the light and—
“Oh!” I say.
I expected some dour-faced formal portrait. There’s always a misunderstanding that Victorians didn’t smile for photographs, when the truth is that the process took so long that attempting a smile would result in a blurred face. A serious pose was less likely to show the distortion of movement. Yet while the subjects in this picture aren’t exactly grinning, they exude a joy brighter than any hundred-watt smile.
It’s Rosalind and August, when they’d been courting. She’d owned a bakery in London, quite a scandalous thing for a young single woman, especially one of her good breeding. But she’d been the oldest of three girls who’d lost their parents. To support her sisters, she’d either needed to marry quickly or make use of her stellar baking skills. She chose the latter.
This photograph was taken in front of her bakery. Rosalind holds August’s arm, and they gaze at the photographer with a joy so incandescent that just looking at them feels like an invasion of privacy. I have seen August happy, but I have never seen him like this.
As for Rosalind, she is positively ethereal, a beautiful young woman of no more than twenty-two, tiny, with light hair and a face that is as beautiful as her soon-to-be-husband’s is handsome.
“She’s gorgeous,” I say.
“She was many, many things,” he says. “That was one of them.”
I could be envious, hearing my husband speak this way of another woman. I am not. I know how much he cared for Rosalind. She’d been like a sister to him, years after he’d lost his own.
“I . . . I thought I saw a young woman in the halls,” I say. “I mean, yes, I did definitely see one. I presumed it was a maid and went after her because I was lost, but she kept moving. She disappeared into a room . . . after beckoning me. That’s how I found the earl and Lottie.”
William nods slowly. Six months ago, I’d have tensed, interpreting his careful reaction as doubt, but I know now he’s assimilating my words.
When we first reunited, a comment about ghosts had elicited a very clear reaction from him. A very dismissive reaction. Superstitious nonsense. So I’d kept my experiences to myself, only to later discover that as soon as I said I saw ghosts, he believed me. The critical part there was me. If I told him I saw unicorns, he’d believe me, and if he said the same, I’d believe him.
“This young woman led you to Tynesford,” he says. “So you could interrupt and rescue Lottie.”
Now I’m the one pausing. “I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, it makes sense.”
“And you thought it might be Rosalind’s ghost.” He glances at the photograph. “Was it?”
“No.” I look at the picture. “The figure was fair-haired and small of stature, and I didn’t get a good look at her face, but I’m quite certain it wasn’t Rosalind.”
He exhales, echoing my own relief.
I continue, “I wouldn’t want to think of her trapped here, unable to communicate with her family. I also . . .” I take a deep breath. “August isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to believe she’s dead. That’s silly—I never even knew her. I certainly don’t want to think of her having abandoned her family, though.”
“She wouldn’t,” William says firmly. “August and Rosalind were having . . . troubles.” He looks at the photograph. “I haven’t admitted that, have I? It wasn’t the sort of trouble where one abandons one’s family, though. Certainly not for anyone as attached to family as Rosalind. She loved August, adored her son and was very close to both her sisters. The problem was August. He could be very jealous, and he struggled with that. He could be controlling, and she struggled with that. They would have worked it out. But you wonder why he believes she left. That is it, I think, even if he’d never admit such a thing. He fears he drove her off, and somehow, it’s easier to blame her for abandoning them. Do I think she ran away? Absolutely not. Do I think she died? Unfortunately, yes. Do I hope to be proven wrong? That she fell and struck her head and lost her memory, like some gothic heroine, and she’ll reappear one day? Yes. Mostly, though, like you, I simply would not want to think of her as a ghost.”
He pauses and then says, his voice lower, “That is what I’d hoped for, though, when I thought you