Page 8 of Familiar Things New

“Very well. I think I’m all set, then.”

Each one of the servants immediately left the room, seemingly eager to carry on with whatever other responsibilities they had. Once Andrew was alone, he blew out a long breath and began to unpack.

First, he retrieved his cloth apron from the bag. He hooked it over his head and tied it around his waist. Next, he set up his portable darkroom, balancing the long, heavy wooden box where he’d keep his trays and plates and solutions on top of the custom stand and then covering it with the fabric. Then, he brought the camera’s tripod over near the sofa and fireplace. Afterward, he prepared the collodion and silver nitrate baths, taking care not to spill any chemicals in the process.

Pouring the solutions and setting up the box required immense concentration. And somehow, by the grace of God, Andrew was able to stay poised enough and focused enough not to knock anything over.

He really shouldn’t have been so surprised, though. Photography had proven to be nothing short of magical for him.

Aside from an occasional blunder (like when he’d caught his foot on the corner of his rug and had subsequently ruined one of his negatives), Andrew usually managed to make it through the entire process with relative ease. It was as though having something so very important to focus on steadied his hands and quieted his mind, enabling him to make these beautiful, wonderful photographs for others—keepsakes that captured one of life’s moments and provided people with a way to hold on to it, even as life continued to move forward, oftentimes rushing by too quickly for someone to fully recognize the beauty of the present before it was changed. Forever.

Andrew let out a soft sigh as a too-familiar heaviness settled in his chest. Closing his eyes, he tried to force the accompanying sentimental and melancholic thoughts away with a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. Midway through his second exhale, he stepped backward and knocked into the bookcase. A marble bust wobbled on the middle shelf, and Andrew spun around to steady it.

Perhaps he needed a moment to himself elsewhere.

Shaking slightly as a result of both the encounter with the bookcase as well as the rumblings of barely buried memories that were threatening to push their way to the surface, Andrew stepped into the hall and began walking, opting to head for the back of the house, rather than the front, though he hadn’t a clue whether he’d be less likely to run into anyone there. When he neared the back door, a flash of foliage to his left caught his eye, and he turned. It was the conservatory.

Pausing there, Andrew considered whether or not he ought to go inside. If one of the members of the Whitney family was in there, they might assume he was trying to steal something. Or maybe they’d think that now anyway, especially if they spotted him wandering around the house by himself like this.

Hesitantly, Andrew took a step toward the glass door. When nothing happened, he took a second, equally hesitant step. On the third, his muscles finally began to relax. And then, he went inside.

Every last trace of Andrew’s lingering unease fell away the moment he crossed the threshold into the conservatory. The moist, earthy scent of the conservatory’s many plants wafted up his nose, filling him with a peculiar and almost overwhelming feeling of sudden tranquility, as though the plants themselves, with their bright, vibrant leaves and lovely fragrance, were soothing his very soul.

Eyes flitting from one plant to the next, Andrew began to explore. Moving slowly, he shuffled his feet across the floor as he absorbed the conservatory’s magnificence. Oh, there were so many plants! Begonias and ferns and others that Andrew had no name for, some which he had never even seen before, either.

Inhaling deeply, Andrew felt some long-held tension leave his shoulders, and he smiled. It was so cozy in the conservatory, like the room itself had its own climate—warm, but not overly so, the heat wholly unlike that which emanated from fireplaces in fall and winter. It was humid. But not too humid, either.

Warm and wet and sunny, the conservatory was like a container housing the most perfect spring morning one could imagine. Being inside it made Andrew feel connected to the world—to nature and the earth and everyone everywhere.

And it had been so long since he had felt connected to anything. Or anyone.

“Excuse me, sir, may I help you?”

Andrew startled from the voice, his heart practically slamming into his rib cage. He whirled around to see a man standing by the entrance, his expression somewhat severe.

“Sorry!” Andrew blurted out. “I was . . . I mean, I was only—”

“Are you the . . . photographer?” the man asked, his eyes softening.

“Yes, that’s me,” Andrew said through a breath, his heart still racing.

The man nodded a few times, seemingly thinking this over.

“I see,” he finally said. “William did say you’d be around here somewhere.” He paused and furrowed his brow. “But I thought the portraits were to be taken in the library?”

“They will be, yes. But I needed a moment to myself. And it looked so beautiful in here and so I . . .” Andrew shook his head. “Sorry. I should go.”

He moved to leave but immediately tripped over his shoelace, which had somehow become untied. Stumbling forward, Andrew threw his arms out to try to rebalance himself. One of his hands knocked into something, and a lightning bolt of pain shot up his arm upon impact.

He winced.

And then that something fell and landed with a clatter.

He winced again.

Cringing, Andrew looked up to see the other man’s face contorted with horror, his skin practically ashen. Slowly, Andrew turned to face the carnage. One potted plant—or, well, previously potted—was on the floor, its terracotta planter cracked in half, the soil spilling out around it.

“I am so sorry,” Andrew said, putting as much sincerity behind his words as he could muster, and then he immediately knelt down beside the broken planter. “Here. Let me clean it up.”