Dawn of the Golden Promise (19 page)

CALEB LYON (1850,
AFTER A VISIT TO
B
RADY
'
S
P
ORTRAIT
G
ALLERY
)

New York City

I
n the waiting room of Mathew Brady's gallery, Michael Burke sat on a straight-backed chair like a figure of doom. Not for the first time over the past hour, he silently railed at himself for his folly. It had been a weak moment indeed when he allowed his father-in-law and his wife to talk him into this daft idea.

Looking up, he glared at Sara, sitting across from him. She smiled sweetly in return, as if altogether unaware of his foul humor.

He could not help but notice that she was looking especially lovely today, decked out in the new blue suit that she'd had tailored for the portrait. For a moment he almost forgot to scowl. But only for a moment.

The waiting room of Brady's Gallery at Broadway and Fulton was an unpretentious place, not at all in keeping with the showy painting on the wall downstairs—a great, gaudy hand with one finger pointing to the stairway and the legend “THREE FLIGHTS UP.”

Michael had expected something more on the order of Barnum's Museum across the street. But this plain and modest studio had little to distinguish it, other than the compelling portraits that lined the walls—and its owner's reputation.

Most of the portraits were of famous American citizens: politicians, inventors, showmen, and other notable personalities. As for Mathew Brady's reputation, it was equalled by none of the other daguerreotypists whose galleries lined Broadway.

Almost all photographers called themselves “artists,” but Brady seemed to be one of the few who gave credence to the word. Brady's celebrated artistry brought the public scurrying to his door with more business than he could handle.

No doubt, Michael speculated sourly, the man's popularity accounted for his not being able to keep his appointments on time.

He looked up as one of Brady's assistants, a long-faced youth with rumpled linen and a slight tic, appeared in the doorway—for the third time—to announce rather timidly that “Mr. Brady will be ready for you soon, I'm sure.”

“Would that be this afternoon or tomorrow, do you think?” Michael said evenly.

The boy twitched, then hurriedly retreated.

With a grunt of disgust, Michael again faced his wife. “I could have sworn your father said this would take only moments.”

Sara's smile never wavered. “Try to be patient, darling. Mr. Brady is doing separate sittings of Father and Winnie, after all. And don't forget what a compliment it is, having Mathew Brady himself request an appointment.”

“You know very well,” Michael pointed out, “that the only reason we're here is because Brady wanted to photograph Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Farmington.”

She merely shrugged, holding out one gloved hand to inspect it. “Mr. Brady requested that we sit for a portrait, too. He made his intentions very clear.”

“The intentions were those of your wily father, I'm thinking.”

After inspecting the other glove, Sara looked at him. “My father is not wily.”

Michael quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Well…” Her mouth twitched. “I suppose he is a bit devious at times. Still, I think this is all very exciting. Pout if you must, but I intend to enjoy it. Besides, just imagine how splendid we will look to our grandchildren someday. You are wickedly handsome in your new suit, you know.”

Michael relaxed a bit in spite of himself. “A lot of fuss for nothing, all the same.”

At that moment Brady himself walked into the waiting room. “Captain. Mrs. Burke,” he said. “I apologize for the delay. If you'd like to join Mr. and Mrs. Farmington now, we'll do the group portrait first. Then another of the two of you.”

Following him into the other room, Michael was struck by Brady's youthful appearance. He might be one of the most famous photographers in the country, but even with a full beard he didn't look to be thirty as yet. He was a small man, his head barely reaching Michael's shoulder. His black broadcloth suit hung loosely on his slender frame, and a full head of curly dark hair diminished his stature even further. Even his thick-lensed spectacles seemed too large for the rest of him.

Mathew Brady was something of a mystery to New Yorkers. In spite of his phenomenal success and prosperity, he and his wife apparently lived a quiet, private life with virtually no involvement in New York's society.

There were any number of conflicting stories about the young photographer, some outrageously farfetched. Supposedly, his parents had been impoverished Irish immigrants, yet Brady claimed otherwise. He had been raised, he maintained, on a farm in eastern New York State, where his mother and father had been born.

Gossip also hinted that Brady could neither read nor write. Yet since entering the studio, Michael had seen the photographer scan his appointment register with his nearsighted gaze, then scrawl a message for one of his assistants to deliver.

Brady's failing eyesight, however, was obviously more than a rumor. The man seemed to have difficulty in making out his register entries, and he pressed his face almost to the page before writing. Apparently the problem had become so acute that he no longer operated his own cameras, relying instead on his assistants for the technical aspects of the business.

Still, there was no question that Brady was the real artist behind the gallery's success. Michael noted with interest the deft movements, the attention to detail, the quiet confidence that marked him as a master of his profession.

