A Royal Photographer

Livadia, Crimea, October 1874

“Here it is!”

Affie took his fiancée’s hand as he found the picture he had been searching for. It was a picture he had taken nearly ten years ago, during a passing visit to his sister. There had been nothing about that visit to make it particularly memorable, and yet now, the picture meant so much.

He could not take his eyes off the face which appeared next to his own so very youthful one – the same sweet face which was now so very close to his.

Marie bent over the album to study the picture as well, her cheek brushing his. He smiled, and put his arm around her. “Do you remember?” he asked softly.

She shook her head, and then glanced up at him, her eyes bright with laughter. “I was taken up with the King of Bavaria in those days,” she whispered, and went on aloud, “I thought him so very handsome – quite the finest eyes one could dream of.” She blushed and looked down, then up into Affie’s face again. “But yours are much finer,” she murmured, pressing gentle kisses over his eyes.

Affie felt himself blush. This was such sweet tenderness, unlike anything he had ever known. He felt his face grow hot, as the thought of other pictures he had taken flooded his mind. Why must those thoughts intrude on this sweet moment?

But there they were, across the room. In the stack of albums was one with a lock – one which he would never dare to show his innocent fiancée. He felt his face burn again with the embarrassment at having brought it here, into his fiancée’s world. What answer could he give her question as to what was in it, and more especially, that of – could she see it after they were married?

He had felt her mother’s disapproving gaze more strongly than ever at that moment.  He had been embarrassed at her remarks, which only increased Marie’s curiosity instead of dampening it as she intended.

He had explained to Marie that he had learned photography when he was a boy of fifteen – in 1859, when it was still such a long, long process, as well as the messy development of the pictures.

He had been the first member of the Royal family to do so. He felt proud of this, that his father allowed him to learn the skill without learning it first himself.

But he had not only used his skill to document his travels, as his parents had intended. His face burned once more at the thought which returned – those other pictures, some of which he did not remember taking either, but for such a different reason!

That strange influence so many fell under in Berlin. He hardly knew what to say of it. He was free of it now, but ashamed he had ever fallen under it. Most of his family had been smart enough to avoid it. He had been the fool, the one who fell under the spell of the secret Prussian power.

Of course he must discuss all of that with Marie, some time. He knew when they were married they would pay a short visit to Berlin before traveling to England. Would it be safe? Safe for him – yes, quite certainly, he had gone to the lady in Egypt who knew the mystical process of removing that strange influence – but would it be safe for Marie?

And his other love – she would be there. She would, he knew, refuse to stay at the Berlin Schloss – the den of iniquity, as everyone considered it. He could not blame her, nor did he wish that fate on her.

But would he be able to protect Marie, if they stayed at the honeymoon suite at the Schloss?

With all of these thoughts chasing each other through his mind, he set the album aside, and gathered his fiancée close to him. It was her father’s evening as chaperone, so he was allowed these caresses which her mother always strictly forbid.

But as he held her close and kissed her, doubts again filled his mind. Did he deserve her? How could he justify marrying this sweet, innocent girl, so very unlike the woman whose pictures filled the locked album?

That album must be burnt – or buried, as burning it would still be too painful. But what questions would its disappearance bring?

Marie took his hand, meeting his eye with a troubled look. She seemed uneasy, and he knew she could sense his feelings in a different way than many. He realized, too, that his hands had grown hot and moist with perspiration, and that he gripped her hand rather too hard.

He kissed her cheek. He had no right to anything else at such moments, with such thoughts in his head.

But the thoughts would persist. That other woman, whom he had loved with all the fire and passion of a first attachment, whose very voice sent a thrill through him as no one else did. She was in that locked album.

But here was his dear, sweet Marie, this innocent girl for whom he had such a deep affection, so different from that first attachment. This was love, this passion first of the head and heart, before the senses.

But even that seemed contradictory. His first love was a pretty girl, considered by many one of the greatest beauties, but in Affie’s eyes, Marie’s round face and figure were so much more attractive. He had not known yet, at the age of sixteen, that his first love was not his “type”. It had only been the fire of passion which had drawn him so closely. He had really known her so little, he realized, compared with the dear companionship he found with Marie. This was what he wanted.

He would bury that album. It had no business in his life any more. A new love filled his heart, and he meant to be true to it for the rest of his days.