You May

Cornwall, 1901

Ross squinted into the sun as he slowed his horse to a trot. After four gloomy days of rain, he was glad to trade the dark walls of his family’s home for the warm salt air of the cliffs. This pathway left the newly returned and generous sun at his back and though it’s rays stung his eyes as it sparkled on the calm waves down below, it felt pleasant along his sleeves and shoulders. He closed his eyes for a moment and relished the warmth.

It was then his horse moved under him with a thunderous jolt. Hooves rattled against the sandy ground and Ross held tight to his hat.

“Easy, there,” he rumbled, moving his reins and directing the horse into a small, distracting circle. “Easy.”

When the horse landed back where it began, however, Ross was the one who was spooked. He jumped in his saddle when a light head of blond hair rose from the tall grass. A man, who to Ross’ knowledge must have been lying down in the grass, stood and sent a shy wave.

“My apologies! Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Ross released a breath. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes,” the man called. He waved toward the edge of the cliff. “I’m- I’m taking photographs.”

Ross’ horse was growing impatient beneath him, taking small, uneven steps that aggravated Ross’ sore knee. He leaned forward, rolling a steady hand down his horse’s neck as he studied the man standing in the grass. It was clear that he wasn’t from this part of the country- after all, Ross would have known him if he was. But by the type of clothing he wore, grass stained and damp as they presently were, this man was most likely of similar status and history as Ross. But what brought him to the rural cliffs of Cornwall? Specifically, of Ross’ family acreage?

“Photographs?” Ross asked.

The man smiled. “Yes.” He lifted a small black box that barely fit in his small palm. “Would you like to see?”

Since Ross returned from the war, he’d kept to himself. He’d been left with a more than dilapidated home with empty fields and bare paddocks and a small village of tenants to support. He’d been left very alone. The person he’d spoken to most in the past months was his banker and even then he was only cordial and mostly swift. 

This man, however, didn’t know Ross or his history or what he’d lost in the past year. This man, standing on the edge of the cliffs with his little cardboard box was the most exciting thing Ross had ever seen pop out of the grass. 

He dismounted his horse, leaving it free to graze, and trudged through the sand to the blond man. 

He stuck out his hand. “Ross Preston,” he said.

“James Housley.” James had a hardy handshake and calloused fingers. He also had eyes of bright blue, like the ocean below when it glittered in the sun. James himself was just as blinding.

“Where are these photographs?” Ross said, letting go of the man’s hand.

James lifted his box. “Those I’ve already taken are in the film. It’s inside the camera. But I can show you what I haven’t captured yet,” he said with a smile. He had two dimples on either side of his mouth when he smiled.

He turned from Ross and lifted his camera to his face, directing the front of it away from the sun and along the face of the cliffs. Then he stepped away, holding the camera in that exact spot. “See this?” he asked. “Look through that square.”

Ross didn’t move. “I see what you’re looking at. The cliffs. And the sea.”

“Just take a peek,” James said.

Ross eyed him. Up close, he looked younger than Ross. But he looked trustworthy. Not like some of the men in the streets who would have pushed Ross off the cliff by now just to steal his horse.

“What brings you to Cornwall? You’re not from here, are you?”

With his camera still held out, James said, “Trade. Copper, tin, and the like. I’m a merchant captain of a fleet of ships.”

“From London?”

“America.”

Exciting indeed, Ross thought.

James tilted his head toward the camera one last time.

Ross stepped to it, squinting his eyes and peering into a gray square from a few inches away. “I don’t see anything.”

“You have to get closer.” 

James set a hand on his back that set every one of Ross’ nerves aflame. He easily moved closer to the box, closing one eye and searching with the other until the picture before him became clear. The waves below looked so delicate and the cliffs so sharp, as if they were painted with knives. 

“It’s so small.”

“It’s the mirror inside. It shrinks the image to a printable photograph.”

Ross stepped back from the camera and felt James’ hand leave his back. Almost forlornly, he said, “Quite incredible for a little box.”

“There’s more to see,” James said, circling Ross and falling to his knees. “Come down here.”

Without even a glance back to his horse, Ross followed. He laid in the grass on his belly next to James, watching the man’s handsome face scrunch up as he looked through the camera. There were wrinkles at the sides of his eyes and stubble over his cheeks. Ross found himself taking in every kink and curl of James’s golden hair- how it wound around his ears and kicked out at the back of his neck. It looked soft, as if the sea air agreed with him.

James was soon leaning towards him. “Just there. Take a look.”

Ross replaced James’s eye with his own and grinned at what he saw. From this angle, he could just see the sparkling line of the horizon. It was breached by the yellowed blades of grass that pierced through the image from bottom to top. James had picked out the perfect marriage of sea and shore.

“Beautiful, hm?” James asked.

Ross hummed in agreement. 

Before James could show him anything else, Ross took hold of the camera and turned on his side, aiming the lens at James. Through the viewfinder, he watched blue eyes glisten and full lips smirk.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t speak.”

Ross flicked the lever and captured the image. He spent another moment looking at James through that gray little square, just once removed from a gaze so strong it could have burned him. If James knew what he was doing, he didn’t let on.

Finally, Ross returned the camera to its owner. “Now you have a photograph of yourself to remember Cornwall by.”

A strong breeze blew up from the waves, rippling the fabric of Ross’ light shirt and sending a thick, black curl of his hair onto his cheek. James’ fingers were there to tuck it behind his ear.

“May I take one of you? To remember you by?”

Heat rushed up Ross’ neck, heat he hadn’t felt in a long time. He straightened and blinked, but for once since he’d returned home, he didn’t think too much about what he was doing.

“You may.”