Evelyn is most disappointed with me, and I do feel as if I have behaved poorly as a friend. I did not attend the Fourth of July festivities in Portland, though she begged, for I had no desire to brave the pressing crowds, roman candles, and cannons. And then I again declined an invitation from her, this time to resort to the coast for several days to take in the sea air. I would not leave the nest.
As it turns out, I might as well have gone. It has been especially windy along the river, so that the nest bobs on its thimbleberry cane and I can take no pictures. In the end, I am left alone in the house. Charlotte is away with her own family. I spent a few hours in the dark room, experimenting with the new printing solutions Mr Redington supplied me, yet it could not hold my interest.
During these past few weeks, an anxious loneliness has grown within me that not even the distraction of my camera can ease. Against my will, I watch the wharf as men disembark the ferry, and I think, can that be him? It changes nothing, this desperate watching, yet I am provoked by the knowledge that he might well appear one afternoon, without warning, for he will have no way of sending word from Alaska that he is on his way.
I have done my best to resist, but yesterday I visited the department headquarters yet again and asked after Allen, a futile endeavor though I know it is.
Tonight I straightened the dining room and put on my best dress, thinking that it might cheer me, but instead it only served to sharpen my heartache.
July 14
Dear Allen, do you know why I persist in keeping this diary? My field journals, my photography notes, those I keep for myself. They are the mode with which I am most at ease. This diary, however, is something different; I would not place all these emotions on the page for my own sake.
Despite the gloomy letter I sent to you, despite my hours of anguish and worry, each time I take up this diary and put pen to paper, it is with the hope, no the faith, that you will someday come home to me and want to know how I have spent my hours.
Each entry, every word contained here, is devoted to you.
July 18
Today the mother bird perched at the side of the nest, the two tiny beaks opened up at her. The exposure is fine enough; one can distinguish birds and nest from foliage. Yet when the shutter clacked, the mother bird startled, and so her image is blurred.
And still I am not entirely pleased with the angle of light.
July 20
It was a risk, yet it had to be done. With Charlotte’s assistance, I moved the camera tent so as to better position myself to the arc of the sun.
We made a comical pair, the two of us. We stood inside the small structure, each lifting a side, and shuffled awkwardly, slowly, foot by foot, like two actors doing a pantomime of a horse. Because we were trying to be as quiet as possible, we were all the more pressed toward laughter. By some blessing, however, we were able to make the change with only the two wide-eyed chicks observing us, as the mother bird was out gathering food. By the time she returned to the nest, we were quietly in our place as if we had never been elsewhere.
This evening I officially promoted Charlotte from housemaid to photographer’s assistant, although I can only afford a small raise in her salary. She positively beamed when I presented her with a handwritten business card:
Charlotte MacCarthy
Photography Assistant
For at home photographs, landscapes,
and ornithological portraiture
Vancouver Barracks, Washington Territory
July 23
I confess that my most recent print of the humming bird at the nest is lovely, with the sunlight fast upon her, her two chicks beneath her, beaks open, the background in shadows, the nest and birds in lit clarity. It is perhaps my best photograph yet. I mounted it with parlor paste to cardboard and placed it in a simple gold-leaf frame I had purchased in Portland.
When I presented it to Evelyn, wrapped in a set of white linen pillowcases that Charlotte had embroidered with Evelyn’s initials, I was not sure how she would respond.
“Is this my wedding gift? It is, isn’t it! Even so, I won’t wait to open it.”
She then fell silent as she held the photograph, and I could not read her expression. I asked her finally if she did not like it.
“Sophie, it is beautiful?.?.?.” Her voice was quiet and I saw that she might cry, all of which took me entirely by surprise.
“I will deny it!” she said as she wiped her cheeks with a handkerchief. What would she deny? “That your little picture made me teary. Word must not get out that I am tenderhearted after all.”
She says we must see each other again soon, that I will have to come to San Francisco once she and Mr Harvey are settled into their domesticity. Yet I am already nostalgic for these days I have shared with her at Vancouver Barracks, for I do not think they will likely return.
I will miss you, Evelyn. Let tomorrow be kind to both of us.
July 27
I am filled with a terrifying hope. Can it be that at last I have a worthy photograph?