The Last Time We Met

1

The girl looked absolutely miserable.

She sat in her starched dress with a hair bow like a massive bird perched on her head. Her mother kept fluttering around her, arranging her shiny dark curls and fluffing the bow. Every time I bent to pull the black sheet over my head to focus the shot, the mother would notice some other imperfection that needed correcting.

Frankly, I could not blame the girl for looking so dour.

"Henrietta, how could you possibly have gotten dirt on your dress?" Mrs. Walters fussed, licking her thumb and rubbing at the girl's skirt.

"I don't know." The girl gazed out the windows, which were covered in a lightweight fabric to diffuse the light.

"Honestly, you know how important this is."

I allowed the mother to huff and fuss some more, before my aching back told me enough was enough. I straightened up and stepped closer. "Mrs. Walters, if you'll allow me."

A woman like Mrs. Walters, in a dress likely imported from Paris, her hair swept up and pinned to perfection by servants, was only more than relieved to have someone else do the work for her. This was how it was meant to be, after all. Even if I was a man and therefore had no idea if the girl's hair was meant to curl this way or that, if the pleats of her skirt were meant to lay straight.

I bent over and under the guise of sweeping her hair away from her ear, said, "You're beautiful, no matter what your mother says."

Straightening up, I nodded and announced, "Perfect. Stay just as you are."

The girl's mouth hadn't twitched into a smile. Rather, she looked even angrier. I ducked under the sheet and looked at her through the lens. I could feel her mood piercing me even as I was hidden. Luckily, she could not see how this made me smile.

So many girls had come through my studio since I hung up my shingle: THEODORE SHAW PHOTOGRAPHER. So many girls easily swayed by a kind word. Photography was not a prestigious occupation, and these girls all came from the wealthy families that could afford such a luxury. Their parents wanted a portrait of their progeny to show off to their colleagues and friends. As for their daughters marrying a photographer, such a thought would have been outlandish.

But the daughters had often been imprisoned in the gilded cages of their homes and their private finishing schools. They had so rarely come into contact with men near to their own age. I was young, having begun my apprenticeship with a photographer when I was but fifteen, and now, at age eighteen, I had opened my own business.

The girl glared at me, hidden as I was. Once all of the settings were in place, I said, "Please remain very still." I opened the shutter and waited for my calculated exposure time. I had been lucky to find this studio, with the high windows that allowed for a maximum of natural light, which meant shorter exposure times. "Finished. You can relax now."

"Are you certain?" Mrs. Walters asked, wringing her gloved hands. "When Mrs. Peterson had her daughter's portrait done, she said it was a nightmare getting her girls to sit still long enough."

I raked a hand through my hair as I came out from under the curtain, trying to settle it down flat. "That was lovely," I told the girl, who sneered and stood up. "Yes, I'm not sure which photographer Mrs. Peterson used, but I assure you it doesn't take long at all anymore. And your daughter was magnificently still."

This seemed to reassure her, and after I told her I'd deliver the photograph on Friday, she thanked me and ushered Henrietta out. The girl cast a sulky look back at me before her mother herded her through the door.

As I prepped my camera for my next appointment, I found myself smiling. Something about Henrietta's grumpy face intrigued me. I wondered what it would take to make her smile.  

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Author's Note: I couldn't find a picture of quite exactly as I imagined Henrietta, but this one is close!