Chapter 6- Non incautus futuri
"Not unmindful of the future."
"Portraits?"
Rosalind nodded at the floor, tapping her fingers over her lips in contemplation. "Yes, I'd completely forgotten he was coming today."
"Could you also have forgotten to tell me he would be coming?" She'd have to had known for a week or two. Today was not exactly their best day appearance-wise, let alone their schedule. His face was chapped and weathered, hers smeared with bits of chalk. Her attire, much kudos for dressing herself, was still loose, and though he did not like to admit it, sloppy.
"Hrmm?" She glanced up at him, surprised for the slightest of moments at his proximity, having forgotten about the issue with the reactor balance they had just been working on. Her eyes stayed on the stubble of his chin and flicked up finally to his eyes. "I'm sorry."
Robert exhaled wearily, rubbing them. "No point in worry about it, I suppose. Why are we having a sitting anyway?" There was no particular reason he could see for photographs.
"It's for the papers. And the museum. And," she inhaled, looking sheepish. "I should like to have something of us together."
"Oh." He looked at her suddenly, then to the wall that carried several photographs—none of which had him. Why would they? But her interest—or was it disinterest?—in photographs was only something he knew from her memories. All of them, besides the one of herself as a girl, hung because she cared to think of them, but did not particularly care for them. Mother and Father, and Uncle, er, Aunt Freddie, and the old lodge house, Roseleigh. They held both pleasant and unpleasant memories for him as well; riding lessons on Buttercup, insect collecting in the marsh, hunting with Father, his first corset fit..fitting, an unwanted embroidery set…
A dull ache pulsed behind his left eye, and he blinked rapidly before he knew his vision would narrow and flare. Immediately he looked away, but he could already sense his hearing muffling.
"-notlikethisthough," she said distantly.
"Like what?" he strained, pinching the bridge of his nose. He snapped his eyes shut.
"Not looking like this," she repeated, reaching to wipe chalk from his jaw. "A ragamuffin. What's wrong?"
"A bit of a spell," he gritted.
"What triggered it?"
"Photographs on the wall."
"I can take them down," she said quickly.
Robert dared to open his eyes. "No, no. I like them up there. They help. I just wasn't careful."
She seemed unsure.
"Mr. Cunningham is waiting for us," he reminded.
Her mouth parted open as if hearing the information for the first time, and she pushed her hair back into place.
"Right. I'll apologize to him. You eat."
As much as he wanted to be with her and explain their situation to Mr. Cunningham, he knew it best if he recuperated lest he have an episode in the foyer. He nodded, and she lingered a second more to make certain her demand was being followed. For good measure he took a bite of a croissant. That seemed to placate her because she turned on her heel to head to the front of the house.
Eating wasn't entirely a ruse, however, because the warm bread and salty cheese reminded him that he hadn't had a bite to eat all day, nor a proper dinner last night, and he scarfed the small morsel down faster than what would be acceptable for a gentleman of his standing, but acceptable be damned! He was tired as a stag-hound after the hunt. He feared if he stayed long enough, he'd fall into a deep slumber.
His handling of the tea was more civilized. No sense in spilling a fine brew. It wasn't perfect—Rosalind hadn't made it, but he was glad for it, however steeped it was. The steaming vapors were the most wonderful thing he experienced that day, tingling his nostrils, and the stringent fumes helped to clear his mind.
He sipped it slowly, enjoying the warmth that filled his body, pondering how well Rosalind was conversing with their guest. If she was distracted, well then, she could be a bit untoward someone unfamiliar with her mood. Whenever he had an episode, she dropped everything she was doing so suddenly, so intently. It would frighten him if he did not find it so selfishly captivating. Normally, he frowned upon coddling and fussing, but with Rosalind, it was less maternal instinct and more…penitent lover.
He frowned even at that description because he felt it didn't fully grasp what he experienced when she turned her attention fully to him. She didn't hover over him, or lay at his feet, she was always at his side. Always, with a profound sadness in her eyes, like she had wronged him in some way. Sometimes he did not shut his eyes in pain, but because he could not bear to look at her. He wished she would remember he was getting better at controlling the spells. He could go several weeks now without an incident.
Or was it something else? If it was guilt, it was one they shared. He had been the one to walk over. She did not make him do it.
"I'll let him know," he heard Rosalind's voice approaching from the hall, and she peeked into the drawing room. "Mr. Cunningham's been most gracious. We're his last appointment of the day, so he's more than willing to wait while we get refreshed." She lowered her voice slightly. "I think he's worried he'll lose his exclusivity to us."
"Splendid. How much time did you ask for?"
