door? Surely not. His boots tapped briskly up the stairs. She heard more footsteps and a soft rap on the door and then Beth’s voice. ‘Mr Blake says go up when you’re ready. He’s on the second floor at the back.’
Rhia dried herself and dressed hurriedly, and dried and braided her hair in front of the fire before she went in search of Laurence. The second floor was laid out like the rest of the house, with a landing and housemaid’s closet in the centre and two large rooms either side. He was in the south-facing room. The room had little furniture, and a large Turkish rug covered the dark floorboards. The rain had pattered rhythmically on the windows all morning, but now sunlight fell across a long table that stood against the wall. Laurence’s tall frame was bent over its surface and he straightened when she came in, his hair falling into his eyes. Rhia could not decide if he was handsome or not. She assumed that his gaze was presumptuous, but it didn’t bother her.
‘Ah, Miss Mahoney. Rhia. Welcome to my calotype workshop!’
‘It sounds like a torture chamber.’
‘On the contrary, calotype, in Greek, means “beautiful picture”. Come and see for yourself.’
There was a row of pictures on the table, and they certainly were beautiful. Disturbingly so. Somehow this science or wizardry could conjure the membrane of a leaf; the delicacy of a piece of lace and, most extraordinarily, a number of miniature portraits of sombre-looking gentlemen. These, Laurence explained, were a new enterprise: calling cards; an idea he had picked up in Paris where, he said, the personalised calling card was de rigueur. The shadowy lace fichu, the scallop of crochet and the broderie anglaise, he said, were Antonia’s.
‘But how is it done?’ Rhia breathed. She was unable to take her eyes from the pictures. They looked as though they were rendered, oh so delicately, with the steadiest hand and the finest black and brown ink.
Laurence looked pleased. ‘It is, supposedly, a secret,’ he stage whispered, though she could tell it was one he had no intention of keeping. ‘Fox Talbot has patented his calotype process, so one must apply for a special licence to be able to make a certain type of photogenic drawing. He has discovered the means by which one can make several copies of a picture, using a single exposure. I don’t expect you to know what any of that means, but perhaps you would like to watch me transfer an image.’
It was true, Rhia had no idea what he was talking about, and she could only nod and sit down on a stool by the table. Transfixed, she imagined how these motifs might look printed onto linen but then remembered that, here, she was no longer the daughter of a linen clothier. Who was she, then? She concentrated on the motifs. They would look even better printed onto silk, but she was not the daughter of a mercer, either.
Laurence was explaining how the paper that he had brought back from the stationer must first be treated to make it ‘light sensitive’, and that this chemical process must be undertaken at night and by candlelight to achieve greatest success. He had some paper that was treated already. ‘It is best to use a parchment with a smooth surface,’ he said, as he took a sheet from a writing box, ‘and to keep the treated paper away from the light. You will soon see why. I will show you a simple experiment. The more complex transfers, such as portraits, require the use of a lens and a light box.’
He laid the paper on the table and placed a dried frond of wheat on top of it. Within seconds the paper began to darken,and quickly turned black. After no more than a minute, Laurence removed the frond. The feathery outline remained, in all its filigree detail, pale and perfect against the inky paper.
Rhia watched Laurence do the same with a small posy of dried flowers, and then with a scrap of curtain netting. She lost track of time and was surprised when Beth puffed into the room with a tray
Rhia dried herself and dressed hurriedly, and dried and braided her hair in front of the fire before she went in search of Laurence. The second floor was laid out like the rest of the house, with a landing and housemaid’s closet in the centre and two large rooms either side. He was in the south-facing room. The room had little furniture, and a large Turkish rug covered the dark floorboards. The rain had pattered rhythmically on the windows all morning, but now sunlight fell across a long table that stood against the wall. Laurence’s tall frame was bent over its surface and he straightened when she came in, his hair falling into his eyes. Rhia could not decide if he was handsome or not. She assumed that his gaze was presumptuous, but it didn’t bother her.
‘Ah, Miss Mahoney. Rhia. Welcome to my calotype workshop!’
‘It sounds like a torture chamber.’
‘On the contrary, calotype, in Greek, means “beautiful picture”. Come and see for yourself.’
There was a row of pictures on the table, and they certainly were beautiful. Disturbingly so. Somehow this science or wizardry could conjure the membrane of a leaf; the delicacy of a piece of lace and, most extraordinarily, a number of miniature portraits of sombre-looking gentlemen. These, Laurence explained, were a new enterprise: calling cards; an idea he had picked up in Paris where, he said, the personalised calling card was de rigueur. The shadowy lace fichu, the scallop of crochet and the broderie anglaise, he said, were Antonia’s.
‘But how is it done?’ Rhia breathed. She was unable to take her eyes from the pictures. They looked as though they were rendered, oh so delicately, with the steadiest hand and the finest black and brown ink.
Laurence looked pleased. ‘It is, supposedly, a secret,’ he stage whispered, though she could tell it was one he had no intention of keeping. ‘Fox Talbot has patented his calotype process, so one must apply for a special licence to be able to make a certain type of photogenic drawing. He has discovered the means by which one can make several copies of a picture, using a single exposure. I don’t expect you to know what any of that means, but perhaps you would like to watch me transfer an image.’
It was true, Rhia had no idea what he was talking about, and she could only nod and sit down on a stool by the table. Transfixed, she imagined how these motifs might look printed onto linen but then remembered that, here, she was no longer the daughter of a linen clothier. Who was she, then? She concentrated on the motifs. They would look even better printed onto silk, but she was not the daughter of a mercer, either.
Laurence was explaining how the paper that he had brought back from the stationer must first be treated to make it ‘light sensitive’, and that this chemical process must be undertaken at night and by candlelight to achieve greatest success. He had some paper that was treated already. ‘It is best to use a parchment with a smooth surface,’ he said, as he took a sheet from a writing box, ‘and to keep the treated paper away from the light. You will soon see why. I will show you a simple experiment. The more complex transfers, such as portraits, require the use of a lens and a light box.’
He laid the paper on the table and placed a dried frond of wheat on top of it. Within seconds the paper began to darken,and quickly turned black. After no more than a minute, Laurence removed the frond. The feathery outline remained, in all its filigree detail, pale and perfect against the inky paper.
Rhia watched Laurence do the same with a small posy of dried flowers, and then with a scrap of curtain netting. She lost track of time and was surprised when Beth puffed into the room with a tray
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