Free The Mercury Visions of Louis Daguerre by Dominic Smith

dropped any more vases or plates, her employer would surely dismiss her. She knew that neither of them had been to a play before and that, on some level, Louis could not resist. He lived, after all, in a natural state of drama, riveted by the three acts of dawn, noon, and dusk. For Isobel it was a chance to be someone she was not—to take her place among the theater ladies in their pelerine capelets and laced bodices. She thought it a lark to be a pagan healer in disguise, an alchemist in a borrowed petticoat—the only woman seated in that shadowland who knew the medicinal power of wolfsbane.
    On the arranged night, they stole out from their respective households and met out on the glade after dark. Louis was dressed in the topaz cravat and a worsted suit that made his crotch sweat and itch. When Isobel came from the main house, she saw him under the walnut tree, hands in his pockets. She walked slowly towards him. She was expecting anger and silence. Instead, Louis turned on his heels and said, “Hurry, my good wife. We’ll be late for the theater, and I do so like opening night.” For tonight he’d let the resentment go. Louis looked surreptitiously at Isobel’s outfit. She wore a pale rose gown with scooped shoulders. Her hair was pinned up to reveal her slender neck. He couldn’t bear it and looked down at the gravel.
    They walked towards the road where Gustav, the coachman, had been persuaded to wait. The monsieur of the estate was away on business, and accordingly, all manner of infractions were being committed throughout the estate—stolen hams, illicit naps in the guest bedrooms. By comparison, Head Clerk Daguerre had redoubled his efficiency, showing up to work an hour early each day in an attempt to set the tenor of his employer’s absence. Isobel and Louis passed through the rhododendron tunnel. They came to the carriage where Gustav was sitting on the driver’s box, smoking a stout cigar obviously stolen from the château’s library. He looked at the two of them—Isobel half a head taller than Louis—and jumped down from his seat.
    “Allow me, my lordship and lady,” he said, bending at the waist. He took Isobel’s hand and helped her up into the carriage.
    Isobel said, “Very good, Gustav. It’s too bad the royalty seem to end up with their heads cut off, because you’re very good at this.”
    Gustav looked at Louis. “Your father will tan my arse if he finds out.”
    “He’s in bed by nine.”
    Gustav gave Louis a gentle shove and ruffled the boy’s hair. Isobel let out a gasp of laughter.
    “Stupid oaf,” Louis said, climbing into the carriage. He recomposed his hair and put his hat on to prevent further spoilage.
    They rode into Orléans, passing the stone canals that drained the Loire and the cloven pathways that led to darkened monasteries. Louis looked out at the crops of saffron; the crocus-like flowers gleaned silver in the moonlight. In the last days of autumn, farmers and their children harvested the flowers, bundling them into thatched carryalls. When Louis imagined these families at their kitchen tables, working to remove the delicate threads of spice and color from the flowers, he was overwhelmed by a sense of their happiness. The Daguerres were not known for passing peaceful hours in one another’s company. Mother cooked and read the Bible, Father kept books and made commentary about the machinery that held the world and good commerce together, and Louis meandered the woods reading books and watching butterflies. Outside of household affairs—fetching water, chopping wood, minor repairs to the piebald walls—they had little to speak about.
    A quarter hour before the performance, they pulled up at the theater and again Gustav acted as footman. He helped Isobel and Louis out of the carriage while the gathering theatergoers looked on. A low, scandalous murmur went through the crowd—doctors, lawyers, society wives, dress-uniformed officers in Napoleon’s army. Isobel and