She winced. "Not enough for a shave, I'm afraid."
"Ah." He was hoping for that much. Still, better to have some time than none at all.
Rosalind had Gwendolyn accompany Mr. Cunningham to set up in the drawing room, and Robert followed her up the stairs. At the top of the third floor, he asked her if she needed assistance straightening her attire. Rather abashedly, she turned to him saying, "Is it that bad?"
"You look fine, considering. I only ask because of the pictures." Insulting her was not his intent. If these were for historical and archival—and personal—records, he was fairly certain the both of them felt the same in wanting to look their best.
"Since you're offering," she said with a weak smile, leading the way into her bedroom.
Entering this part of the house, her bedroom, was as much reflective as it was apprehensive for him. His first real memories of this universe occurred here as he reconstructed his identity, sifting through a life he had not lived. Recollections of violent headaches and a warm pleasant hand throughout the entire ordeal welled within him upon sight of the ornately papered wall. It was also a very poignant model of how their separation made itself most apparent. Hairbrushes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a dressing screen, a mahogany vanity; here, she was completely Rosalind Lutece, woman, and these were her things that she did not share with him. Was it prudence or preference that she chose to bring him here to nurse him, to remind him of who he was?
She caught her reflection in the full length mirror, frowning at something only she found fault with, and she hastily began removing her tie.
"You can use the bathroom to freshen up," she said, peering at him through the mirror.
Of course. She was probably going to change her whole attire. He didn't see much point in it- she looked perfectly fine. No amount of words from him would change her mind once she set it; as did he.
Robert made his way to her sink, examining his own self in the mirror. Surprisingly, he himself didn't look all that terrible. In his assessment, he discovered that his eyes were not too weary, only too watery. The bags underneath them were not too far off the mark of a typical late night working on experiments. But his nose still ran slightly from the frigid temperatures that left his cheeks and lips reddened and chapped. A trip to the pharmacy again for some balm would be needed to treat that. He pushed warm water onto his face. Although it was meant to refresh, it reminded him that he would rather go back to bed. He grabbed one of her hand towels. It felt odd to dry his face while the stubble remained, like he was ill. He straightened his tie and smoothed his lapels.
"Are you ready?" he asked, stepping out of the bathroom.
"Just about."
He could see that she was, needing only help with the finer details. She had chosen a cream cotton blouse over a dark pleated skirt with matching crimson necktie and cummerbund. He liked the very rich contrast it had with her skin and hair. She presented her back to him first so he could buckle the cummerbund, then her bowtie.
"I thought I might wear gloves," she said softly, waving around a pair.
He glanced at them for a moment. He'd nearly forgotten about her bandages appearing in the photo. They weren't too conspicuous now that they were only on her palms. Depending on how they posed, they might be more or less visible.
"Do you want to wear them?" He pulled the loops on her tie taut and glanced up from her neck.
She sighed. "Not really. But I don't want to cringe every time I see this picture."
"You can bring them down and we can ask Mr. Cunningham if he can work something out." He gave her a reassuring smile, one that put a matching expression on her lips.
"I like that," Rosalind said, performing a final once-over in the mirror. "Not very many people can say their reflection gives them the best advice." She grinned though the looking glass at him.
"Well, if I'm to be the one giving advice, then you've still got a bit of chalk on your cheek."
"Hrmm," she said, rubbing at it rapidly. "Better?"
"Very."
"I hope we haven't spent too much time."
"Shall we?" he offered her his arm.
They went down the stairs together, starting each flight with the same foot, sounding as one person descending. When they reached the bottom, he gave her arm a light pat before they separated.
"Again, we appreciate your kind gesture, Mr. Cunningham," Rosalind said.
Mr. Cunningham, with his round eyes and aquiline nose, was not a man that Robert knew very well, but had had many sessions with Rosalind since before he had come over. His studio was quite popular in the city, especially in Emporia. Perhaps that was why. Despite the popularity, the man managed to stay humble enough in his transition from middle to upper class.
"Please Madame Lutece, the appreciation is mine. Now," he said, gesturing to his equipment, "I was thinking we might first do a formal set of the two of you. Then a few singular portraits-"
"-Singular?" Rosalind interjected. "Could we perhaps remain together?"
"Is that what you prefer?" Mr. Cunningham glanced at Robert for his approval.
"Yes," he explained. "We've, er, always been together since we were children. Since neither of us has a significant other-"
"-You'd like to remain together," he reiterated. "I understand. Estelle's got two cousins who are twins. They make for excellent photography subjects, even if I can't tell them apart most of the time. So, we'll do a formal set, some with you around your machines—I'll leave the details of that to you—and end with some candids. Shall we begin?"
