Maude Brown's Baby (33 page)

Donald stepped to the center of the room. His hand glided over the top of the large studio camera, feeling the smoothness of its wooden sides. He lightly pinched the leather bellows and admired the polished brass trim.

Geoffrey watched with pride.

“What’s in there?” Donald pointed to a door that had black fabric over the transom glass.

“Her darkroom,” Geoffrey said.

“May I?” Donald
said, walking toward the door.

“Of course.
Everything in this room belonged to your mother, so consider it yours.”

Donald opened the door slowly. There was no chemical smell, but a shelf full of brown bottles stood empty, clean and ready for use.

“She had a fine darkroom,” Donald called over his shoulder. He looked for a button on the wall, then realized that this room had never been wired for electric lights, although it did have copper water pipes along the wall. A pair of matching paraffin oil lamps with ruby lenses hung from their mounts at each end of the wide, shallow sink.             

“What are
those?” Geoffrey asked from the door.

Donald followed Geoffrey’s gaze to a collection of cardboard boxes marked “DuVoll’s” and “Darko” and “Kodak,” each with the warning, “Open only in very subdued or ruby light.”

“Printing paper, sir, and those boxes on the highest shelf contain dry photographic plates.”

Donald examined the glass beakers and a matching set of white porcelain trays. He tipped a small set of balance scales with one finger, watching for a moment as the opposite side tipped up. He examined one of the film developing tanks, and then a funnel. Eac
h object lingered in his hands—his mother’s hands—Donald thought.

“A
re you all right?”

“Oh, yes
, sir.” Donald struggled for something to say. “The printing plates and paper are too old to use,” he called out, “but everything else is in perfect order.”

Geoffrey
smiled. “My boy, it would do me good to see someone use this studio again, and your dear mother would have wanted it to be you. I hope you will visit here often.”

Donald, lost once more in thought, didn’t hear. Geoffrey cleared his throat.
             

“
Donald, this room is exactly as your mother left it on the day she took you and Grace with her on the trolley into town.”

“Sir? The day of the storm?”

“Yes.”

“Wait! My sister was with us?
”

“No, my boy, At some point, Grace and the nanny became separated from you and your mother. They found refuge in a house that survived the storm. I didn’t learn about it for two days, until they were able to make their way back here. I was beside myself, looking for them. Of course when the nursemaid turned up with Grace, it gave me hope that you and Maude were
… were still alive, but … I …”

Geoffrey sniffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your mother went into town that day to visit another photographer. That’s where the other pictures of you were found.”

Clara moved closer and lightly touched Geoffrey’s shoulder. He sniffed again and smiled at Clara. “Right you are. Stiff upper lip. Best stick with the present—and the happy news that Maude’s son has returned!”

“If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll see what the cook can rustle up.”

Clara laughed. “Rustle up?”

“Oh dear. My parents would be appalled at my speech,” Geoffrey said. “I’ve lived in the States too long.”

“Thank you, sir. We’d love to have sup
per with you.”

Clara watched as Geoffrey slowly took the mezzanine stairs down one
by one. Donald stood silently, his hand on the back of the chair in the center of the room. A moment later, she joined him.

“Donald? This is your mother’s studio. What are you feeling? What do you think?”

Donald laughed. Clara stepped away, anger in her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to be funny.”

He laughed again.

“Donald! Stop it.”

“I’m sorry, Clara, it’s not what you said. I’m laughing at myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s just that Mrs. Carhart asks me the same questions whenever we talk about the photograph of me on this chair. She wants to know how I feel. She tells me to think, but it’s always frustrating. I never had an answer, because I didn’t know what she meant. Now, for the first time, I do.”

“Please tell me, Donald
…”

“L
ook! What’s that?”

Clara, startled, followed Donald across the room. He stopped before a narrow oak cabinet. It was a sturdy piece, about five feet high and outfitted with several shallow drawers, each centered with a small brass frame just above the handle.

“Oh boy.”

“What, Donald?”

“My mother’s negatives.”

A label on one drawer read
Oct.-Dec. 1899. Donald opened it. Inside, a double row of glass panes—larger ones on the left, smaller to the right— stood on edge, each supported by grooves cut into the wood.

Clara peered in. “Why two si
zes?”

“The five by seven-inch plates were used in her studio camera.” He nodded back toward the tripod in the center
of the room. “The smaller ones fit the camera she carried outside the studio, probably that one over there.” He pointed to a field camera resting on a shelf across the room.

His fingers stepped from the edge of one negative to the next, as if they were walking from the front to the back of the drawer. He pulled a negative from the second row, then turned toward a wall sconce and held it up to the electric light.

“See, this was taken on a ship, perhaps on the passage from England.” He turned so Clara could see.

“That must be your little sister and Mr. Payne standing against the rail.”

“Yes. And the photo you found of him talking to the immigration clerk? That negative could be in this drawer.”

Donald slid the glass plate back into its grooves, closed the top drawer and pulled out the second. Its hand-written label read
Jan.-Mar. 1900. There were fewer negatives than in the first drawer, and most were the smaller size. He pulled a glass plate about the size of a playing card and held it to the light.