He also recognized something else about the renowned Brady of Broadway: the man clearly possessed the Irishman's traditional gift of storytelling. All through the sitting, the slight-figured photographer rattled off one anecdote after another, pausing between tales only long enough for a quick smile.

Brady took shots of both couples together, then of Michael and Sara, and finally individual portraits. When at last the click of the drop shutter proclaimed an end to the final sitting, Michael let out a relieved sigh.

“Excellent,” Brady announced. “I personally guarantee portraits you will be pleased to pass down to future generations.” The photographer looked at Michael, then broke into a boyish smile.

After the sitting, Sara waited with Winnie while the men exchanged small talk. Watching Michael, she was fairly certain he hadn't actually minded sitting for the daguerreotype as much as he'd previously let on. Both he and her father were laughing heartily as Mr. Brady led them through the door off the studio.

“I've only recently purchased a copy of your new book,” her father was saying to the photographer. “I must say, I'm impressed with your portraiture, Brady. Fine work.”

The book he referred to, Sara knew, was Brady's
Gallery of Illustrious Americans.
A massive work, the book was a collection of splendid portraits of eminent American citizens. It was said to weigh at least five pounds and sold for the exorbitant price of thirty dollars a copy.

“Well, Mr. Farmington, after today you can be sure that your own portrait will grace my next collection,” Brady replied. Turning then to Michael, he peered at him closely through his thick eyeglasses. “You know, Captain, I've been entertaining the idea of doing a collection of our city officials, including the police force. But I must say the captains to whom I've broached the subject have been anything but enthusiastic.”

Michael's dark eyes glinted with amusement. “I expect a number of the men might be as reluctant as I was to have their faces frozen for posterity. You might get further if you'd speak to Chief Matsell about the idea.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you for the advice, Captain. Once I return from Europe, I'll do just that. I'm planning some rather extensive collections,” Brady went on, stroking his beard. “Professional people. Stage stars. Public officials—the police force, the fire department. And political figures, of course. The mayor has already sat for me, as well as the governor. And some of our aldermen.” He paused. “I've ah…heard tell that you might be considering a future in politics, Captain.”

Michael merely smiled, not rising to the photographer's bait.

“If the rumor is true,” Brady went on, “one of your future competitors is scheduled for a sitting next week. Perhaps you know Mr. Patrick Walsh?”

Michael reacted exactly as Sara would have expected. His features went rigid, his mouth tightening to a thin line below his moustache. He stood unmoving, both fists clenched at his side.

“Walsh?” he said, his voice as hard as his eyes.

Obviously unaware of the response he had provoked, Brady went on in a genial tone of voice. “Yes, in addition to his business connections, he's apparently planning a political career as well.”

Sara watched Michael closely. His self-control was ordinarily impressive, but she had learned that when it came to Patrick Walsh, her husband could be highly unpredictable, even volatile.

“Politics, is it?” Michael's voice was edged with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “I wasn't aware that Walsh had any particular aspirations in that direction.”

“Oh yes,” Brady said, cheerfully rambling on. “He seems very enthusiastic about his prospects. Apparently he thinks his Tammany connections and business dealings will serve him well in the political arena.”

“No doubt he's right,” Michael said.

Although his expression never altered, Sara saw the flint in his eyes, heard the barely controlled contempt in his tone. Her mind raced for a way to end the exchange between the photographer and her husband before Michael's temper got in the way of his customary good manners. He could be a veritable bear when angered.

She drew a discreet sigh of relief when her father moved to intervene.

“If you're interested in politicians as subjects,” he offered, “you might want to contact Simon Dabney.” Sara's father spoke directly to the photographer, but his eyes were fixed on Michael. “Not only would Simon himself make a worthy subject for one of your collections, but he could bring you any number of other prospects as well. Do you know him?”

When Brady admitted that he had not had the pleasure, Sara's father offered to arrange an introduction. “For now, however, we probably should be on our way. Michael and I promised these lovely ladies dinner at the Astor House.”

Sara didn't miss the firm grip her father applied to Michael's arm as he turned toward the door, then stopped. “You won't forget about the portraits of Sara's grandmother, will you, Brady?”

The photographer shook his head. “I'm looking forward to it. As soon as you advise me of a convenient time for Mrs. Platt, I'll make plans for a private sitting in her home.”

Sara's father nodded, then gave Michael a little nudge. “Good. You'll hear from me soon.”

Outside on the street, silence descended and hung over the four for a noticeably long time. Finally Winnie, ever sensitive to the moods of those close to her and always adept at breaking the tension, turned to Michael with a bright smile. “Why, Michael, don't you look positively thunderous! Was it really that bad, getting starched up and polished to have your portrait made?”

Michael blinked. “What? Oh no. No, perhaps not,” he answered vaguely. “I expect I was thinking about something else.”

For just an instant his eyes met Sara's. Then he looked away.