"Let's," Rosalind said.
Mr. Cunningham followed them into the drawing room pointing out several locations he'd scouted out. "You can sit by the fireplace here, there's nice light coming from both the fire and the window, by the window there, or by the chalkboard and bookshelf. Where would you like to be?"
Robert glanced at Rosalind, shrugging. He was fine with all of the suggestions.
"Which ever you think works best, Mr. Cunningham. We defer to your expertise." Her words seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear because he smiled widely. "The fireplace, then."
He and Rosalind moved to position themselves on the couch, and she smoothed her skirt down before she sat. It reminded him of her concern, and he brought up the issue of her hands.
"Bit of an accident in the laboratory," she explained.
"Not a problem ma'am. Comes with the occupation," Mr. Cunningham smiled, wiggling his fingers, and they both could see that his hands were permanently stained with silver nitrate. "Actually, that solves two problems. Can I have you sit down, Mr. Lutece? Your height gives me a difficult long shot."
"Sit?" Robert asked suddenly. He was very much against that idea, lest he fall asleep, but regardless, he sat down. He chose a spot that was the most uncomfortable—difficult on a velvet couch.
"Good. Now, if you'll angle towards me. Madame, could you stand next to him, facing me, but angled towards him? Excellent. And if you rest one hand on his shoulder and the other behind—Perfect."
They remained in that position for a few seconds as Mr. Cunningham activated the shutter. "Very nice," he murmured over his camera, "I think you'll be pleased with this shot."
The rest of the photographs were very nearly the same as the first. Two more poses by the fireplace were taken, during which he yawned uncontrollably, much to his embarrassment, and Mr. Cunningham was more than happy to switch up the order of photos they took. They stood at the chalkboard they were working at earlier, now with the instruction to carry on as they normally would while their picture was being taken. Robert was concerned he'd have to sacrifice his focus for both, but as soon as he became immersed in the mathematics again, he completely forgot the camera was even there.
When they were done—or when Mr. Cunningham was done, because they still hadn't solved the problem yet, he asked, "Are you comfortable with some pictures in the main part of the house?"
He knew he was referring to the Contraption, amongst other things. When he first arrived, he never paid much mind to it in regards to other people. It was special to him foremost as his doorway to her, and that it was, so far, the pinnacle of their work. But Rosalind was always so concerned about the Contraption, and over time he learned why. If anybody got the slightest inkling of what it truly was, it would cause a downfall like the world had never seen, one that he was sure would be pinned on them. His feelings for the machine were as strong as hers now.
It was she who answered though. "If you could refrain from any full shots of the machine? Partials will be fine."
"I suspected as much. I'll do my best to omit it as much as possible."
The three of them moved to the main room, Mr. Cunningham pouting at the lack of natural lighting of it. "Might I borrow the young lady from the front desk?" he asked. "Estelle's down with a cold. Must be all this weather. She usually accompanies me when I have sessions with more esteemed clients."
"Of course," Rosalind said. "I'll get her."
As they waited for the women, Mr. Cunningham turned to Robert. "The symmetry you and your sister possess together is perfect. Even Estelle's cousins aren't that coordinated, and they're identical!"
Robert smiled, moreso to himself. "It is a bit like looking at my reflection."
"Ah, it's more than that. Don't mean to presume, but you play the piano?"
"As a hobby. Rosalind is better than I am."
"Have you ever played a call and response piece? It's looks, to me, a lot like that."
Call and response? The phrases were not about reflecting each other so much as responding and communicating with the same thought. It required a depth of understanding that both participants had to have in order for the message to be fully realized. Maybe he'd play a piece with her later. As far as experiments went, they'd never tried that before.
The man must have taken his silence for disagreement, because he added, "Now, I don't have much talent in music beyond an appreciation of it, so my metaphor's probably off the mark-"
"-No, no. It's quite possibly the best I've heard."
Rosalind returned with Gwendolyn and Mr. Cunningham smiled. "Hello again, ma'am. Would you care to be my assistant today? Oh, it's nothing too difficult, you'll be holding up a reflective panel to bring light to this part of the house. Quite boring actually."
"No, of course," Gwendolyn said.
"Alright," he clapped his hands, directing them to a spot closer to the generators and chalkboards and father away from the Contraption. "Let's have the both of you there, and my lovely assistant over there. If you'll be so kind as to hold this up," he added, handing her the panel. It was rather large, like a mirror, as wide as she was tall, but not looking particularly heavy. She showed no difficulty in carrying it. "Good okay. Now if you'll just keep it angled in this general direction, and Mr. and Madame Lutece, if you'll take a standard pose first…"
For the next twenty minutes, the four of them slinked around the bulky Contraption to the instructions of Mr. Cunningham. In that time, Robert had come to appreciate the man of his own accord and not merely Rosalind's words. He liked that he put up with their insistent requests, but was still just as particular as they were with his own—and really, they had given him free reign with his direction for pictures. He had to admit that he was actually looking forward to how these turned out.
