laboratory."

"I can scarcely believe what you are saying. You have ... restored the picture?"

"I have done more than that. I have released the true image from its hiding place."

"It sounds miraculous."

"I have reproved you for likening me to a miracle-worker before, Mr. Byfield. All I am doing is liberating the possibilities of science."

"And thereby plucking the light from the air as a lepidopterist would net a butterfly. If that is not a miracle, then it is certainly an act of genius. I would be honoured to be shown the rescued portrait of your brother-in-law and his wife. Indeed, I positively itch to see it. Unfortunately, I told Fowler I'd collect Pompey's new bridle this afternoon, and I don't want to keep the poor fellow waiting. Neither does Pompey, do you, boy?"

Pompey shook his head in apparent comprehension and I smiled at both of them. "Call on your way back, Mr. Byfield. There are hours of good viewing light left to us."

Thus was it settled. Mr. Byfield rode on to Fowler's saddlery in Tollard Rising, whilst I returned to the house and my favourite domain: the room in the basement I called my laboratory. A whole wing of the basement had fallen into redundancy since Jose's father's day, on account of the reduction in the size of the household. There had once been a steward as well as a butler, for instance, each with his own pantry. I had set up my laboratory in one of the rooms vacated as a result of the mergence of the two offices. It was a plain but airy chamber, where I could work undisturbed amidst my ever-expanding stock of paper, chemicals and printing equipment. I kept the room locked when I was not there to prevent the servants upsetting an experiment. I confess I also wanted them to know as little as possible of what I was doing. I harboured the fear that Jose's disapproval would be aroused more by the success of my work than by the work itself. It had often given him pleasure to let me think myself free, before twitching on the rein to remind me that he would never let go.

But Jose had been in London for months and given no hint that he meant to return before the autumn. I had attempted to obtain a picture of his brother and sister-in-law during their impromptu visit partly as an act of defiance, in the hope that I might one day flourish it beneath Jose's contemptuous nose. It was perhaps as well that the results had been so disappointing, for Barrington left with only my discomfiture to mention, something Jose would have relished. Thanks to my recent discoveries involving gallic acid, however, it seemed that I had my trophy without the hazard. I was triumphant and could not resist displaying my triumph to Mr. Byfield, the one man who might appreciate it in all its aspects, even if he was too delicate to reveal as much.

I had left the reverted portrait of Barrington and Susannah in its printing frame, one of a dozen or so Eames had constructed for me, with many a puzzled scratch of his aged head. It was standing on the bench that ran the length of the wall facing the door, immediately beneath the high window that was the only source of natural light in the room. I closed the door behind me and walked across to examine it, marvelling at the clarity of the image. Then I moved further along the bench, drew out a stool from beneath it and sat down. I opened a drawer, took out my notebook, pen and ink, and began the painstaking but deeply satisfying process of recording my latest findings.

Time passed as I sat there, engrossed in the day-by-day chronicle of my discoveries. Two hours or more elapsed. The light changed. Late afternoon became early evening. I felt as peaceful as I was elated, possessed by a strange joyous calm.

Then there came a knock at the door. It did not open. The servants had been instructed always to wait for a response. I closed the notebook, walked across to the door and pujled it open. One of the maids, Jane, was standing outside with Mr. Byfield. I thanked her and invited Mr. Byfield in. He strode directly to the printing frame and looked at the picture.

"It's utterly astonishing," he said after a moment. "Such a transformation!"

"I will admit to you, Mr. Byfield, that with this one picture I have surpassed my highest hopes for the success of heliogenesis."

"I do not wonder at it. And the magical ingredient is ... gallic acid?"

"It is."

"A substance quite unknown to me, I confess."

"It occurs naturally, in oak-gall. Sir Humphry Davy wrote up his method for its extraction in the very same volume of the Journals of the Royal Institution that contained his essay on the late Mr. Wedgwood's camera obscura experiments fifteen years ago, a volume which naturally I have pored over many a time. Without it, I doubt I would have thought of including gallic acid in my trials. I thank the good Lord, as well as Sir Humphry, that I did, because it may yet bestow further rewards upon us. Where gallic acid can restore it can also accelerate. Do you not see, Mr. Byfield? It is logical to suppose that if I treat my camera paper with a solution of the acid before attempting to obtain a picture, the acid's reaction with the nitrate of silver in which I already wash the paper will increase the receptiveness of the surface many times over. Moving objects will be within my compass. Bright sunlight will no longer be essential. A bird in flight; the sky at night; a candle burning in a darkened room: there is no limit to what might be achieved."

"Are such things really possible?"

"I believe they are."

"Then coincidence has proved itself a blessed ally." He turned from the picture and smiled at me. "Yet again."

"You have some other fortuitous event in mind?"

"I do. Can you not guess to what I refer?"

"No."

"Why, the happy chance of my meeting you, Mrs. Esguard. Believe me when I say that I count that one of the greatest blessings ever bestowed upon me."

