The Unseen(100)

‘That could be interesting. It might be hard to explain me away, in my wig and chiffon gown.’

‘No, no. Nobody can be present for the actual capturing of the image, obviously. But I can argue that case easily. A stranger would upset the equilibrium, and cause the spirit to remain hidden. Their expert could then come with me into the dark room … yes. I may have need of you again, Cat.’

‘Why do you fight so hard for this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Men. Why do you fight so hard to carve your names into history? To … leave some mark of yourselves for after you’ve gone?’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘Isn’t it? You tried poetry, you tried politics … now you will try theosophy, and you will perjure yourself to succeed at it. Why not just live, and let it be? You will die and be forgotten, just like the rest of us,’ she says, shrugging one shoulder and regarding him through lowered eyelashes. Robin blinks, seems taken aback by her words.

‘I don’t want to be forgotten. I …’ He raises his hands, at a loss. ‘Is that the difference between men and women then? Is that why men excel, while women just exist? Why it’s the names of men that last for ever in history?’

‘Nothing lasts for ever. Haven’t you read Ozymandias?’

‘Keats?’ he asks, and Cat shakes her head.

‘Shelley. But the joke’s on you. On men. Women are immortal. We leave traces of ourselves in our children, and our children’s children;while men are out trying to be the first to claim a mountain.’

‘Oh? And aren’t there traces of the fathers in these children as well?’

‘Yes, if the man troubles himself to imprint upon them. If he’s not too busy trying to claim a mountain. Or discover fairies. Perhaps you might consider this as a better way to immortality than posing a housemaid in a costume, and lying to the world?’

‘Settle down and take a wife and spawn a few brats? I think not. But I will be immortal, Cat. I will make my name, and a name that will always be remembered. Even when the world turns and my brothers’ heroics seems commonplace, this will be remembered.’

‘You would do all this for sibling rivalry?’ Cat asks incredulously. ‘How sad.’

‘Who are you to pass judgement on me, Cat Morley? Perhaps nobody will ever remember who you were, but with me you have the chance to be part of something truly world-changing,’ Robin says, still pacing restlessly, a few steps one way and then the other.

‘Well.’ Cat takes another long pull on her cigarette, thinks for a moment. She tips back her head to exhale, watching clouds pour overhead, caught by the wind. It’s not yet wholly dark, and faint slivers of the palest blue show here and there through plumes of indigo. ‘I might have something to say about that,’ she says.

Robin stops pacing and watches her closely, his expression hardening. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It seems to me that I am acting as your model. That I am the only person who can act as your model.’

‘And?’

‘And I believe it is customary for models – be they working for artists or photographers – to receive remuneration,’ she says, meeting his gaze and not wavering.

‘And pay you I do, with my silence; with my collaboration in your wanton behaviour,’ he says, his smile twisting to one side, and cold.

‘Well, I believe that … my silence is every bit as important as yours, now. Even more important, perhaps. I have the option to leave here, you see. I have a proposal of marriage. There is little you can do to punish me, should I choose to speak out about your photographs; and yet I think it would cost you dear if I did.’

‘A proposal of marriage? But where is your ring?’ Robin snaps, his face thunderous.

‘Being fetched down from his mother’s place,’ she lies quickly.

‘Tsk tsk, a badly prepared proposal indeed,’ Robin says. He turns away from her on his heel, thrusts his hands into his pockets and throws back his head. He stays this way for some moments as Cat waits, heart bumping painfully against her ribs, bending all her will to an outward show of resolute calm.

Finally, Robin Durrant turns back to her, so suddenly that she jumps. Snaps his head around like a bird of prey.

‘Very well. I can see you have me backed against the wall on this occasion. What is the going rate for a photographer’s model, do you think?’ he asks, his voice flat with anger.

‘For a model who must hold her tongue for ever more … twenty pounds.’

‘Twenty p— You’ve lost your mind!’ Robin exclaims, his voice falling sharply from a shout to a furious whisper. ‘If I had that kind of money to throw at serving girls I wouldn’t be back here lodging with the bloody Cannings, I can tell you!’