The family was posed in the large parlor, Wych Elm House’s most formal room, in front of the grand mantel. In the back stood Robert, younger, slimmer, his face blandly handsome and less puffy than it was now. Standing beside him, Dottie looked curiously softer, as if the years between had set the lines of her face in stone. Her hair was tied back as tightly as it always was. Seated in a chair in front of his father, Martin was a young man grown out of childhood, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes soft and staring directly at the camera, a confident smile on his face. This was the same Martin I had seen in Dottie’s picture of him in uniform, the Martin who looked almost nothing like the man today.
Frances was placed beside her brother, seated on a chair in front of Dottie. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen, wearing a dress with puffed sleeves and a high lace collar. Her face stared out at me, the same face I’d seen in the small parlor—the high forehead, the clear, calm eyes. She was a few years younger than the girl I’d seen, wearing a different style of dress, her hair down around her shoulders and tied back with a ribbon, but she wore a string of pearls around her neck that I recognized. Her face wore no expression, and there were shadows under her eyes. Her gaze was serious and fathomless and somehow sad.
I stared at her, captured in silver nitrate and printed on paper. I realized with a jolt that I didn’t just recognize her face—I knew her. I knew something of the fear she suffered, the isolation. I knew it because even though she was dead, she had made me see.
What do you want, Frances? What do you want from me?
“Mrs. Manders?” the photographer asked.
I stuttered an apology and handed the portrait back to him. “Can you show me how to use the camera?” I asked.
He spent an hour teaching me how to set it up, how to load and unspool the film, how to take pictures and advance the film using the lever. He talked about light—I’d need a powerfully strong light to shoot anything indoors, unless I acquired a flash, and outdoor sunlight would work best, especially the less harsh hours of dawn and dusk. Thinking me a hobbyist, he even gave me tips on where to find the best vistas in the area. I tried to take it all in, and then I left, carrying the camera in its valise and my borrowed tripod, my mind spinning.
At Wych Elm House, I had missed dinner. The sky was dark, the late-autumn wind chill now that the sun had gone.
I pulled off my hat and gloves and stopped in the library first, looking for Dottie, the camera and tripod still in my hands. She had dismissed me for the day hours ago, but there were potential art buyers due to arrive tomorrow, and if she were still working I would offer to help. I found the library empty, Dottie’s desk tidy. The new typewriter sat on my little writing desk, hunched under its cover.
A single letter in a sealed envelope lay in the middle of the desk. This was Dottie’s way of indicating that the letter was for me and had come in with her stack of correspondence. I knew immediately what it was. I received no mail except for the monthly updates from Mother’s hospital.
The letters were always written by one of the senior nurses, though rarely the same nurse from month to month. Perhaps they rotated writing letters to keep their distance from the families; perhaps it was simply part of the shift rotation to write letters once per week from a list. I opened the envelope there in the empty library and read the letter.
Mrs. Christopher has been quiet and very well behaved. There was an incident in which she became agitated and broke some breakfast dishes, but the doctors have adjusted her dosage and she has been quiet since. We have moved the patients’ outdoor time to the solar as the weather is chill and some days inclement, and she is much disappointed in this as she does like to sit outdoors. Her appetite is still thin, though the doctors do monitor her eating habits. She enjoys having her hair brushed of an evening, and when one of the nurses reads a novel to her, it seems to calm her, though she does not always comprehend the story.
There have been several instances of night terrors, in which she complains upon waking of having been walking outside in the cold, but the doctors have made note of it and a sleeping powder will be administered if her rest is much disturbed. It pains me to say that she does not ask for her family, for her mind is in much of a fog; but I am certain that deep within her she carries her love and memory of you.
So dutiful, so kind. It must be easy to write such things when it wasn’t your own mother sitting there, staring at you in puzzlement as if you were a stranger she has never seen. Such a simple thing to call her Mrs. Christopher, as if she’d ever had a husband.
And not a word about the scratches on Mother’s neck.
I pocketed the letter and carried the camera equipment through the quiet house to the kitchen, where I scavenged a bowl of soup. One of the maids, who was washing the dishes under the kitchen’s dim electric light, informed me that Mr. Forsyth was out, Mr. Martin was in his room, and Mrs. Forsyth had just retired early, claiming a headache. I wondered briefly if I should check on Dottie—when we’d traveled the Continent, her infrequent headaches had been my responsibility—but was assured by the maid that she’d already been given a pill and wanted only rest.
I finished my soup and continued upstairs to my room, dragging my feet with exhaustion. Martin was still sick, and the house was too quiet. But I knew that I would not sleep.