I blushed and looked away. "For shame, Mr. Byfield."

"There is no shame in this, Marian." He grasped my hand and held it to his chest. I stared at him, amazed, but in no way affronted. He had only said what I had often thought myself- and prayed he might also think. "You feel it, too, do you not?"

"I cannot deny it."

"Some would call the sentiment improper."

"So, no doubt, would I... if I did not share it."

"I hoped you did." He raised my hand gently to his lips and kissed the knuckles. "And feared it also."

"What are we to do, Lawrence?"

"I '

The door flew open behind us, crashing against the edge of the nearest table like a thunderclap. I whirled round, to be met by a sight that froze my thoughts as well as my limbs. A man dressed in dusty riding clothes was standing in the doorway, glaring at us. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with an unruly mane of greying hair, a crooked nose, hollow cheeks and deep-shadowed eyes. It was the face of one who at thirty had been handsome and well aware of it, but who at forty wore with scorn the visible ravages of the life he had chosen to lead. It was the face of my husband, Joslyn Esguard.

"You look uncommonly displeased to see me, Marian," he said, striding into the room, the leather of his riding boots creaking audibly. "You, too, Lawrence." As he stepped between us, I realized to my dismay that Mr. Byfield was still holding my hand. I pulled it away, conscious of Jose watching me and studying my expression as I did so. But I could not bring myself to return his gaze, aware though I was that a wholly innocent wife should never flinch from looking her husband in the eye. "Can it be that my arrival is ... untimely?"

"Not at all," said Mr. Byfield.

"You think it the reverse, then? Timely in the extreme? Well, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have returned not a moment too soon."

"What can you mean, Jose?" I asked, nerving myself at last to look at him. "Mr. Byfield and I '

"Must say goodbye," Jose interrupted, his voice rising. "For I am master here. And I have no intention of playing the cuckold. You,

sir." He turned to Mr. Byfield. "Oblige me by leaving my house this instant. And quitting Legion Cottage tomorrow."

"You cannot be serious."

"Never more so."

"You are labouring under some gross misapprehension."

"You deny seeking to engage my wife's affections?"

"I most certainly do."

"Then I will make you an offer, sir. I will call at Legion Cottage at noon tomorrow. If you are still there, we will discuss how you may give me satisfaction in this matter."

"Good God, Jose, do you know what you're saying?"

"As clearly as I know what you and my wife were about when I opened that door. And what it would have led to had I not."

"Jose '

"Be silent, madam," he roared at me. "Now, sir, will you leave of your own free will? Or shall I be forced to have you thrown down the steps by the servants? For myself, I'd prefer the latter. But never let it be said that I deny any man the opportunity of a dignified withdrawal."

Mr. Byfield looked at me uncertainly, as if for guidance. I shook my head, urging him to comply, begging him with the force of my gaze to leave before a bad situation grew infinitely worse.

"Well, Byfield, what's it to be?"

"It is your house, Esguard, as you say, and if you insist, then naturally I shall leave."

"I do insist."

"And Legion Cottage is undeniably in your gift. I would appear to have little choice but to accede to your intemperate demands. As to your aspersions upon Mrs. Esguard's '

"Leave me to deal with my wife as I see fit, sir. She is none of your concern."

"But she is, sir." Mr. Byfield lowered his voice and fixed Jose with his gaze. "I shall not depart from this neighbourhood whilst I have the slightest doubt as to her well-being."

"Then you'll suffer the consequences."

"So be it." The two of them stared at each other, breathing hard. Then Mr. Byfield turned to me and nodded. "Your servant, ma'am." So saying, he strode to the doorway and stepped out of the room.

Jose followed him, bellowing down the passage for attention. As he did so, Mr. Byfield glanced back at me over his shoulder. His look was one of helpless rage and longing. He must have seen the same look on my face. I raised my hand in the faintest and fondest of farewells and there was an answering flicker of his gaze. Then he moved out of sight.

"Show Mr. Byfield out, girl," Jose snapped at Jane as she came scampering up. "Then return here."

"Yes, sir," came the breathless reply.

As Jane made off after Mr. Byfield, Jose turned and ambled back to where I was standing by the bench. He smiled with mock amiability and glanced round at the printing frame, the camera on its pedestal, the stacks of paper, the phalanxes of chemical bottles. He took it all in, nodding slowly, his lip curling in scorn. Then he said, "What have you been about, Marian? What is all... this?"

"Some amateur chemistry. Nothing more."

"I would call this ..." He pointed to the picture of Barrington and Susannah. "Rather more than chemistry."

"It is nothing that need concern you."

"No?"

"Some .. . inconsequential experiments. That is all."

"Barrington wrote to me, describing your "inconsequential experiments" as best he was able. I didn't care for the sound of them." He peered closer. "I care even less for the look of them. A hundred years ago, I warrant they'd have burned you as a witch."