"I should have them developed in two week's time," he said, putting away his equipment. "Normally I'd have them a few days earlier, but the weeks before Christmas seem to fill up faster'n I can blink."
Robert helped him lift his canvas portfolio. "The holidays always seem to bring in more work than as they near. We can surely attest to that."
"Guess that makes you enjoy them more I suppose."
"Indeed."
They walked him to the foyer. "Well, it was quite the pleasure working with all of you." He shook hands with the three of them. "Shall I make an appointment to return on, say, the 28th?"
"Yes," Rosalind answered. "Gwendolyn, could you set that date?"
"What would be a good time?" Robert added. Today was quite an example of how much could be forgotten.
Mr. Cunningham shrugged, scratching at his temple. "Is the same time alright? I can arrange it so you're the last client that day in the event something comes up?"
In the silence that occurred when they all glanced at one another for consideration, the front door swung open and the figure that walked in was unrecognizable in comparison to the heroic colossi not two blocks from here, but his bearded visage was.
"Oh!" Gwendolyn exclaimed, having laid eyes on him first. "Father Comstock. Good afternoon, sir."
Comstock straightened his hair after removing his hat. "Don't worry about me, child," he said with an easy smile. "Finish your business with Mr. Cunningham first. If the Israelites can wait forty years in the desert, I can wait but a few minutes."
Robert shared a look with Rosalind who in turn nodded at Comstock. This facade was only in place because of the other people in the room. The Prophet's visits, when it was just the three of them, were less humble, and more demanding. This business they had with him was always something that left a bad taste in his mouth and a dull throb behind his left eye.
"Would you like to wait in the drawing room, Sir?" she asked.
To his ears only, Robert knew the honorific was difficult for her to say, and one she said it only when there were others around.
"Why thank-you, Madame," Comstock said and inclined his head. "You two have a fine afternoon," he told Gwendolyn and Mr. Cunningham, before following Rosalind deeper into the house.
"The same time would be great, Mr. Cunningham," Robert finalized, giving him an apologetic smile. "Thank-you once again for everything. Rosalind gives you her thanks as well."
"It was very nice to have finally met you in person, Mr. Lutece. And thank-you again Miss Marlowe for your help," he tipped his bowler hat to them both before leaving.
As soon as the door shut, Robert turned to Gwendolyn suddenly. "Mr. Comstock is a very private person," he said delicately, "He doesn't like to be disturbed. We mentioned this when we first hired you, but whenever he is here, I'd like to remind you to remain in the foyer until he leaves. If there is an urgent matter, which I shall leave to your discretion, use the bell pull."
She nodded seriously. "I remember, Mr. Lutece."
"I suspected you hadn't, but I wanted to make sure the matter was clear. Thank-you."
He bowed his own exit and closed the foyer door, making certain that it was fully shut. Rosalind and Comstock, he could already see, were at the Contraption. He made his way to them, closing the main room door behind him as well and catching the end of their conversation.
"-really isn't a good time. We've been correcting issues with the reactors all week."
Comstock gave her a withering glance. "There's two of you now, isn't there?"
"Yes, there is," Robert answered evenly. He could feel both their eyes on him, but he looked at neither, making his way to the control panel. One glance at Rosalind's fuming expression, or that man's condescension, and he was unsure of what he might do, only that it would not be pleasant. He was tired, he was still hungry, the winter chill he'd spent six hours in had not left his bones, and he did not have the energy left to tolerate a man who fancied himself something grand when they all knew what he truly was.
He would start the machine when the facade truly ended. "The house would be clear if you scheduled your viewings more consistently. We've had visitors all day," Robert said as he made adjustments. If there was one thing he picked up during their sessions with Comstock, it was that the man harbored an irrational fear of the limits of his control. Whenever he was made aware of it, he became much easier to manage—if they did so carefully.
There was a harsh sigh. "I'll set something," Comstock muttered irritably under his breath,
With his back to him, Robert smirked. "Let's begin."
A/N:
Some questions:
What do you suppose they'll view in their session with Comstock?
And what do you think of the relationship Robert has with the man? He's certainly a second-hand participant and inclusion to the complicated relationship Rosalind has with Comstock.
As always, let me know your thoughts! I appreciate reading your reviews :)