CHAPTER FOUR — THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW

The next morning Catherine entered the schoolroom while Mr. Pike was eating breakfast.
The black curtains made the air smell stale and chemical.
At the center stood a chair beneath a painted arch, with a tall wooden frame arranged to resemble a window.
A narrow strip of blue wool hung over the chair’s back.
Catherine had never owned such a cheap garment.
She touched it with two fingers.
Then she noticed a pair of boots placed behind the screen.
One had a broken strap on the right side.
Samuel’s stable boots had the same defect, although hundreds of working men in Virginia wore boots in similar condition.
“What are these doing here?” she asked.
Mr. Pike came in carrying a saucer of toast.


He stopped when he saw her.
“Mrs. Vale, this room isn’t suitable for visitors.”
“Neither is a portrait made without its subject.”
“I cannot discuss my commission.”
“I live in the house that pays your commission.”
“Your husband pays it, ma’am.”
Catherine looked again at the boots.
“Who is supposed to wear those?”
“A gentleman’s servant.”
“And the cloak?”
“That was provided with the instructions.”
Catherine walked toward the camera.
Mr. Pike moved to intercept her.
“Please do not touch the apparatus.”
“Then answer me plainly.”
He set down the toast.
“I have been hired to produce a study for a private family discussion.”
“A study of whom?”
“Of circumstances.”
She stared at him.
“That is a strange word for an accusation.”
The photographer looked toward the doorway as though expecting help.


Instead, Ida Bell entered carrying a stack of clean linen.
“Your towels, sir,” Ida said.
She laid them neatly on a table and looked at the arrangement without appearing to look at anything.
Mr. Pike demanded that both women leave.
Ida did not hurry.
She pointed to a bucket beneath a shelf.
“Will you need that water replaced?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t trouble you further.”
As she passed Catherine, Ida spoke so quietly that the photographer could not hear.
“Don’t threaten the machine.”
Outside, Catherine followed her into the laundry yard.
“How do you know what I was considering?”
“Because you were looking at it the way frightened people look at a locked door.”
Catherine began to protest, then stopped.
Ida set down the empty linen basket.
“If you destroy his work before anyone has seen it, your husband can say you were jealous, unstable, or guilty.”
“He already intends to say those things.”
“Then don’t help him.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Find out where he intends to show it.”
Catherine looked toward the house.
“Julian has invited twenty guests for supper tomorrow.”
“Anyone important?”
“Two magistrates, the rector, three neighboring families, and the editor of the county newspaper.”
Ida’s expression changed.
“He isn’t arranging a private conversation.”
“No.”
“He’s arranging an audience.”
Catherine felt the truth settle on her with humiliating clarity.
Julian did not need to prove anything in a court of law if every influential neighbor could be made to whisper the same accusation.
The picture would serve as an occasion for their whispers, not a perfect piece of evidence.
“My husband thinks this will protect his standing,” she said.
Ida folded her hands.
“His standing is his concern.”
“Samuel’s life is ours.”
Ida regarded her steadily.
“Samuel’s life belongs to Samuel, whatever the law insists.”
Catherine looked away.
It was the second time in two days that someone had refused to accept the language she had inherited.
Then Ida said, “There may be another photograph.”
Catherine turned back.
“Of what?”
“Of the room before they arrange the lie.”
“Would that help?”
“Not by itself.”
Ida lifted the basket.
“But it might tell us how much they expect the guests to notice.”