“See, here is one of my mother and
…” Donald removed his glasses, set them on top of the cabinet and brought the negative near the tip of his nose. He squinted and closed one eye. “Yes, my mother in bed with a baby.”

“You!”

“Me.”

“Who is the other lady?” Cla
ra said, on tiptoe, peering around Donald’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, but I think Mr. Payne took this one.”

“Why?”

“It’s out of focus.”

Clara laughed.

Donald hesitated, still looking down at the glass plate in his hand.

“It’s strange, Clara.”

“Strange?”

“I thought that if I could only discover who my parents were, I’d somehow be a different person.”

“And now?”

“Now I wonder if dwelling on that was an anchor holding me back. In this room, I feel the gap between me and the past is closing, as if I’m on a train moving out of the station. Does that make sense?”

Donald stopped looking through the negatives and rested his arm on the open drawer. He felt his pocket for his glasses, then decided to leave them off. He looked in Clara’s direction.

“By studying the one photograph I had, by analyzing every detail, I thought I could touch the past. I had dreams of being here. That’s why this room is so familiar.”

Faint voices downstairs let them know the supper table was being set. Clara moved closer. She patted Donald’s chest lightly several times. He loved the feel of it.

“Yes, Donald, it all makes perfect sense.”

Donald had left his glasses off, as he did sometimes when he wanted to look inside himself rather than out. With her hand still on his chest, Clara was close enough for Donald to see, at least in soft focus.

Clara preferred Donald’s eyes without the distortion of his thick glasses. She spoke softly.

“Mrs. Carhart is not here, Donald, so I’ll ask for her: Now that you know who your parents were, and now that you’re here in your mother’s studio, how does it make you feel?”

Donald’s hands went to Clara’s shoulders. He held her gently for a few seconds before answering. “I think Mrs. Carhart wanted me to know that whatever I am and whatever I become is up to me, but she could never have imagined finding all this.”

“And now that you’re here?”

“For the first time, dear Clara, I feel whole.”

Clara and Donald heard boots and a cough in the hall, giving them time to step apart. They were surprised to see Clayton, the chauffe
ur, rather than a butler.

“Mr. Brown? Miss Barnes? Supper will be served in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, we’ll be down soon,” Clara said.

Donald patted his pockets for his glasses. Clara retrie
ved them from the negative cabinet and put them in his hand. He made no move to put them on. Clara paused, studying his eyes before she spoke. She patted his chest again.

“Donald, I need
to freshen up. Why don’t you stay here and come downstairs when you’re ready?” Not waiting for an answer, she closed the door softly behind her.

Donald stood alone in his mother’s studio, motionless, no longer aware of his arms or legs, or even his feet on the oak floor. His mother was here. They breathed the same air. He laughed, lightly at first, then as freely as if someone had told an excellent joke.

“What do you see, dear b
oy?”

He laughed again.

“Everything!” he said aloud.

“What do you see?” Mrs. Carhart repeated, her voice flat in his mind. Donald, suddenly frustrated, felt his jaws growing tight.

“What do you want me to see?” he said to the empty air.

“Keep looking
.”

Donald crossed to his mother’s secretary
. He pulled the lid toward him to form the writing desk. Inside, an orderly row of nooks and a narrow shelf formed the rear of the cabinet. Several pens stood on end in a small vase. A hand-held blotter, well used, lay beside it. Donald reached for a small black book, five by seven inches on its sides and half an inch thick.

“My mother’s journal,” he said aloud.

“Just like your own,” Mrs. Carhart replied.

Donald pressed his hands on the front and back covers, letting his warmth soak in. The books were indeed alike. Donald knew that this was not the on
ly journal his mother kept, just the last one. He shifted the book to his right hand and lifted the cover with his left. The first page was blank, save for a handwritten name and date.

Maude Elizabeth Lancaster-Brown, September, 1899

Donald turned the page and read the first entry.

Monday, 25 September, 1899, Liverpool Harbor             

How I dread the next three weeks at sea! Geoffrey is exceedingly kind, but there is only so much a man can do. At least he is good with little Gracie, which will give me time to rest as the doctor says I must. I pray that the child I carry will be strong.

I am filled at once with hope and fear for the new lives we pursue. Our ship sails today! Not an hour passes without wishing my dear husband was alive and with us still, but that is not to be. Only time will tell if I have made the right decision.

An inch-wide ribbon marked the page of her last entry. Donald was disappointed to see only a mundane note and short list of errands for the following day.

Friday, 7 September, 1900

A quiet day. Geoffrey off tonight with friends from his club. Weather sultry. Newspaper says rain possible this weekend.

Saturday, 8 September,

—
Pick up mounting cards and prints from Essex’s.

—
Need new Sunday dress for Gracie

—
Visit Mrs. Hixon

Donald closed the book and slipped it into his coat pocket.

“What are you waiting for?”

“What?” he said aloud.

“Her camera, dear b
oy. Your mother’s camera.”

Donald returned to the center of the room. It was all as he had imagined: the tripod, the camera, the chair. For years he had longed to be in this room. Now, among all the joy and surprise, he knew he was also afraid.

“Inhale … hold … exhale …
”

“Al
l of this will be here tomorrow,” he said aloud. “Besides, the others are waiting.”

“They can wait.
Do it now.”